Talbot

Where is my other life? mine own is gone;

O, where's young Talbot? where is valiant John?

Triumphant death, smeared with captivity,

Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee:

When he perceived me shrink and on my knee

His bloody sword he brandished 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 assailed of none,

Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart

Suddenly made him from my side to start

Into the clustering 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.

Servant

O my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne! Enter Soldiers, with the body of young TALBOT.

Talbot

Thou antic 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-favoured death,

Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath!

Brave death by speaking, whether 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.Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD, LA PUCELLE, and forces.

Charles

Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,

We should have found a bloody day of this.

Bastard

How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging wood,

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood!

Pucelle

Once I encountered him, and thus I said:

“Thou maiden youth, be vanquished by a maid:”

But, with a proud majestical high scorn,

He answered 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.

Burgundy

Doubtless he would have made a noble knight:

See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms

Of the most bloody nurser of his harms!

Bastard

Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,

Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder.

Charles

O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled

During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY, attended; Herald of the French preceding.

Lucy

Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent,

To know who hath obtained the glory of the day.

Charles

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.

Charles

For prisoners ask'st thou? hell our prison is.

But tell me whom thou seek'st.

Lucy

But where's 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 marshal to Henry the Sixth

Of all his wars within the realm of France?

Pucelle

Here's 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 eyeballs into bullets turned,

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 amongst 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.

Pucelle

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.

Charles

Go, take their bodies hence.

Lucy

I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be reared

A phoenix that shall make all France afeard.

Charles

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.