{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/kh61.htm","path":"sks/ff/kh61.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/kh61.htm","text":"Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nDead March.\nEnter the Funerall of King Henry the Fift, attended on by the Duke\nof\nBedford, Regent of France; the Duke of Gloster, Protector; the\nDuke of\nExeter Warwicke, the Bishop of Winchester, and the Duke of\nSomerset.\nBedford. Hung be y heauens with black, yield day to night;\nComets importing change of Times and States,\nBrandish your crystall Tresses in the Skie,\nAnd with them scourge the bad reuolting Stars,\nThat haue consented vnto Henries death:\nKing Henry the Fift, too famous to liue long,\nEngland ne're lost a King of so much worth\nGlost. England ne're had a King vntill his time:\nVertue he had, deseruing to command,\nHis brandisht Sword did blinde men with his beames,\nHis Armes spred wider then a Dragons Wings:\nHis sparkling Eyes, repleat with wrathfull fire,\nMore dazled and droue back his Enemies,\nThen mid-day Sunne, fierce bent against their faces.\nWhat should I say? his Deeds exceed all speech:\nHe ne're lift vp his Hand, but conquered\nExe. We mourne in black, why mourn we not in blood?\nHenry is dead, and neuer shall reuiue:\nVpon a Woodden Coffin we attend;\nAnd Deaths dishonourable Victorie,\nWe with our stately presence glorifie,\nLike Captiues bound to a Triumphant Carre.\nWhat? shall we curse the Planets of Mishap,\nThat plotted thus our Glories ouerthrow?\nOr shall we thinke the subtile-witted French,\nConiurers and Sorcerers, that afraid of him,\nBy Magick Verses haue contriu'd his end\nWinch. He was a King, blest of the King of Kings.\nVnto the French, the dreadfull Iudgement-Day\nSo dreadfull will not be, as was his sight.\nThe Battailes of the Lord of Hosts he fought:\nThe Churches Prayers made him so prosperous\nGlost. The Church? where is it?\nHad not Church-men pray'd,\nHis thred of Life had not so soone decay'd.\nNone doe you like, but an effeminate Prince,\nWhom like a Schoole-boy you may ouer-awe\nWinch. Gloster, what ere we like, thou art Protector,\nAnd lookest to command the Prince and Realme.\nThy Wife is prowd, she holdeth thee in awe,\nMore then God or Religious Church-men may\nGlost. Name not Religion, for thou lou'st the Flesh,\nAnd ne're throughout the yeere to Church thou go'st,\nExcept it be to pray against thy foes\nBed. Cease, cease these Iarres, & rest your minds in peace:\nLet's to the Altar: Heralds wayt on vs;\nIn stead of Gold, wee'le offer vp our Armes,\nSince Armes auayle not, now that Henry's dead,\nPosteritie await for wretched yeeres,\nWhen at their Mothers moistned eyes, Babes shall suck,\nOur Ile be made a Nourish of salt Teares,\nAnd none but Women left to wayle the dead.\nHenry the Fift, thy Ghost I inuocate:\nProsper this Realme, keepe it from Ciuill Broyles,\nCombat with aduerse Planets in the Heauens;\nA farre more glorious Starre thy Soule will make,\nThen Iulius C\u00e6sar, or bright-\nEnter a Messenger.\nMess. My honourable Lords, health to you all:\nSad tidings bring I to you out of France,\nOf losse, of slaughter, and discomfiture:\nGuyen, Champaigne, Rheimes, Orleance,\nParis Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost\nBedf. What say'st thou man, before dead Henry's Coarse?\nSpeake softly, or the losse of those great Townes\nWill make him burst his Lead, and rise from death\nGlost. Is Paris lost? is Roan yeelded vp?\nIf Henry were recall'd to life againe,\nThese news would cause him once more yeeld the Ghost\nExe. How were they lost? what trecherie was vs'd?\nMess. No trecherie, but want of Men and Money.\nAmongst the Souldiers this is muttered,\nThat here you maintaine seuerall Factions:\nAnd whil'st a Field should be dispatcht and fought,\nYou are disputing of your Generals.\nOne would haue lingring Warres, with little cost;\nAnother would flye swift, but wanteth Wings:\nA third thinkes, without expence at all,\nBy guilefull faire words, Peace may be obtayn'd.\nAwake, awake, English Nobilitie,\nLet not slouth dimme your Honors, new begot;\nCropt are the Flower-de-Luces in your Armes\nOf Englands Coat, one halfe is cut away\nExe. Were our Teares wanting to this Funerall,\nThese Tidings would call forth her flowing Tides\nBedf. Me they concerne, Regent I am of France:\nGiue me my steeled Coat, Ile fight for France.\nAway with these disgracefull wayling Robes;\nWounds will I lend the French, in stead of Eyes,\nTo weepe their intermissiue Miseries.\nEnter to them another Messenger.\nMess. Lords view these Letters, full of bad mischance.\nFrance is reuolted from the English quite,\nExcept some petty Townes, of no import.\nThe Dolphin Charles is crowned King in Rheimes:\nThe Bastard of Orleance with him is ioyn'd:\nReynold, Duke of Aniou, doth take his part,\nThe Duke of Alanson flyeth to his side.\nEnter.\nExe. The Dolphin crown'd King? all flye to him?\nO whither shall we flye from this reproach?\nGlost. We will not flye, but to our enemies throats.\nBedford, if thou be slacke, Ile fight it out\nBed. Gloster, why doubtst thou of my forwardnesse?\nAn Army haue I muster'd in my thoughts,\nWherewith already France is ouer-run.\nEnter another Messenger.\nMes. My gracious Lords, to adde to your laments,\nWherewith you now bedew King Henries hearse,\nI must informe you of a dismall fight,\nBetwixt the stout Lord Talbot, and the French\nWin. What? wherein Talbot ouercame, is't so?\n3.Mes. O no: wherein Lord Talbot was o'rethrown:\nThe circumstance Ile tell you more at large.\nThe tenth of August last, this dreadfull Lord,\nRetyring from the Siege of Orleance,\nHauing full scarce six thousand in his troupe,\nBy three and twentie thousand of the French\nWas round incompassed, and set vpon:\nNo leysure had he to enranke his men.\nHe wanted Pikes to set before his Archers:\nIn stead whereof, sharpe Stakes pluckt out of Hedges\nThey pitched in the ground confusedly,\nTo keepe the Horsemen off, from breaking in.\nMore then three houres the fight continued:\nWhere valiant Talbot, aboue humane thought,\nEnacted wonders with his Sword and Lance.\nHundreds he sent to Hell, and none durst stand him:\nHere, there, and euery where enrag'd, he slew.\nThe French exclaym'd, the Deuill was in Armes,\nAll the whole Army stood agaz'd on him.\nHis Souldiers spying his vndaunted Spirit,\nA Talbot, a Talbot, cry'd out amaine,\nAnd rusht into the Bowels of the Battaile.\nHere had the Conquest fully been seal'd vp,\nIf Sir Iohn Falstaffe had not play'd the Coward.\nHe being in the Vauward, plac't behinde,\nWith purpose to relieue and follow them,\nCowardly fled, not hauing struck one stroake.\nHence grew the generall wrack and massacre:\nEnclosed were they with their Enemies.\nA base Wallon, to win the Dolphins grace,\nThrust Talbot with a Speare into the Back,\nWhom all France, with their chiefe assembled strength,\nDurst not presume to looke once in the face\nBedf. Is Talbot slaine then? I will slay my selfe,\nFor liuing idly here, in pompe and ease,\nWhil'st such a worthy Leader, wanting ayd,\nVnto his dastard foe-men is betray'd\n3.Mess. O no, he liues, but is tooke Prisoner,\nAnd Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:\nMost of the rest slaughter'd, or tooke likewise\nBedf. His Ransome there is none but I shall pay.\nIle hale the Dolphin headlong from his Throne,\nHis Crowne shall be the Ransome of my friend:\nFoure of their Lords Ile change for one of ours.\nFarwell my Masters, to my Taske will I,\nBonfires in France forthwith I am to make,\nTo keepe our great Saint Georges Feast withall.\nTen thousand Souldiers with me I will take,\nWhose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake\n3.Mess. So you had need, for Orleance is besieg'd,\nThe English Army is growne weake and faint:\nThe Earle of Salisbury craueth supply,\nAnd hardly keepes his men from mutinie,\nSince they so few, watch such a multitude\nExe. Remember Lords your Oathes to Henry sworne:\nEyther to quell the Dolphin vtterly,\nOr bring him in obedience to your yoake\nBedf. I doe remember it, and here take my leaue,\nTo goe about my preparation.\nExit Bedford.\nGlost. Ile to the Tower with all the hast I can,\nTo view th' Artillerie and Munition,\nAnd then I will proclayme young Henry King.\nExit Gloster.\nExe. To Eltam will I, where the young King is,\nBeing ordayn'd his speciall Gouernor,\nAnd for his safetie there Ile best deuise.\nEnter.\nWinch. Each hath his Place and Function to attend:\nI am left out; for me nothing remaines:\nBut long I will not be Iack out of Office.\nThe King from Eltam I intend to send,\nAnd sit at chiefest Sterne of publique Weale.