Another Part of the Field. |
|
Alarum: Excursions. Enter Old TALBOT, wounded, led by a Servant. |
Tal. Where is my other life?—mine own is gone;— |
O! where's young Talbot? where is valiant John? |
Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity, |
Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee. |
When he perceiv'd me shrink and on my knee, |
His bloody sword he brandish'd over me, |
And like a hungry lion did commence |
Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; |
But when my angry guardant stood alone, |
Tendering my ruin and assail'd of none, |
Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart |
Suddenly made him from my side to start |
Into the clust'ring battle of the French; |
And in that sea of blood my boy did drench |
His overmounting spirit; and there died |
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. |
|
Enter Soldiers, bearing the body of Young TALBOT. |
Serv. O, my dear lord! lo, where your son is borne! |
Tal. Thou antick, death, which laugh'st us here to scorn, |
Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, |
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, |
Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, |
In thy despite shall 'scape mortality. |
O! thou, whose wounds become hard-favour'd death, |
Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath; |
Brave doath by speaking whe'r he will or no; |
Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. |
Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, |
Had death been French, then death had died to-day. |
Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms: |
My spirit can no longer bear these harms. |
Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, |
Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies. |
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Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the two bodies. Enter CHARLES, ALENÇON, BURGUNDY, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and Forces. |
Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in |
We should have found a bloody day of this. |
Bast. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging-wood, |
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! |
Joan. Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said: |
'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid:' |
But with a proud majestical high scorn, |
He answer'd thus: 'Young Talbot was not born |
To be the pillage of a giglot wench.' |
So, rushing in the bowels of the French, |
He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. |
Bur. Doubtless he would have made a noble knight; |
See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms |
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms. |
Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder, |
Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. |
Char. O, no! forbear; for that which we have fled |
During the life, let us not wrong it dead. |
|
Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY, attended: a French Herald preceding. |
Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, |
To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day. |
Char. On what submissive message art thou sent? |
Lucy. Submission, Dauphin! 'tis a mere French word; |
We English warriors wot not what it means. |
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en, |
And to survey the bodies of the dead. |
Char. For prisoners ask'st thou? hell our prison is. |
But tell me whom thou seek'st. |
Lucy. Where is the great Alcides of the field, |
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury? |
Created, for his rare success in arms, |
Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence; |
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, |
Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, |
Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, |
The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge; |
Knight of the noble order of Saint George, |
Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece; |
Great mareschal to Henry the Sixth |
Of all his wars within the realm of France? |
Joan. Here is a silly stately style indeed! |
The Turk, that two-and-fifty kingdoms hath, |
Writes not so tedious a style as this. |
Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles, |
Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. |
Lucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen's only scourge, |
Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis? |
O! were mine eye-balls into bullets turn'd, |
That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! |
O! that I could but call these dead to life! |
It were enough to fright the realm of France. |
Were but his picture left among you here |
It would amaze the proudest of you all. |
Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence, |
And give them burial as beseems their worth. |
Joan. I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost, |
He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. |
For God's sake, let him have 'em; to keep them here |
They would but stink and putrefy the air. |
Char. Go, take their bodies hence. |
Lucy. I'll bear them hence: |
But from their ashes shall be rear'd |
A phœnix that shall make all France afeard. |
Char. So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou wilt. |
And now to Paris, in this conquering vein: |
All will be ours now bloody Talbot's slain. [Exeunt. |
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