Some of his bastard blood, and in disgrace

Bespoke him thus: ‘Contaminated, base,

And misbegotten blood I spill of thine,

Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine

Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy.’

Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,

Came in strong rescue. Speak thy father’s care:

Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare?

Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,

Now thou art sealed the son of chivalry?

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 today die not with Frenchmen’s rage,

Tomorrow I shall die with mickle age.

By me they nothing gain, and 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 saved if thou wilt fly away.

JOHN

The sword of Orléans 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.

TALBOT

Then follow thou thy desp’rate sire of Crete,

Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet.

If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side,

And commendable proved, let’s die in pride. Exeunt

4.7 Alarum. Excursions. Enter old Lord Talbot led by a Servant

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,

Tend‘ring my ruin and assailed of none,

Dizzy-eyed 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 over-mounting spirit; and there died

My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

Enter English soldiers with John Talbot’s body, borne

SERVANT

O my odear lord, lo where your son is borne.

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.

(To John) 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 today’.

Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms.

Soldiers lay John in Talbot’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.

He dies. ⌈Alarum.⌉ Exeunt soldiers leaving the bodies

Enter Charles the Dauphin, the dukes of Alencon and Burgundy, the Bastard of Orléans, and Joan la Pucelle

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!

JOAN

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 inhearsèd 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 ⌈with a French herald⌉

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,