\nEnter.\nSound a Flourish.\nEnter Charles, Alanson, and Reigneir, marching with Drum and\nSouldiers.\nCharles. Mars his true mouing, euen as in the Heauens,\nSo in the Earth, to this day is not knowne.\nLate did he shine vpon the English side:\nNow we are Victors, vpon vs he smiles.\nWhat Townes of any moment, but we haue?\nAt pleasure here we lye, neere Orleance:\nOtherwhiles, the famisht English, like pale Ghosts,\nFaintly besiege vs one houre in a moneth\nAlan. They want their Porredge, & their fat Bul Beeues:\nEyther they must be dyeted like Mules,\nAnd haue their Prouender ty'd to their mouthes,\nOr pitteous they will looke, like drowned Mice\nReigneir. Let's rayse the Siege: why liue we idly here?\nTalbot is taken, whom we wont to feare:\nRemayneth none but mad-brayn'd Salisbury,\nAnd he may well in fretting spend his gall,\nNor men nor Money hath he to make Warre\nCharles. Sound, sound Alarum, we will rush on them.\nNow for the honour of the forlorne French:\nHim I forgiue my death, that killeth me,\nWhen he sees me goe back one foot, or flye.\nExeunt.\nHere Alarum, they are beaten back by the English, with great\nlosse.\nEnter Charles, Alanson, and Reigneir.\nCharles. Who euer saw the like? what men haue I?\nDogges, Cowards, Dastards: I would ne're haue fled,\nBut that they left me 'midst my Enemies\nReigneir. Salisbury is a desperate Homicide,\nHe fighteth as one weary of his life:\nThe other Lords, like Lyons wanting foode,\nDoe rush vpon vs as their hungry prey\nAlanson. Froysard, a Countreyman of ours, records,\nEngland all Oliuers and Rowlands breed,\nDuring the time Edward the third did raigne:\nMore truly now may this be verified;\nFor none but Samsons and Goliasses\nIt sendeth forth to skirmish: one to tenne?\nLeane raw-bon'd Rascals, who would e'er suppose,\nThey had such courage and audacitie?\nCharles. Let's leaue this Towne,\nFor they are hayre-brayn'd Slaues,\nAnd hunger will enforce them to be more eager:\nOf old I know them; rather with their Teeth\nThe Walls they'le teare downe, then forsake the Siege\nReigneir. I thinke by some odde Gimmors or Deuice\nTheir Armes are set, like Clocks, still to strike on;\nElse ne're could they hold out so as they doe:\nBy my consent, wee'le euen let them alone\nAlanson. Be it so.\nEnter the Bastard of Orleance.\nBastard. Where's the Prince Dolphin? I haue newes\nfor him\nDolph. Bastard of Orleance, thrice welcome to vs\nBast. Me thinks your looks are sad, your chear appal'd.\nHath the late ouerthrow wrought this offence?\nBe not dismay'd, for succour is at hand:\nA holy Maid hither with me I bring,\nWhich by a Vision sent to her from Heauen,\nOrdayned is to rayse this tedious Siege,\nAnd driue the English forth the bounds of France:\nThe spirit of deepe Prophecie she hath,\nExceeding the nine Sibyls of old Rome:\nWhat's past, and what's to come, she can descry.\nSpeake, shall I call her in? beleeue my words,\nFor they are certaine, and vnfallible\nDolph. Goe call her in: but first, to try her skill,\nReignier stand thou as Dolphin in my place;\nQuestion her prowdly, let thy Lookes be sterne,\nBy this meanes shall we sound what skill she hath.\nEnter Ioane Puzel.\nReigneir. Faire Maid, is't thou wilt doe these wondrous\nfeats?\nPuzel. Reignier, is't thou that thinkest to beguile me?\nWhere is the Dolphin? Come, come from behinde,\nI know thee well, though neuer seene before.\nBe not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me;\nIn priuate will I talke with thee apart:\nStand back you Lords, and giue vs leaue a while\nReigneir. She takes vpon her brauely at first dash\nPuzel. Dolphin, I am by birth a Shepheards Daughter,\nMy wit vntrayn'd in any kind of Art:\nHeauen and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd\nTo shine on my contemptible estate.\nLoe, whilest I wayted on my tender Lambes,\nAnd to Sunnes parching heat display'd my cheekes,\nGods Mother deigned to appeare to me,\nAnd in a Vision full of Maiestie,\nWill'd me to leaue my base Vocation,\nAnd free my Countrey from Calamitie:\nHer ayde she promis'd, and assur'd successe.\nIn compleat Glory shee reueal'd her selfe:\nAnd whereas I was black and swart before,\nWith those cleare Rayes, which shee infus'd on me,\nThat beautie am I blest with, which you may see.\nAske me what question thou canst possible,\nAnd I will answer vnpremeditated:\nMy Courage trie by Combat, if thou dar'st,\nAnd thou shalt finde that I exceed my Sex.\nResolue on this, thou shalt be fortunate,\nIf thou receiue me for thy Warlike Mate\nDolph. Thou hast astonisht me with thy high termes:\nOnely this proofe Ile of thy Valour make,\nIn single Combat thou shalt buckle with me;\nAnd if thou vanquishest, thy words are true,\nOtherwise I renounce all confidence\nPuzel. I am prepar'd: here is my keene-edg'd Sword,\nDeckt with fine Flower-de-Luces on each side,\nThe which at Touraine, in S[aint]. Katherines Church-yard,\nOut of a great deale of old Iron, I chose forth\nDolph. Then come a Gods name, I feare no woman\nPuzel. And while I liue, Ile ne're flye from a man.\nHere they fight, and Ioane de Puzel ouercomes.\nDolph. Stay, stay thy hands, thou art an Amazon,\nAnd fightest with the Sword of Debora\nPuzel. Christs Mother helpes me, else I were too\nweake\nDolph. Who e're helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me:\nImpatiently I burne with thy desire,\nMy heart and hands thou hast at once subdu'd.\nExcellent Puzel, if thy name be so,\nLet me thy seruant, and not Soueraigne be,\n'Tis the French Dolphin sueth to thee thus\nPuzel. I must not yeeld to any rights of Loue,\nFor my Profession's sacred from aboue:\nWhen I haue chased all thy Foes from hence,\nThen will I thinke vpon a recompence\nDolph. Meane time looke gracious on thy prostrate\nThrall\nReigneir. My Lord me thinkes is very long in talke\nAlans. Doubtlesse he shriues this woman to her smock,\nElse ne're could he so long protract his speech\nReigneir. Shall wee disturbe him, since hee keepes no\nmeane?\nAlan. He may meane more then we poor men do know,\nThese women are shrewd tempters with their tongues\nReigneir. My Lord, where are you? what deuise you on?\nShall we giue o're Orleance, or no?\nPuzel. Why no, I say: distrustfull Recreants,\nFight till the last gaspe: Ile be your guard\nDolph. What shee sayes, Ile confirme: wee'le fight\nit out\nPuzel. Assign'd am I to be the English Scourge.\nThis night the Siege assuredly Ile rayse:\nExpect Saint Martins Summer, Halcyons dayes,\nSince I haue entred into these Warres.\nGlory is like a Circle in the Water,\nWhich neuer ceaseth to enlarge it selfe,\nTill by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.\nWith Henries death, the English Circle ends,\nDispersed are the glories it included:\nNow am I like that prowd insulting Ship,\nWhich C\u00e6sar and his fortune bare at once\nDolph. Was Mahomet inspired with a Doue?\nThou with an Eagle art inspired then.\nHelen, the Mother of Great Constantine,\nNor yet S[aint]. Philips daughters were like thee.\nBright Starre of Venus, falne downe on the Earth,\nHow may I reuerently worship thee enough?\nAlanson. Leaue off delayes, and let vs rayse the\nSiege\nReigneir. Woman, do what thou canst to saue our honors,\nDriue them from Orleance, and be immortaliz'd\nDolph. Presently wee'le try: come, let's away about it,\nNo Prophet will I trust, if shee proue false.\nExeunt.\nEnter Gloster, with his Seruing-men.\nGlost. I am come to suruey the Tower this day;\nSince Henries death, I feare there is Conueyance:\nWhere be these Warders, that they wait not here?\nOpen the Gates, 'tis Gloster that calls\n1.Warder. Who's there, that knocks so imperiously?\nGlost.1.Man. It is the Noble Duke of Gloster\n2.Warder. Who ere he be, you may not be let in\n1.Man. Villaines, answer you so the Lord Protector?\n1.Warder. The Lord protect him, so we answer him,\nWe doe no otherwise then wee are will'd\nGlost. Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?\nThere's none Protector of the Realme, but I:\nBreake vp the Gates, Ile be your warrantize;\nShall I be flowted thus by dunghill Groomes?\nGlosters men rush at the Tower Gates, and Wooduile the\nLieutenant speakes\nwithin.\nWooduile. What noyse is this? what Traytors haue\nwee here?\nGlost. Lieutenant, is it you whose voyce I heare?\nOpen the Gates, here's Gloster that would enter\nWooduile. Haue patience Noble Duke, I may not open,\nThe Cardinall of Winchester forbids:\nFrom him I haue expresse commandement,\nThat thou nor none of thine shall be let in\nGlost. Faint-hearted Wooduile, prizest him 'fore me?\nArrogant Winchester, that haughtie Prelate,\nWhom Henry our late Soueraigne ne're could brooke?