A Field of Battle. |
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Alarum: Excursions, wherein TALBOT'S Son is hemmed about, and TALBOT rescues him. |
Tal. Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight! |
The regent hath with Talbot broke his word, |
And left us to the rage of France his sword. |
Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath: |
I gave thee life and rescu'd thee from death. |
John. O! twice my father, twice am I thy son: |
The life thou gav'st me first was lost and done, |
Till with thy war-like sword, despite of fate, |
To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date. |
Tal. When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire, |
It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire |
Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age, |
Quicken'd with youthful spleen and war-like rage, |
Beat down Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy, |
And from the pride of Gallia rescu'd thee. |
The ireful bastard Orleans,—that drew blood |
From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood |
Of thy first fight,—I soon encountered |
And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed |
Some of his bastard blood; and, in disgrace, |
Bespoke him thus, 'Contaminated, base, |
And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, |
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine |
Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy:' |
Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, |
Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care, |
Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare? |
Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, |
Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry? |
Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead; |
The help of one stands me in little stead. |
O! too much folly is it, well I wot, |
To hazard all our lives in one small boat. |
If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage, |
To-morrow I shall die with micke age: |
By me they nothing gain an if I stay; |
'Tis but the short'ning of my life one day. |
In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, |
My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame. |
All these and more we hazard by thy stay; |
All these are sav'd if thou wilt fly away. |
John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; |
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart. |
On that advantage, bought with such a shame, |
To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, |
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, |
The coward horse that bears me fall and die! |
And like me to the peasant boys of France, |
To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance! |
Surely, by all the glory you have won, |
An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son: |
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; |
If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. |
Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, |
Thou Icarus. Thy life to me is sweet: |
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side, |
And, commendable prov'd, let's die in pride. [Exeunt. |
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