Plains in Gascony. |
|
Enter YORK, with Forces; to him a Messenger. |
York. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again, |
That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin? |
Mess. They are return'd, my lord; and give it out, |
That he is march'd to Bourdeaux with his power, |
To fight with Talbot. As he march'd along, |
By your espials were discovered |
Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, |
Which join'd with him and made their march for Bourdeaux. |
York. A plague upon that villain Somerset, |
That thus delays my promised supply |
Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! |
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, |
And I am louted by a traitor villain, |
And cannot help the noble chevalier. |
God comfort him in this necessity! |
If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. |
|
Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY. |
Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English strength, |
Never so needful on the earth of France, |
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, |
Who now is girdled with a waist of iron |
And hemm'd about with grim destruction. |
To Bourdeaux, war-like duke! To Bourdeaux, York! |
Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour. |
York. O God! that Somerset, who in proud heart |
Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place! |
So should we save a valiant gentleman |
By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. |
Mad ire and wrathful fury, make me weep |
That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep. |
Lucy. O! send some succour to the distress'd lord. |
York. He dies, we lose; I break my war-like word; |
We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get; |
All 'long of this vile traitor Somerset. |
Lucy. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul; |
And on his son young John, whom two hours since |
I met in travel toward his war-like father. |
This seven years did not Talbot see his son; |
And now they meet where both their lives are done. |
York. Alas! what joy shall noble Talbot have, |
To bid his young son welcome to his grave? |
Away! vexation almost stops my breath |
That sunder'd friends greet in the hour of death. |
Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can, |
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. |
Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away, |
'Long all of Somerset and his delay. [Exit, with his Soldiers. |
Lucy. Thus, while the vulture of sedition |
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, |
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss |
The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, |
That ever living man of memory, |
Henry the Fifth: Whiles they each other cross, |
Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss. [Exit. |
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