\nThou art no friend to God, or to the King:\nOpen the Gates, or Ile shut thee out shortly\nSeruingmen. Open the Gates vnto the Lord Protector,\nOr wee'le burst them open, if that you come not quickly.\nEnter to the Protector at the Tower Gates, Winchester and his men\nin\nTawney Coates.\nWinchest. How now ambitious Vmpheir, what meanes\nthis?\nGlost. Piel'd Priest, doo'st thou command me to be\nshut out?\nWinch. I doe, thou most vsurping Proditor,\nAnd not Protector of the King or Realme\nGlost. Stand back thou manifest Conspirator,\nThou that contriued'st to murther our dead Lord,\nThou that giu'st Whores Indulgences to sinne,\nIle canuas thee in thy broad Cardinalls Hat,\nIf thou proceed in this thy insolence\nWinch. Nay, stand thou back, I will not budge a foot:\nThis be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain,\nTo slay thy Brother Abel, if thou wilt\nGlost. I will not slay thee, but Ile driue thee back:\nThy Scarlet Robes, as a Childs bearing Cloth,\nIle vse, to carry thee out of this place\nWinch. Doe what thou dar'st, I beard thee to thy\nface\nGlost. What? am I dar'd, and bearded to my face?\nDraw men, for all this priuiledged place,\nBlew Coats to Tawny Coats. Priest, beware your Beard,\nI meane to tugge it, and to cuffe you soundly.\nVnder my feet I stampe thy Cardinalls Hat:\nIn spight of Pope, or dignities of Church,\nHere by the Cheekes Ile drag thee vp and downe\nWinch. Gloster, thou wilt answere this before the\nPope\nGlost. Winchester Goose, I cry, a Rope, a Rope.\nNow beat them hence, why doe you let them stay?\nThee Ile chase hence, thou Wolfe in Sheepes array.\nOut Tawney-Coates, out Scarlet Hypocrite.\nHere Glosters men beat out the Cardinalls men, and enter in the\nhurly-burly the Maior of London, and his Officers.\nMaior. Fye Lords, that you being supreme Magistrates,\nThus contumeliously should breake the Peace\nGlost. Peace Maior, thou know'st little of my wrongs:\nHere's Beauford, that regards nor God nor King,\nHath here distrayn'd the Tower to his vse\nWinch. Here's Gloster, a Foe to Citizens,\nOne that still motions Warre, and neuer Peace,\nO're-charging your free Purses with large Fines;\nThat seekes to ouerthrow Religion,\nBecause he is Protector of the Realme;\nAnd would haue Armour here out of the Tower,\nTo Crowne himselfe King, and suppresse the Prince\nGlost. I will not answer thee with words, but blowes.\nHere they skirmish againe.\nMaior. Naught rests for me, in this tumultuous strife,\nBut to make open Proclamation.\nCome Officer, as lowd as e're thou canst, cry:\nAll manner of men, assembled here in Armes this day,\nagainst Gods Peace and the Kings, wee charge and command\nyou, in his Highnesse Name, to repayre to your seuerall dwelling\nplaces, and not to weare, handle, or vse any Sword, Weapon,\nor Dagger hence-forward, vpon paine of death\nGlost. Cardinall, Ile be no breaker of the Law:\nBut we shall meet, and breake our minds at large\nWinch. Gloster, wee'le meet to thy cost, be sure:\nThy heart-blood I will haue for this dayes worke\nMaior. Ile call for Clubs, if you will not away:\nThis Cardinall's more haughtie then the Deuill\nGlost. Maior farewell: thou doo'st but what thou\nmay'st\nWinch. Abhominable Gloster, guard thy Head,\nFor I intend to haue it ere long.\nExeunt.\nMaior. See the Coast clear'd, and then we will depart.\nGood God, these Nobles should such stomacks beare,\nI my selfe fight not once in fortie yeere.\nExeunt.\nEnter the Master Gunner of Orleance, and his Boy.\nM.Gunner. Sirrha, thou know'st how Orleance is besieg'd,\nAnd how the English haue the Suburbs wonne\nBoy. Father I know, and oft haue shot at them,\nHow e're vnfortunate, I miss'd my ayme\nM.Gunner. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd by me:\nChiefe Master Gunner am I of this Towne,\nSomething I must doe to procure me grace:\nThe Princes espyals haue informed me,\nHow the English, in the Suburbs close entrencht,\nWent through a secret Grate of Iron Barres,\nIn yonder Tower, to ouer-peere the Citie,\nAnd thence discouer, how with most aduantage\nThey may vex vs with Shot or with Assault.\nTo intercept this inconuenience,\nA Peece of Ordnance 'gainst it I haue plac'd,\nAnd euen these three dayes haue I watcht,\nIf I could see them. Now doe thou watch,\nFor I can stay no longer.\nIf thou spy'st any, runne and bring me word,\nAnd thou shalt finde me at the Gouernors.\nEnter.\nBoy. Father, I warrant you, take you no care,\nIle neuer trouble you, if I may spye them.\nEnter.\nEnter Salisbury and Talbot on the Turrets, with others.\nSalisb. Talbot, my life, my ioy, againe return'd?\nHow wert thou handled, being Prisoner?\nOr by what meanes got's thou to be releas'd?\nDiscourse I prethee on this Turrets top\nTalbot. The Earle of Bedford had a Prisoner,\nCall'd the braue Lord Ponton de Santrayle,\nFor him was I exchang'd, and ransom'd.\nBut with a baser man of Armes by farre,\nOnce in contempt they would haue barter'd me:\nWhich I disdaining, scorn'd, and craued death,\nRather then I would be so pil'd esteem'd:\nIn fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd.\nBut O, the trecherous Falstaffe wounds my heart,\nWhom with my bare fists I would execute,\nIf I now had him brought into my power\nSalisb. Yet tell'st thou not, how thou wert entertain'd\nTal. With scoffes and scornes, and contumelious taunts,\nIn open Market-place produc't they me,\nTo be a publique spectacle to all:\nHere, sayd they, is the Terror of the French,\nThe Scar-Crow that affrights our Children so.\nThen broke I from the Officers that led me,\nAnd with my nayles digg'd stones out of the ground,\nTo hurle at the beholders of my shame.\nMy grisly countenance made others flye,\nNone durst come neere, for feare of suddaine death.\nIn Iron Walls they deem'd me not secure:\nSo great feare of my Name 'mongst them were spread,\nThat they suppos'd I could rend Barres of Steele,\nAnd spurne in pieces Posts of Adamant.\nWherefore a guard of chosen Shot I had,\nThat walkt about me euery Minute while:\nAnd if I did but stirre out of my Bed,\nReady they were to shoot me to the heart.\nEnter the Boy with a Linstock.\nSalisb. I grieue to heare what torments you endur'd,\nBut we will be reueng'd sufficiently.\nNow it is Supper time in Orleance:\nHere, through this Grate, I count each one,\nAnd view the Frenchmen how they fortifie:\nLet vs looke in, the sight will much delight thee:\nSir Thomas Gargraue, and Sir William Glansdale,\nLet me haue your expresse opinions,\nWhere is best place to make our Batt'ry next?\nGargraue. I thinke at the North Gate, for there stands\nLords\nGlansdale. And I heere, at the Bulwarke of the\nBridge\nTalb. For ought I see, this Citie must be famisht,\nOr with light Skirmishes enfeebled.\nHere they shot, and Salisbury falls downe.\nSalisb. O Lord haue mercy on vs, wretched sinners\nGargraue. O Lord haue mercy on me, wofull man\nTalb. What chance is this, that suddenly hath crost vs?\nSpeake Salisbury; at least, if thou canst, speake:\nHow far'st thou, Mirror of all Martiall men?\nOne of thy Eyes, and thy Cheekes side struck off?\nAccursed Tower, accursed fatall Hand,\nThat hath contriu'd this wofull Tragedie.\nIn thirteene Battailes, Salisbury o'recame:\nHenry the Fift he first trayn'd to the Warres.\nWhil'st any Trumpe did sound, or Drum struck vp,\nHis Sword did ne're leaue striking in the field.\nYet liu'st thou Salisbury? though thy speech doth fayle,\nOne Eye thou hast to looke to Heauen for grace.\nThe Sunne with one Eye vieweth all the World.\nHeauen be thou gracious to none aliue,\nIf Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands.\nBeare hence his Body, I will helpe to bury it.\nSir Thomas Gargraue, hast thou any life?\nSpeake vnto Talbot, nay, looke vp to him.\nSalisbury cheare thy Spirit with this comfort,\nThou shalt not dye whiles-\nHe beckens with his hand, and smiles on me:\nAs who should say, When I am dead and gone,\nRemember to auenge me on the French.\nPlantaginet I will, and like thee,\nPlay on the Lute, beholding the Townes burne:\nWretched shall France be onely in my Name.\nHere an Alarum, and it Thunders and Lightens.\nWhat stirre is this? what tumult's in the Heauens?\nWhence commeth this Alarum, and the noyse?\nEnter a Messenger.\nMess. My Lord, my Lord, the French haue gather'd head.\nThe Dolphin, with one Ioane de Puzel ioyn'd,\nA holy Prophetesse, new risen vp,\nIs come with a great Power, to rayse the Siege.\nHere Salisbury lifteth himselfe vp, and groanes.\nTalb. Heare, heare, how dying Salisbury doth groane,\nIt irkes his heart he cannot be reueng'd.\nFrenchmen, Ile be a Salisbury to you.