Before Bourdeaux. |
|
Enter TALBOT, with his Forces. |
Tal. Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter; |
Summon their general unto the wall. |
|
Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, on the Walls, the General of the French Forces, and Others. |
English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, |
Servant in arms to Harry King of England; |
And thus he would: Open your city gates, |
Be humble to us, call my sov'reign yours, |
And do him homage as obedient subjects, |
And I'll withdraw me and my bloody power; |
But, if you frown upon this proffer'd peace, |
You tempt the fury of my three attendants, |
Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; |
Who in a moment even with the earth |
Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, |
If you forsake the offer of their love. |
Gen. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, |
Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge! |
The period of thy tyranny approacheth. |
On us thou canst not enter but by death; |
For, I protest, we are well fortified, |
And strong enough to issue out and fight: |
If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, |
Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee: |
On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd, |
To wall thee from the liberty of flight; |
And no way canst thou turn thee for redress |
But death doth front thee with apparent spoil, |
And pale destruction meets thee in the face. |
Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament, |
To rive their dangerous artillery |
Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. |
Lo! there thoustand'st, a breathing valiant man, |
Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit: |
This is the latest glory of thy praise, |
That I, thy enemy, 'due thee withal; |
For ere the glass, that now begins to run, |
Finish the process of his sandy hour, |
These eyes, that see thee now well coloured, |
Shall see thee wither'd, bloody, pale, and dead. [Drum afar off. |
Hark! hark! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, |
Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; |
And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. [Exeunt General, &c., from the Walls. |
Tal. He fables not; I hear the enemy: |
Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. |
O! negligent and heedless discipline; |
How are we park'd and bounded in a pale, |
A little herd of England's timorous deer, |
Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs! |
If we be English deer, be then, in blood; |
Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, |
But rather moody-mad and desperate stags, |
Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel, |
And make the cowards stand aloof at bay: |
Sell every man his life as dear as mine, |
And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. |
God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right, |
Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! [Exeunt. |
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