"You English come with your mud and your melancholy, imagining yourselves kings of destiny. I, Louis, heir to France, wade only in wine, perfume, and victory — for such is my birthright."

"Look at you, your armour dented, your banners wet with rain. You march for glory, yet you crawl into my lands. Shall I pity you, or simply trample you beneath a fine French boot?"

"My father sits the throne of France, my crown already waits. I need not lift a sword; the earth itself will reject you, and the sun will shine only on my victory."