\nPuzel or Pussel, Dolphin or Dog-fish,\nYour hearts Ile stampe out with my Horses heeles,\nAnd make a Quagmire of your mingled braines.\nConuey me Salisbury into his Tent,\nAnd then wee'le try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.\nAlarum. Exeunt.\nHere an Alarum againe, and Talbot pursueth the Dolphin, and\ndriueth him:\nThen enter Ioane de Puzel, driuing Englishmen before her. Then\nenter\nTalbot.\nTalb. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?\nOur English Troupes retyre, I cannot stay them,\nA Woman clad in Armour chaseth them.\nEnter Puzel.\nHere, here shee comes. Ile haue a bowt with thee:\nDeuill, or Deuils Dam, Ile coniure thee:\nBlood will I draw on thee, thou art a Witch,\nAnd straightway giue thy Soule to him thou seru'st\nPuzel. Come, come, 'tis onely I that must disgrace\nthee.\nHere they fight.\nTalb. Heauens, can you suffer Hell so to preuayle?\nMy brest Ile burst with straining of my courage,\nAnd from my shoulders crack my Armes asunder,\nBut I will chastise this high-minded Strumpet.\nThey fight againe.\nPuzel. Talbot farwell, thy houre is not yet come,\nI must goe Victuall Orleance forthwith:\nA short Alarum: then enter the Towne with Souldiers.\nO're-take me if thou canst, I scorne thy strength.\nGoe, goe, cheare vp thy hungry-starued men,\nHelpe Salisbury to make his Testament,\nThis Day is ours, as many more shall be.\nEnter.\nTalb. My thoughts are whirled like a Potters Wheele,\nI know not where I am, nor what I doe:\nA Witch by feare, not force, like Hannibal,\nDriues back our troupes, and conquers as she lists:\nSo Bees with smoake, and Doues with noysome stench,\nAre from their Hyues and Houses driuen away.\nThey call'd vs, for our fiercenesse, English Dogges,\nNow like to Whelpes, we crying runne away.\nA short Alarum.\nHearke Countreymen, eyther renew the fight,\nOr teare the Lyons out of Englands Coat;\nRenounce your Soyle, giue Sheepe in Lyons stead:\nSheepe run not halfe so trecherous from the Wolfe,\nOr Horse or Oxen from the Leopard,\nAs you flye from your oft-subdued slaues.\nAlarum. Here another Skirmish.\nIt will not be, retyre into your Trenches:\nYou all consented vnto Salisburies death,\nFor none would strike a stroake in his reuenge.\nPuzel is entred into Orleance,\nIn spight of vs, or ought that we could doe.\nO would I were to dye with Salisbury,\nThe shame hereof, will make me hide my head.\nExit Talbot.\nAlarum, Retreat, Flourish.\nEnter on the Walls, Puzel, Dolphin, Reigneir, Alanson, and\nSouldiers.\nPuzel. Aduance our wauing Colours on the Walls,\nRescu'd is Orleance from the English.\nThus Ioane de Puzel hath perform'd her word\nDolph. Diuinest Creature, Astrea's Daughter,\nHow shall I honour thee for this successe?\nThy promises are like Adonis Garden,\nThat one day bloom'd, and fruitfull were the next.\nFrance, triumph in thy glorious Prophetesse,\nRecouer'd is the Towne of Orleance,\nMore blessed hap did ne're befall our State\nReigneir. Why ring not out the Bells alowd,\nThroughout the Towne?\nDolphin command the Citizens make Bonfires,\nAnd feast and banquet in the open streets,\nTo celebrate the ioy that God hath giuen vs\nAlans. All France will be repleat with mirth and ioy,\nWhen they shall heare how we haue play'd the men\nDolph. 'Tis Ioane, not we, by whom the day is wonne:\nFor which, I will diuide my Crowne with her,\nAnd all the Priests and Fryers in my Realme,\nShall in procession sing her endlesse prayse.\nA statelyer Pyramis to her Ile reare,\nThen Rhodophe's or Memphis euer was.\nIn memorie of her, when she is dead,\nHer Ashes, in an Vrne more precious\nThen the rich-iewel'd Coffer of Darius,\nTransported, shall be at high Festiuals\nBefore the Kings and Queenes of France.\nNo longer on Saint Dennis will we cry,\nBut Ioane de Puzel shall be France's Saint.\nCome in, and let vs Banquet Royally,\nAfter this Golden Day of Victorie.\nFlourish. Exeunt.\nActus Secundus. Scena Prima.\nEnter a Sergeant of a Band, with two Sentinels.\nSer. Sirs, take your places, and be vigilant:\nIf any noyse or Souldier you perceiue\nNeere to the walles, by some apparant signe\nLet vs haue knowledge at the Court of Guard\nSent. Sergeant you shall. Thus are poore Seruitors\n(When others sleepe vpon their quiet beds)\nConstrain'd to watch in darknesse, raine, and cold.\nEnter Talbot, Bedford, and Burgundy, with scaling Ladders: Their\nDrummes\nbeating a Dead March.\nTal. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,\nBy whose approach, the Regions of Artoys,\nWallon, and Picardy, are friends to vs:\nThis happy night, the Frenchmen are secure,\nHauing all day carows'd and banquetted,\nEmbrace we then this opportunitie,\nAs fitting best to quittance their deceite,\nContriu'd by Art, and balefull Sorcerie\nBed. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame,\nDispairing of his owne armes fortitude,\nTo ioyne with Witches, and the helpe of Hell\nBur. Traitors haue neuer other company.\nBut what's that Puzell whom they tearme so pure?\nTal. A Maid, they say\nBed. A Maid? And be so martiall?\nBur. Pray God she proue not masculine ere long:\nIf vnderneath the Standard of the French\nShe carry Armour, as she hath begun\nTal. Well, let them practise and conuerse with spirits.\nGod is our Fortresse, in whose conquering name\nLet vs resolue to scale their flinty bulwarkes\nBed. Ascend braue Talbot, we will follow thee\nTal. Not altogether: Better farre I guesse,\nThat we do make our entrance seuerall wayes:\nThat if it chance the one of vs do faile,\nThe other yet may rise against their force\nBed. Agreed; Ile to yond corner\nBur. And I to this\nTal. And heere will Talbot mount, or make his graue.\nNow Salisbury, for thee and for the right\nOf English Henry, shall this night appeare\nHow much in duty, I am bound to both\nSent. Arme, arme, the enemy doth make assault.\nCry, S[aint]. George, A Talbot.\nThe French leape ore the walles in their shirts. Enter seuerall\nwayes,\nBastard, Alanson, Reignier, halfe ready, and halfe vnready.\nAlan. How now my Lords? what all vnreadie so?\nBast. Vnready? I and glad we scap'd so well\nReig. 'Twas time (I trow) to wake and leaue our beds,\nHearing Alarums at our Chamber doores\nAlan. Of all exploits since first I follow'd Armes,\nNere heard I of a warlike enterprize\nMore venturous, or desperate then this\nBast. I thinke this Talbot be a Fiend of Hell\nReig. If not of Hell, the Heauens sure fauour him\nAlans. Here commeth Charles, I maruell how he sped?\nEnter Charles and Ioane.\nBast. Tut, holy Ioane was his defensiue Guard\nCharl. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitfull Dame?\nDidst thou at first, to flatter vs withall,\nMake vs partakers of a little gayne,\nThat now our losse might be ten times so much?\nIoane. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?\nAt all times will you haue my Power alike?\nSleeping or waking, must I still preuayle,\nOr will you blame and lay the fault on me?\nImprouident Souldiors, had your Watch been good,\nThis sudden Mischiefe neuer could haue falne\nCharl. Duke of Alanson, this was your default,\nThat being Captaine of the Watch to Night,\nDid looke no better to that weightie Charge\nAlans. Had all your Quarters been as safely kept,\nAs that whereof I had the gouernment,\nWe had not beene thus shamefully surpriz'd\nBast. Mine was secure\nReig. And so was mine, my Lord\nCharl. And for my selfe, most part of all this Night\nWithin her Quarter, and mine owne Precinct,\nI was imploy'd in passing to and fro,\nAbout relieuing of the Centinels.\nThen how, or which way, should they first breake in?\nIoane. Question (my Lords) no further of the case,\nHow or which way; 'tis sure they found some place,\nBut weakely guarded, where the breach was made:\nAnd now there rests no other shift but this,\nTo gather our Souldiors, scatter'd and disperc't,\nAnd lay new Platformes to endammage them.\nExeunt.\nAlarum. Enter a Souldier, crying, a Talbot, a Talbot: they flye,\nleauing\ntheir Clothes behind.\nSould. Ile be so bold to take what they haue left:\nThe Cry of Talbot serues me for a Sword,\nFor I haue loaden me with many Spoyles,\nVsing no other Weapon but his Name.\nEnter.\nEnter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundie.\nBedf. The Day begins to breake, and Night is fled,\nWhose pitchy Mantle ouer-vayl'd the Earth.\nHere sound Retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.\nRetreat.\nTalb. Bring forth the Body of old Salisbury,\nAnd here aduance it in the Market-Place,\nThe middle Centure of this cursed Towne.\nNow haue I pay'd my Vow vnto his Soule:\nFor euery drop of blood was drawne from him,\nThere hath at least fiue Frenchmen dyed to night.