thee.

Devil or devil’s dam, I’ll conjure thee.

Blood will I draw on thee—thou art a witch—

And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv’st.

JOAN

Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace thee.

Here they fight

TALBOT

Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?

My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage

And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder

But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.

They fight again

JOAN

Talbot, farewell. Thy hour is not yet come.

I must go victual Orléans forthwith.

A short alarum, then ⌈the French pass over the stage and⌉ enter the town with soldiers

O’ertake me if thou canst. I scorn thy strength.

Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men.

Help Salisbury to make his testament.

This day is ours, as many more shall be.

Exit into the town

TALBOT

My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel.

I know not where I am nor what I do.

A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal

Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists.

So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench

Are from their hives and houses driven away.

They called us, for our fierceness, English dogs;

Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.

A short alarum. ⌈Enter English soldiers⌉

Hark, countrymen: either renew the fight

Or tear the lions out of England’s coat.

Renounce your style; give sheep in lions’ stead.

Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,

Or horse or oxen from the leopard,

As you fly from your oft-subduèd slaves.

Alarum. Here another skirmish

It will not be. Retire into your trenches.

You all consented unto Salisbury’s death,

For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

Pucelle is entered into Orléans

In spite of us or aught that we could do.

⌈Exeunt Soldiers⌉

O would I were to die with Salisbury!

The shame hereof will make me hide my head.

Exit. Alarum. Retreat

1.8 Flourish. Enter on the walls Joan la Pucelle, Charles the Dauphin, René Duke of Anjou, the Duke of Alençon and French Soldiers ⌈with colours⌉

JOAN

Advance our waving colours on the walls;

Rescued is Orléans from the English.

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath performed her word.

CHARLES

Divinest creature, Astraea’s daughter,

How shall I honour thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis’ garden,

That one day bloomed and fruitful were the next.

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!

Recovered is the town of Orléans.

More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.

RENÉ

Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the

town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

ALENÇON

All France will be replete with mirth and joy

When they shall hear how we have played the men.

CHARLES

’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won—

For which I will divide my crown with her,

And all the priests and friars in my realm

Shall in procession sing her endless praise.

A statelier pyramid to her I’ll rear

Than Rhodope’s of Memphis ever was.

In memory of her, when she is dead

Her ashes, in an urn more precious

Than the rich-jewelled coffer of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry,

But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint.

Come in, and let us banquet royally

After this golden day of victory. Flourish. Exeunt

2.1 Enter ⌈on the walls⌉ a French Sergeant of a band, with two Sentinels

SERGEANT

Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.

If any noise or soldier you perceive

Near to the walls, by some apparent sign

Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.

⌈A SENTINEL⌉

Sergeant, you shall. Exit Sergeant Thus are poor servitors,

When others sleep upon their quiet beds,

Constrained to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.

Enter Lord Talbot, the Dukes of Bedford and Burgundy, and soldiers with scaling ladders, their drums beating a dead march

TALBOT

Lord regent, and redoubted Burgundy—

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Wallon, and Picardy are friends to us—

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day caroused and banqueted.

Embrace we then this opportunity,

As fitting best to quittance their deceit,

Contrived by art and baleful sorcery.

BEDFORD

Coward of France! How much he wrongs his fame,

Despairing of his own arms’ fortitude,

To join with witches and the help of hell.

BURGUNDY

Traitors have never other company.

But what’s that ‘Pucelle’ whom they term so pure?

TALBOT

A maid, they say.

BEDFORD A maid? And be so martial?

BURGUNDY

Pray God she prove not masculine ere long.

If underneath the standard of the French

She carry armour as she hath begun—

TALBOT

Well, let them practise and converse with spirits.