Fly, to revenge my death, when I am dead; To hazard all our lives in one small boat. All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay; John. The sword of Orleans hath; not made These words, of yours draw life-blood from my On that advantage, bought with such a shame, Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet: 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 Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity! 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, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, O thou whose wounds become hard-favour'd Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath: 11 Poor boy! he smiles, methinks; as who should Come, come, and lay him in his father's arm's; My spirit can no longer bear these harms, [Dies Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the two bodies. Enter CHARLES, ALEN CON, BURGUNDY, Bastard, LA PUCELLE, and Forces. Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! But said, Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid: Bur. Doubtless, he would have made See, where he lies inhersed in the arms 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. 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, 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? 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. 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. |