\nAnd that hereafter Ages may behold\nWhat ruine happened in reuenge of him,\nWithin their chiefest Temple Ile erect\nA Tombe, wherein his Corps shall be interr'd:\nVpon the which, that euery one may reade,\nShall be engrau'd the sacke of Orleance,\nThe trecherous manner of his mournefull death,\nAnd what a terror he had beene to France.\nBut Lords, in all our bloudy Massacre,\nI muse we met not with the Dolphins Grace,\nHis new-come Champion, vertuous Ioane of Acre,\nNor any of his false Confederates\nBedf. 'Tis thought Lord Talbot, when the fight began,\nRows'd on the sudden from their drowsie Beds,\nThey did amongst the troupes of armed men,\nLeape o're the Walls for refuge in the field\nBurg. My selfe, as farre as I could well discerne,\nFor smoake, and duskie vapours of the night,\nAm sure I scar'd the Dolphin and his Trull,\nWhen Arme in Arme they both came swiftly running,\nLike to a payre of louing Turtle-Doues,\nThat could not liue asunder day or night.\nAfter that things are set in order here,\nWee'le follow them with all the power we haue.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMess. All hayle, my Lords: which of this Princely trayne\nCall ye the Warlike Talbot, for his Acts\nSo much applauded through the Realme of France?\nTalb. Here is the Talbot, who would speak with him?\nMess. The vertuous Lady, Countesse of Ouergne,\nWith modestie admiring thy Renowne,\nBy me entreats (great Lord) thou would'st vouchsafe\nTo visit her poore Castle where she lyes,\nThat she may boast she hath beheld the man,\nWhose glory fills the World with lowd report\nBurg. Is it euen so? Nay, then I see our Warres\nWill turne vnto a peacefull Comick sport,\nWhen Ladyes craue to be encountred with.\nYou may not (my Lord) despise her gentle suit\nTalb. Ne're trust me then: for when a World of men\nCould not preuayle with all their Oratorie,\nYet hath a Womans kindnesse ouer-rul'd:\nAnd therefore tell her, I returne great thankes,\nAnd in submission will attend on her.\nWill not your Honors beare me company?\nBedf. No, truly, 'tis more then manners will:\nAnd I haue heard it sayd, Vnbidden Guests\nAre often welcommest when they are gone\nTalb. Well then, alone (since there's no remedie)\nI meane to proue this Ladyes courtesie.\nCome hither Captaine, you perceiue my minde.\nWhispers.\nCapt. I doe my Lord, and meane accordingly.\nExeunt.\nEnter Countesse.\nCount. Porter, remember what I gaue in charge,\nAnd when you haue done so, bring the Keyes to me\nPort. Madame, I will.\nEnter.\nCount. The Plot is layd, if all things fall out right,\nI shall as famous be by this exploit,\nAs Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus death.\nGreat is the rumour of this dreadfull Knight,\nAnd his atchieuements of no lesse account:\nFaine would mine eyes be witnesse with mine eares,\nTo giue their censure of these rare reports.\nEnter Messenger and Talbot.\nMess. Madame, according as your Ladyship desir'd,\nBy Message crau'd, so is Lord Talbot come\nCount. And he is welcome: what? is this the man?\nMess. Madame, it is\nCount. Is this the Scourge of France?\nIs this the Talbot, so much fear'd abroad?\nThat with his Name the Mothers still their Babes?\nI see Report is fabulous and false.\nI thought I should haue seene some Hercules,\nA second Hector, for his grim aspect,\nAnd large proportion of his strong knit Limbes.\nAlas, this is a Child, a silly Dwarfe:\nIt cannot be, this weake and writhled shrimpe\nShould strike such terror to his Enemies\nTalb. Madame, I haue beene bold to trouble you:\nBut since your Ladyship is not at leysure,\nIle sort some other time to visit you\nCount. What meanes he now?\nGoe aske him, whither he goes?\nMess. Stay my Lord Talbot, for my Lady craues,\nTo know the cause of your abrupt departure?\nTalb. Marry, for that shee's in a wrong beleefe,\nI goe to certifie her Talbot's here.\nEnter Porter with Keyes.\nCount. If thou be he, then art thou Prisoner\nTalb. Prisoner? to whom?\nCount. To me, blood-thirstie Lord:\nAnd for that cause I trayn'd thee to my House.\nLong time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,\nFor in my Gallery thy Picture hangs:\nBut now the substance shall endure the like,\nAnd I will chayne these Legges and Armes of thine,\nThat hast by Tyrannie these many yeeres\nWasted our Countrey, slaine our Citizens,\nAnd sent our Sonnes and Husbands captiuate\nTalb. Ha, ha, ha\nCount. Laughest thou Wretch?\nThy mirth shall turne to moane\nTalb. I laugh to see your Ladyship so fond,\nTo thinke, that you haue ought but Talbots shadow,\nWhereon to practise your seueritie\nCount. Why? art not thou the man?\nTalb. I am indeede\nCount. Then haue I substance too\nTalb. No, no, I am but shadow of my selfe:\nYou are deceiu'd, my substance is not here;\nFor what you see, is but the smallest part,\nAnd least proportion of Humanitie:\nI tell you Madame, were the whole Frame here,\nIt is of such a spacious loftie pitch,\nYour Roofe were not sufficient to contayn't\nCount. This is a Riddling Merchant for the nonce,\nHe will be here, and yet he is not here:\nHow can these contrarieties agree?\nTalb. That will I shew you presently.\nWinds his Horne, Drummes strike vp, a Peale of Ordenance: Enter\nSouldiors.\nHow say you Madame? are you now perswaded,\nThat Talbot is but shadow of himselfe?\nThese are his substance, sinewes, armes, and strength,\nWith which he yoaketh your rebellious Neckes,\nRazeth your Cities, and subuerts your Townes,\nAnd in a moment makes them desolate\nCount. Victorious Talbot, pardon my abuse,\nI finde thou art no lesse then Fame hath bruited,\nAnd more then may be gathered by thy shape.\nLet my presumption not prouoke thy wrath,\nFor I am sorry, that with reuerence\nI did not entertaine thee as thou art\nTalb. Be not dismay'd, faire Lady, nor misconster\nThe minde of Talbot, as you did mistake\nThe outward composition of his body.\nWhat you haue done, hath not offended me:\nNor other satisfaction doe I craue,\nBut onely with your patience, that we may\nTaste of your Wine, and see what Cates you haue,\nFor Souldiers stomacks alwayes serue them well\nCount. With all my heart, and thinke me honored,\nTo feast so great a Warrior in my House.\nExeunt.\nEnter Richard Plantagenet, Warwick, Somerset, Poole, and others.\nYorke. Great Lords and Gentlemen,\nWhat meanes this silence?\nDare no man answer in a Case of Truth?\nSuff. Within the Temple Hall we were too lowd,\nThe Garden here is more conuenient\nYork. Then say at once, if I maintain'd the Truth:\nOr else was wrangling Somerset in th' error?\nSuff. Faith I haue beene a Truant in the Law,\nAnd neuer yet could frame my will to it,\nAnd therefore frame the Law vnto my will\nSom. Iudge you, my Lord of Warwicke, then betweene\nvs\nWar. Between two Hawks, which flyes the higher pitch,\nBetween two Dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,\nBetween two Blades, which beares the better temper,\nBetween two Horses, which doth beare him best,\nBetween two Girles, which hath the merryest eye,\nI haue perhaps some shallow spirit of Iudgement:\nBut in these nice sharpe Quillets of the Law,\nGood faith I am no wiser then a Daw\nYork. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:\nThe truth appeares so naked on my side,\nThat any purblind eye may find it out\nSom. And on my side it is so well apparrell'd,\nSo cleare, so shining, and so euident,\nThat it will glimmer through a blind-mans eye\nYork. Since you are tongue-ty'd, and so loth to speake,\nIn dumbe significants proclayme your thoughts:\nLet him that is a true-borne Gentleman,\nAnd stands vpon the honor of his birth,\nIf he suppose that I haue pleaded truth,\nFrom off this Bryer pluck a white Rose with me\nSom. Let him that is no Coward, nor no Flatterer,\nBut dare maintaine the partie of the truth,\nPluck a red Rose from off this Thorne with me\nWar. I loue no Colours: and without all colour\nOf base insinuating flatterie,\nI pluck this white Rose with Plantagenet\nSuff. I pluck this red Rose, with young Somerset,\nAnd say withall, I thinke he held the right\nVernon. Stay Lords and Gentlemen, and pluck no more\nTill you conclude, that he vpon whose side\nThe fewest Roses are cropt from the Tree,\nShall yeeld the other in the right opinion\nSom. Good Master Vernon, it is well obiected:\nIf I haue fewest, I subscribe in silence\nYork. And I\nVernon. Then for the truth, and plainnesse of the Case,\nI pluck this pale and Maiden Blossome here,\nGiuing my Verdict on the white Rose side\nSom. