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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 mickle 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,

SCENE VII.

Another Part of the same.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter TALBOT wounded, supported by a Servant.

Tal. Where is my other life?

is gone;

mine own

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,
Tend'ring 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 dy'd
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

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Enter Soldiers, bearing the body of JOHN 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,

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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 death by speaking, whether he will, or no;
Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe.

11

Poor boy! he smiles, methinks; as who should

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Come, come, and lay him in his father's arm's;

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

Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the two bodies. Enter CHARLES, ALEN CON, BURGUNDY, Bastard, LA PUCELLE, and Forces.

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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, rag-
ing-wood,

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood!
Puc. Once I encounter'd him, and thus I

But

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said,

Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid:
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
noble knight:

See, where he lies inhersed 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 ?

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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.

Luc. 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 Mareshal to Henry the sixth,

Of all his ways within the realm of France? Puc. Here is a silly stately stile, indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a stile as this.

Him, that thou magnify'st 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 turn'd,
That I, in rage, might shoot them at your faces!
O, that I could but calls 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. Puc. 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 phoenix that shall make all France afeard.

Char. So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou wilt.

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