Orleans. Within the Town. |
| |
Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a Captain, and Others. |
| Bed. The day begins to break, and night is fled, |
| Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth. |
| Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit. [Retreat sounded. |
| Tal. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, |
| And here advance it in the market-place, |
| The middle centre of this cursed town. |
| Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; |
| For every drop of blood was drawn from him |
| There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. |
| And that hereafter ages may behold |
| What ruin happen'd in revenge of him, |
| Within their chiefest temple I'll erect |
| A tomb wherein his corse shall be interr'd: |
| Upon the which, that every one may read, |
| Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans, |
| The treacherous manner of his mournful death, |
| And what a terror he had been to France. |
| But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, |
| I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, |
| His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, |
| Nor any of his false confederates. |
| Bed. 'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, |
| Rous'd on the sudden from their drowsy beds, |
| They did amongst the troops of armed men |
| Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field. |
| Bur. Myself—as far as I could well discern |
| For smoke and dusky vapours of the night— |
| Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin and his trull, |
| When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, |
| Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves |
| That could not live asunder day or night. |
| After that things are set in order here, |
| We'll follow them with all the power we have. |
| |
Enter a Messenger. |
| Mess. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train |
| Call ye the war-like Talbot, for his acts |
| So much applauded through the realm of France? |
| Tal. Here is the Talbot: who would speak with him? |
| Mess. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, |
| With modesty admiring thy renown, |
| By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe |
| To visit her poor castle where she lies, |
| That she may boast she hath beheld the man |
| Whose glory fills the world with loud report. |
| Bur. Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars |
| Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, |
| When ladies crave to be encounter'd with. |
| You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. |
| Tal. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men |
| Could not prevail with all their oratory, |
| Yet hath a woman's kindness over-rul'd: |
| And therefore tell her I return great thanks, |
| And in submission will attend on her. |
| Will not your honours bear me company? |
| Bed. No, truly; it is more than manners will; |
| And I have heard it said, unbidden guests |
| Are often welcomest when they are gone. |
| Tal. Well then, alone,—since there's no remedy,— |
| I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. |
| Come hither, captain. [Whispers.] You perceive my mind. |
| Capt. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. [Exeunt. |
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