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,\nLeast bleeding, you doe paint the white Rose red,\nAnd fall on my side so against your will\nVernon. If I, my Lord, for my opinion bleed,\nOpinion shall be Surgeon to my hurt,\nAnd keepe me on the side where still I am\nSom. Well, well, come on, who else?\nLawyer. Vnlesse my Studie and my Bookes be false,\nThe argument you held, was wrong in you;\nIn signe whereof, I pluck a white Rose too\nYorke. Now Somerset, where is your argument?\nSom. Here in my Scabbard, meditating, that\nShall dye your white Rose in a bloody red\nYork. Meane time your cheeks do counterfeit our Roses:\nFor pale they looke with feare, as witnessing\nThe truth on our side\nSom. No Plantagenet:\nTis not for feare, but anger, that thy cheekes\nBlush for pure shame, to counterfeit our Roses,\nAnd yet thy tongue will not confesse thy error\nYorke. Hath not thy Rose a Canker, Somerset?\nSom. Hath not thy Rose a Thorne, Plantagenet?\nYorke. I, sharpe and piercing to maintaine his truth,\nWhiles thy consuming Canker eates his falsehood\nSom. Well, Ile find friends to weare my bleeding Roses,\nThat shall maintaine what I haue said is true,\nWhere false Plantagenet dare not be seene\nYorke. Now by this Maiden Blossome in my hand,\nI scorne thee and thy fashion, peeuish Boy\nSuff. Turne not thy scornes this way, Plantagenet\nYorke. Prowd Poole, I will, and scorne both him and\nthee\nSuff. Ile turne my part thereof into thy throat\nSom. Away, away, good William de la Poole,\nWe grace the Yeoman, by conuersing with him\nWarw. Now by Gods will thou wrong'st him, Somerset:\nHis Grandfather was Lyonel Duke of Clarence,\nThird Sonne to the third Edward King of England:\nSpring Crestlesse Yeomen from so deepe a Root?\nYorke. He beares him on the place's Priuiledge,\nOr durst not for his crauen heart say thus\nSom. By him that made me, Ile maintaine my words\nOn any Plot of Ground in Christendome.\nWas not thy Father, Richard, Earle of Cambridge,\nFor Treason executed in our late Kings dayes?\nAnd by his Treason, stand'st not thou attainted,\nCorrupted, and exempt from ancient Gentry?\nHis Trespas yet liues guiltie in thy blood,\nAnd till thou be restor'd, thou art a Yeoman\nYorke. My Father was attached, not attainted,\nCondemn'd to dye for Treason, but no Traytor;\nAnd that Ile proue on better men then Somerset,\nWere growing time once ripened to my will.\nFor your partaker Poole, and you your selfe,\nIle note you in my Booke of Memorie,\nTo scourge you for this apprehension:\nLooke to it well, and say you are well warn'd\nSom. Ah, thou shalt finde vs ready for thee still:\nAnd know vs by these Colours for thy Foes,\nFor these, my friends in spight of thee shall weare\nYorke. And by my Soule, this pale and angry Rose,\nAs Cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,\nWill I for euer, and my Faction weare,\nVntill it wither with me to my Graue,\nOr flourish to the height of my Degree\nSuff. Goe forward, and be choak'd with thy ambition:\nAnd so farwell, vntill I meet thee next.\nEnter.\nSom. Haue with thee Poole: Farwell ambitious Richard.\nEnter.\nYorke. How I am brau'd, and must perforce endure\nit?\nWarw. This blot that they obiect against your House,\nShall be whipt out in the next Parliament,\nCall'd for the Truce of Winchester and Gloucester:\nAnd if thou be not then created Yorke,\nI will not liue to be accounted Warwicke.\nMeane time, in signall of my loue to thee,\nAgainst prowd Somerset, and William Poole,\nWill I vpon thy partie weare this Rose.\nAnd here I prophecie: this brawle to day,\nGrowne to this faction in the Temple Garden,\nShall send betweene the Red-Rose and the White,\nA thousand Soules to Death and deadly Night\nYorke. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,\nThat you on my behalfe would pluck a Flower\nVer. In your behalfe still will I weare the same\nLawyer. And so will I\nYorke. Thankes gentle.\nCome, let vs foure to Dinner: I dare say,\nThis Quarrell will drinke Blood another day.\nExeunt.\nEnter Mortimer, brought in a Chayre, and Iaylors.\nMort. Kind Keepers of my weake decaying Age,\nLet dying Mortimer here rest himselfe.\nEuen like a man new haled from the Wrack,\nSo fare my Limbes with long Imprisonment:\nAnd these gray Locks, the Pursuiuants of death,\nNestor-like aged, in an Age of Care,\nArgue the end of Edmund Mortimer.\nThese Eyes like Lampes, whose wasting Oyle is spent,\nWaxe dimme, as drawing to their Exigent.\nWeake Shoulders, ouer-borne with burthening Griefe,\nAnd pyth-lesse Armes, like to a withered Vine,\nThat droupes his sappe-lesse Branches to the ground.\nYet are these Feet, whose strength-lesse stay is numme,\n(Vnable to support this Lumpe of Clay)\nSwift-winged with desire to get a Graue,\nAs witting I no other comfort haue.\nBut tell me, Keeper, will my Nephew come?\nKeeper. Richard Plantagenet, my Lord, will come:\nWe sent vnto the Temple, vnto his Chamber,\nAnd answer was return'd, that he will come\nMort. Enough: my Soule shall then be satisfied.\nPoore Gentleman, his wrong doth equall mine.\nSince Henry Monmouth first began to reigne,\nBefore whose Glory I was great in Armes,\nThis loathsome sequestration haue I had;\nAnd euen since then, hath Richard beene obscur'd,\nDepriu'd of Honor and Inheritance.\nBut now, the Arbitrator of Despaires,\nIust Death, kinde Vmpire of mens miseries,\nWith sweet enlargement doth dismisse me hence:\nI would his troubles likewise were expir'd,\nThat so he might recouer what was lost.\nEnter Richard.\nKeeper. My Lord, your louing Nephew now is come\nMor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?\nRich. I, Noble Vnckle, thus ignobly vs'd,\nYour Nephew, late despised Richard, comes\nMort. Direct mine Armes, I may embrace his Neck,\nAnd in his Bosome spend my latter gaspe.\nOh tell me when my Lippes doe touch his Cheekes,\nThat I may kindly giue one fainting Kisse.\nAnd now declare sweet Stem from Yorkes great Stock,\nWhy didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd?\nRich. First, leane thine aged Back against mine Arme,\nAnd in that ease, Ile tell thee my Disease.\nThis day in argument vpon a Case,\nSome words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me:\nAmong which tearmes, he vs'd his lauish tongue,\nAnd did vpbrayd me with my Fathers death;\nWhich obloquie set barres before my tongue,\nElse with the like I had requited him.\nTherefore good Vnckle, for my Fathers sake,\nIn honor of a true Plantagenet,\nAnd for Alliance sake, declare the cause\nMy Father, Earle of Cambridge, lost his Head\nMort. That cause (faire Nephew) that imprison'd me,\nAnd hath detayn'd me all my flowring Youth,\nWithin a loathsome Dungeon, there to pyne,\nWas cursed Instrument of his decease\nRich. Discouer more at large what cause that was,\nFor I am ignorant, and cannot guesse\nMort. I will, if that my fading breath permit,\nAnd Death approach not, ere my Tale be done.\nHenry the Fourth, Grandfather to this King,\nDepos'd his Nephew Richard, Edwards Sonne,\nThe first begotten, and the lawfull Heire\nOf Edward King, the Third of that Descent.\nDuring whose Reigne, the Percies of the North,\nFinding his Vsurpation most vniust,\nEndeuour'd my aduancement to the Throne.\nThe reason mou'd these Warlike Lords to this,\nWas, for that (young Richard thus remou'd,\nLeauing no Heire begotten of his Body)\nI was the next by Birth and Parentage:\nFor by my Mother, I deriued am\nFrom Lionel Duke of Clarence, third Sonne\nTo King Edward the Third; whereas hee,\nFrom Iohn of Gaunt doth bring his Pedigree,\nBeing but fourth of that Heroick Lyne.\nBut marke: as in this haughtie great attempt,\nThey laboured, to plant the rightfull Heire,\nI lost my Libertie, and they their Liues.\nLong after this, when Henry the Fift\n(Succeeding his Father Bullingbrooke) did reigne;\nThy Father, Earle of Cambridge, then deriu'd\nFrom famous Edmund Langley, Duke of Yorke,\nMarrying my Sister, that thy Mother was;\nAgaine, in pitty of my hard distresse,\nLeuied an Army, weening to redeeme,\nAnd haue install'd me in the Diademe:\nBut as the rest, so fell that Noble Earle,\nAnd was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,\nIn whom the Title rested, were supprest\nRich. Of which, my Lord, your Honor is the last\nMort. True; and thou seest, that I no Issue haue,\nAnd that my fainting words doe warrant death:\nThou art my Heire; the rest, I wish thee gather:\nBut yet be wary in thy studious care\nRich. Thy graue admonishments preuayle with me:\nBut yet me thinkes, my Fathers execution\nWas nothing lesse then bloody Tyranny\nMort. With silence, Nephew, be thou pollitick,\nStrong fixed is the House of Lancaster,\nAnd like a Mountaine, not to be remou'd.