Come hither, you that would be combatants.

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause.

And you, my lords, remember where we are—

In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation.

If they perceive dissension in our looks,

And that within ourselves we disagree,

How will their grudging stomachs be provoked

To wilful disobedience, and rebel!

Beside, what infamy will there arise

When foreign princes shall be certified

That for a toy, a thing of no regard,

King Henry’s peers and chief nobility

Destroyed themselves and lost the realm of France!

O, think upon the conquest of my father,

My tender years, and let us not forgo

That for a trifle that was bought with blood.

Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife.

I see no reason, if I wear this rose,

He takes a red rose

That anyone should therefore be suspicious

I more incline to Somerset than York.

Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.

As well they may upbraid me with my crown

Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crowned.

But your discretions better can persuade

Than I am able to instruct or teach,

And therefore, as we hither came in peace,

So let us still continue peace and love.

Cousin of York, we institute your grace

To be our regent in these parts of France;

And good my lord of Somerset, unite

Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot,

And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,

Go cheerfully together and digest

Your angry choler on your enemies.

Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest,

After some respite, will return to Calais,

From thence to England, where I hope ere long

To be presented by your victories

With Charles, Alençon, and that traitorous rout.

Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick,

Vernon, and Exeter

WARWICK

My lord of York, I promise you, the King

Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

RICHARD DUKE OF YORK

And so he did; but yet I like it not

In that he wears the badge of Somerset.

WARWICK

Tush, that was but his fancy; blame him not.

I dare presume, sweet Prince, he thought no harm.

RICHARD DUKE OF YORK

An if I wist he did—but let it rest.

Other affairs must now be managed.

Exeunt all but Exeter

EXETER

Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;

For had the passions of thy heart burst out

I fear we should have seen deciphered there

More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,

Than yet can be imagined or supposed.

But howsoe‘er, no simple man that sees

This jarring discord of nobility,

This shouldering of each other in the court,

This factious bandying of their favourites,

But that it doth presage some ill event.

‘Tis much when sceptres are in children’s hands,

But more when envy breeds unkind division:

There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. Exit

4.2 Enter Lord Talbot with a trumpeter and drummer and soldiers before Bordeaux

TALBOT

Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter.

Summon their general unto the wall.

The trumpeter sounds a parley. Enter French General, aloft

English John Talbot, captain, calls you forth,

Servant in arms to Harry King of England;

And thus he would: open your city gates,

Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours

And do him homage as obedient subjects,

And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power.

But if you frown upon this proffered peace,

You tempt the fury of my three attendants—

Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire—

Who in a moment even with the earth

Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers

If you forsake the offer of their love.

GENERAL

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,

Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge,

The period of thy tyranny approacheth.

On us thou canst not enter but by death,

For I protest we are well fortified

And strong enough to issue out and fight.

If thou retire, the Dauphin well appointed

Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee.

On either hand thee there are squadrons pitched

To wall thee from the liberty of flight,

And no way canst thou turn thee for redress

But death doth front thee with apparent spoil,

And pale destruction meets thee in the face.

Ten thousand French have ta‘en the sacrament

To fire their dangerous artillery

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man

Of an invincible unconquered spirit.

This is the latest glory of thy praise,

That I thy enemy due thee withal,