\nBut now thy Vnckle is remouing hence,\nAs Princes doe their Courts, when they are cloy'd\nWith long continuance in a setled place\nRich. O Vnckle, would some part of my young yeeres\nMight but redeeme the passage of your Age\nMort. Thou do'st then wrong me, as y slaughterer doth,\nWhich giueth many Wounds, when one will kill.\nMourne not, except thou sorrow for my good,\nOnely giue order for my Funerall.\nAnd so farewell, and faire be all thy hopes,\nAnd prosperous be thy Life in Peace and Warre.\nDyes.\nRich. And Peace, no Warre, befall thy parting Soule.\nIn Prison hast thou spent a Pilgrimage,\nAnd like a Hermite ouer-past thy dayes.\nWell, I will locke his Councell in my Brest,\nAnd what I doe imagine, let that rest.\nKeepers conuey him hence, and I my selfe\nWill see his Buryall better then his Life.\nEnter.\nHere dyes the duskie Torch of Mortimer,\nChoakt with Ambition of the meaner sort.\nAnd for those Wrongs, those bitter Iniuries,\nWhich Somerset hath offer'd to my House,\nI doubt not, but with Honor to redresse.\nAnd therefore haste I to the Parliament,\nEyther to be restored to my Blood,\nOr make my will th' aduantage of my good.\nEnter.\nActus Tertius. Scena Prima.\nFlourish. Enter King, Exeter, Gloster, Winchester, Warwick.\nSomerset,\nSuffolk, Richard Plantagenet. Gloster offers to put vp a Bill:\nWinchester\nsnatches it, teares it.\nWinch. Com'st thou with deepe premeditated Lines?\nWith written Pamphlets, studiously deuis'd?\nHumfrey of Gloster, if thou canst accuse,\nOr ought intend'st to lay vnto my charge,\nDoe it without inuention, suddenly,\nAs I with sudden, and extemporall speech,\nPurpose to answer what thou canst obiect\nGlo. Presumptuous Priest, this place co[m]mands my patie[n]ce,\nOr thou should'st finde thou hast dis-honor'd me.\nThinke not, although in Writing I preferr'd\nThe manner of thy vile outragious Crymes,\nThat therefore I haue forg'd, or am not able\nVerbatim to rehearse the Methode of my Penne.\nNo Prelate, such is thy audacious wickednesse,\nThy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious prancks,\nAs very Infants prattle of thy pride.\nThou art a most pernitious Vsurer,\nFroward by nature, Enemie to Peace,\nLasciuious, wanton, more then well beseemes\nA man of thy Profession, and Degree.\nAnd for thy Trecherie, what's more manifest?\nIn that thou layd'st a Trap to take my Life,\nAs well at London Bridge, as at the Tower.\nBeside, I feare me, if thy thoughts were sifted,\nThe King, thy Soueraigne, is not quite exempt\nFrom enuious mallice of thy swelling heart\nWinch. Gloster, I doe defie thee. Lords vouchsafe\nTo giue me hearing what I shall reply.\nIf I were couetous, ambitious, or peruerse,\nAs he will haue me: how am I so poore?\nOr how haps it, I seeke not to aduance\nOr rayse my selfe? but keepe my wonted Calling.\nAnd for Dissention, who preferreth Peace\nMore then I doe? except I be prouok'd.\nNo, my good Lords, it is not that offends,\nIt is not that, that hath incens'd the Duke:\nIt is because no one should sway but hee,\nNo one, but hee, should be about the King;\nAnd that engenders Thunder in his breast,\nAnd makes him rore these Accusations forth.\nBut he shall know I am as good\nGlost. As good?\nThou Bastard of my Grandfather\nWinch. I, Lordly Sir: for what are you, I pray,\nBut one imperious in anothers Throne?\nGlost. Am I not Protector, sawcie Priest?\nWinch. And am not I a Prelate of the Church?\nGlost. Yes, as an Out-law in a Castle keepes,\nAnd vseth it, to patronage his Theft\nWinch. Vnreuerent Glocester\nGlost. Thou art reuerent,\nTouching thy Spirituall Function, not thy Life\nWinch. Rome shall remedie this\nWarw. Roame thither then.\nMy Lord, it were your dutie to forbeare\nSom. I, see the Bishop be not ouer-borne:\nMe thinkes my Lord should be Religious,\nAnd know the Office that belongs to such\nWarw. Me thinkes his Lordship should be humbler,\nIt fitteth not a Prelate so to plead\nSom. Yes, when his holy State is toucht so neere\nWarw. State holy, or vnhallow'd, what of that?\nIs not his Grace Protector to the King?\nRich. Plantagenet I see must hold his tongue,\nLeast it be said, Speake Sirrha when you should:\nMust your bold Verdict enter talke with Lords?\nElse would I haue a fling at Winchester\nKing. Vnckles of Gloster, and of Winchester,\nThe speciall Watch-men of our English Weale,\nI would preuayle, if Prayers might preuayle,\nTo ioyne your hearts in loue and amitie.\nOh, what a Scandall is it to our Crowne,\nThat two such Noble Peeres as ye should iarre?\nBeleeue me, Lords, my tender yeeres can tell,\nCiuill dissention is a viperous Worme,\nThat gnawes the Bowels of the Common-wealth.\nA noyse within, Downe with the Tawny-Coats.\nKing. What tumult's this?\nWarw. An Vprore, I dare warrant,\nBegun through malice of the Bishops men.\nA noyse againe, Stones, Stones.\nEnter Maior.\nMaior. Oh my good Lords, and vertuous Henry,\nPitty the Citie of London, pitty vs:\nThe Bishop, and the Duke of Glosters men,\nForbidden late to carry any Weapon,\nHaue fill'd their Pockets full of peeble stones;\nAnd banding themselues in contrary parts,\nDoe pelt so fast at one anothers Pate,\nThat many haue their giddy braynes knockt out:\nOur Windowes are broke downe in euery Street,\nAnd we, for feare, compell'd to shut our Shops.\nEnter in skirmish with bloody Pates.\nKing. We charge you, on allegeance to our selfe,\nTo hold your slaughtring hands, and keepe the Peace:\nPray' Vnckle Gloster mittigate this strife\n1.Seruing. Nay, if we be forbidden Stones, wee'le fall\nto it with our Teeth\n2.Seruing. Doe what ye dare, we are as resolute.\nSkirmish againe.\nGlost. You of my household, leaue this peeuish broyle,\nAnd set this vnaccustom'd fight aside\n3.Seru. My Lord, we know your Grace to be a man\nIust, and vpright; and for your Royall Birth,\nInferior to none, but to his Maiestie:\nAnd ere that we will suffer such a Prince,\nSo kinde a Father of the Common-weale,\nTo be disgraced by an Inke-horne Mate,\nWee and our Wiues and Children all will fight,\nAnd haue our bodyes slaughtred by thy foes\n1.Seru. I, and the very parings of our Nayles\nShall pitch a Field when we are dead.\nBegin againe.\nGlost. Stay, stay, I say:\nAnd if you loue me, as you say you doe,\nLet me perswade you to forbeare a while\nKing. Oh, how this discord doth afflict my Soule.\nCan you, my Lord of Winchester, behold\nMy sighes and teares, and will not once relent?\nWho should be pittifull, if you be not?\nOr who should study to preferre a Peace,\nIf holy Church-men take delight in broyles?\nWarw. Yeeld my Lord Protector, yeeld Winchester,\nExcept you meane with obstinate repulse\nTo slay your Soueraigne, and destroy the Realme.\nYou see what Mischiefe, and what Murther too,\nHath beene enacted through your enmitie:\nThen be at peace, except ye thirst for blood\nWinch. He shall submit, or I will neuer yeeld\nGlost. Compassion on the King commands me stoupe,\nOr I would see his heart out, ere the Priest\nShould euer get that priuiledge of me\nWarw. Behold my Lord of Winchester, the Duke\nHath banisht moodie discontented fury,\nAs by his smoothed Browes it doth appeare:\nWhy looke you still so sterne, and tragicall?\nGlost. Here Winchester, I offer thee my Hand\nKing. Fie Vnckle Beauford, I haue heard you preach,\nThat Mallice was a great and grieuous sinne:\nAnd will not you maintaine the thing you teach?\nBut proue a chiefe offendor in the same\nWarw. Sweet King: the Bishop hath a kindly gyrd:\nFor shame my Lord of Winchester relent;\nWhat, shall a Child instruct you what to doe?\nWinch. Well, Duke of Gloster, I will yeeld to thee\nLoue for thy Loue, and Hand for Hand I giue\nGlost. I, but I feare me with a hollow Heart.\nSee here my Friends and louing Countreymen,\nThis token serueth for a Flagge of Truce,\nBetwixt our selues, and all our followers:\nSo helpe me God, as I dissemble not\nWinch. So helpe me God, as I intend it not\nKing. Oh louing Vnckle, kinde Duke of Gloster,\nHow ioyfull am I made by this Contract.\nAway my Masters, trouble vs no more,\nBut ioyne in friendship, as your Lords haue done\n1.Seru. Content, Ile to the Surgeons\n2.Seru. And so will I\n3.Seru. And I will see what Physick the Tauerne affords.\nExeunt.\nWarw. Accept this Scrowle, most gracious Soueraigne,\nWhich in the Right of Richard Plantagenet,\nWe doe exhibite to your Maiestie\nGlo. Well vrg'd, my Lord of Warwick: for sweet Prince,\nAnd if your Grace marke euery circumstance,\nYou haue great reason to doe Richard right,\nEspecially for those occasions\nAt Eltam Place I told your Maiestie\nKing. And those occasions, Vnckle, were of force:\nTherefore my louing Lords, our pleasure is,\nThat Richard be restored to his Blood\nWarw. Let Richard be restored to his Blood,\nSo shall his Fathers wrongs be recompenc't\nWinch. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester\nKing. If Richard will be true, not that all alone,\nBut all the whole Inheritance I giue,\nThat doth belong vnto the House of Yorke,\nFrom whence you spring, by Lineall Descent\nRich. Thy humble seruant vowes obedience,\nAnd humble seruice, till the point of death\nKing. Stoope then, and set your Knee against my Foot,\nAnd in reguerdon of that dutie done,\nI gyrt thee with the valiant Sword of Yorke:\nRise Richard, like a true Plantagenet,\nAnd rise created Princely Duke of Yorke\nRich. And so thriue Richard, as thy foes may fall,\nAnd as my dutie springs, so perish they,\nThat grudge one thought against your Maiesty\nAll. Welcome high Prince, the mighty Duke of Yorke\nSom. Perish base Prince, ignoble Duke of Yorke\nGlost. Now will it best auaile your Maiestie,\nTo crosse the Seas, and to be Crown'd in France:\nThe presence of a King engenders loue\nAmongst his Subiects, and his loyall Friends,\nAs it dis-animates his Enemies\nKing. When Gloster sayes the word, King Henry goes,\nFor friendly counsaile cuts off many Foes\nGlost. Your Ships alreadie are in readinesse.\nSenet. Flourish. Exeunt.\nManet Exeter.\nExet. I, we may march in England, or in France,\nNot seeing what is likely to ensue:\nThis late dissention growne betwixt the Peeres,\nBurnes vnder fained ashes of forg'd loue,\nAnd will at last breake out into a flame,\nAs festred members rot but by degree,\nTill bones and flesh and sinewes fall away,\nSo will this base and enuious discord breed.\nAnd now I feare that fatall Prophecie,\nWhich in the time of Henry, nam'd the Fift,\nWas in the mouth of euery sucking Babe,\nThat Henry borne at Monmouth should winne all,\nAnd Henry borne at Windsor, loose all:\nWhich is so plaine, that Exeter doth wish,\nHis dayes may finish, ere that haplesse time.\nEnter.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Pucell disguis'd, with foure Souldiors with Sacks vpon their\nbacks.\nPucell. These are the Citie Gates, the Gates of Roan,\nThrough which our Pollicy must make a breach.\nTake heed, be wary how you place your words,\nTalke like the vulgar sort of Market men,\nThat come to gather Money for their Corne.\nIf we haue entrance, as I hope we shall,\nAnd that we finde the slouthfull Watch but weake,\nIle by a signe giue notice to our friends,\nThat Charles the Dolphin may encounter them\nSouldier. Our Sacks shall be a meane to sack the City,\nAnd we be Lords and Rulers ouer Roan,\nTherefore wee'le knock.\nKnock.\nWatch. Che la\nPucell. Peasauns la pouure gens de Fraunce,\nPoore Market folkes that come to sell their Corne\nWatch. Enter, goe in, the Market Bell is rung\nPucell. Now Roan, Ile shake thy Bulwarkes to the\nground.\nExeunt.\nEnter Charles, Bastard, Alanson.\nCharles. Saint Dennis blesse this happy Stratageme,\nAnd once againe wee'le sleepe secure in Roan\nBastard. Here entred Pucell, and her Practisants:\nNow she is there, how will she specifie?\nHere is the best and safest passage in\nReig. By thrusting out a Torch from yonder Tower,\nWhich once discern'd, shewes that her meaning is,\nNo way to that (for weaknesse) which she entred.\nEnter Pucell on the top, thrusting out a Torch burning.\nPucell. Behold, this is the happy Wedding Torch,\nThat ioyneth Roan vnto her Countreymen,\nBut burning fatall to the Talbonites\nBastard. See Noble Charles the Beacon of our friend,\nThe burning Torch in yonder Turret stands\nCharles. Now shine it like a Commet of Reuenge,\nA Prophet to the fall of all our Foes\nReig. Deferre no time, delayes haue dangerous ends,\nEnter and cry, the Dolphin, presently,\nAnd then doe execution on the Watch.\nAlarum.\nAn Alarum. Talbot in an Excursion.\nTalb. France, thou shalt rue this Treason with thy teares,\nIf Talbot but suruiue thy Trecherie.\nPucell that Witch, that damned Sorceresse,\nHath wrought this Hellish Mischiefe vnawares,\nThat hardly we escap't the Pride of France.\nEnter.\nAn Alarum: Excursions. Bedford brought in sicke in a Chayre.\nEnter Talbot and Burgonie without: within, Pucell, Charles,\nBastard, and\nReigneir on the Walls.\nPucell. God morrow Gallants, want ye Corn for Bread?\nI thinke the Duke of Burgonie will fast,\nBefore hee'le buy againe at such a rate.\n'Twas full of Darnell: doe you like the taste?\nBurg. Scoffe on vile Fiend, and shamelesse Curtizan,\nI trust ere long to choake thee with thine owne,\nAnd make thee curse the Haruest of that Corne\nCharles. Your Grace may starue (perhaps) before that\ntime\nBedf. Oh let no words, but deedes, reuenge this Treason\nPucell. What will you doe, good gray-beard?\nBreake a Launce, and runne a-Tilt at Death,\nWithin a Chayre\nTalb. Foule Fiend of France, and Hag of all despight,\nIncompass'd with thy lustfull Paramours,\nBecomes it thee to taunt his valiant Age,\nAnd twit with Cowardise a man halfe dead?\nDamsell, Ile haue a bowt with you againe,\nOr else let Talbot perish with this shame\nPucell. Are ye so hot, Sir: yet Pucell hold thy peace,\nIf Talbot doe but Thunder, Raine will follow.\nThey whisper together in counsell.\nGod speed the Parliament: who shall be the Speaker?\nTalb. Dare yee come forth, and meet vs in the field?\nPucell. Belike your Lordship takes vs then for fooles,\nTo try if that our owne be ours, or no\nTalb. I speake not to that rayling Hecate,\nBut vnto thee Alanson, and the rest.\nWill ye, like Souldiors, come and fight it out?\nAlans. Seignior no\nTalb. Seignior hang: base Muleters of France,\nLike Pesant foot-Boyes doe they keepe the Walls,\nAnd dare not take vp Armes, like Gentlemen\nPucell. Away Captaines, let's get vs from the Walls,\nFor Talbot meanes no goodnesse by his Lookes.\nGod b'uy my Lord, we came but to tell you\nThat wee are here.\nExeunt. from the Walls.\nTalb. And there will we be too, ere it be long,\nOr else reproach be Talbots greatest fame.\nVow Burgonie, by honor of thy House,\nPrickt on by publike Wrongs sustain'd in France,\nEither to get the Towne againe, or dye.\nAnd I, as sure as English Henry liues,\nAnd as his Father here was Conqueror;\nAs sure as in this late betrayed Towne,\nGreat Cordelions Heart was buryed;\nSo sure I sweare, to get the Towne, or dye\nBurg. My Vowes are equall partners with thy\nVowes\nTalb. But ere we goe, regard this dying Prince,\nThe valiant Duke of Bedford: Come my Lord,\nWe will bestow you in some better place,\nFitter for sicknesse, and for crasie age\nBedf. Lord Talbot, doe not so dishonour me:\nHere will I sit, before the Walls of Roan,\nAnd will be partner of your weale or woe\nBurg. Couragious Bedford, let vs now perswade you\nBedf. Not to be gone from hence: for once I read,\nThat stout Pendragon, in his Litter sick,\nCame to the field, and vanquished his foes.\nMe thinkes I should reuiue the Souldiors hearts,\nBecause I euer found them as my selfe\nTalb. Vndaunted spirit in a dying breast,\nThen be it so: Heauens keepe old Bedford safe.\nAnd now no more adoe, braue Burgonie,\nBut gather we our Forces out of hand,\nAnd set vpon our boasting Enemie.\nEnter.\nAn Alarum: Excursions. Enter Sir Iohn Falstaffe, and a Captaine.\nCapt. Whither away Sir Iohn Falstaffe, in such haste?\nFalst. Whither away? to saue my selfe by flight,\nWe are like to haue the ouerthrow againe\nCapt. What? will you flye, and leaue Lord Talbot?\nFalst. I, all the Talbots in the World, to saue my life.\nEnter.\nCapt. Cowardly Knight, ill fortune follow thee.\nEnter.\nRetreat. Excursions. Pucell, Alanson, and Charles flye.\nBedf. Now quiet Soule, depart when Heauen please,\nFor I haue seene our Enemies ouerthrow.\nWhat is the trust or strength of foolish man?\nThey that of late were daring with their scoffes,\nAre glad and faine by flight to saue themselues.\nBedford dyes, and is carryed in by two in his Chaire.\nAn Alarum. Enter Talbot, Burgonie, and the rest.\nTalb. Lost, and recouered in a day againe,\nThis is a double Honor, Burgonie:\nYet Heauens haue glory for this Victorie\nBurg. Warlike and Martiall Talbot, Burgonie\nInshrines thee in his heart, and there erects\nThy noble Deeds, as Valors Monuments\nTalb. Thanks gentle Duke: but where is Pucel now?\nI thinke her old Familiar is asleepe.\nNow where's the Bastards braues, and Charles his glikes?\nWhat all amort? Roan hangs her head for griefe,\nThat such a valiant Company are fled.\nNow will we take some order in the Towne,\nPlacing therein some expert Officers,\nAnd then depart to Paris, to the King,\nFor there young Henry with his Nobles lye\nBurg. What wills Lord Talbot, pleaseth Burgonie\nTalb. But yet before we goe, let's not forget\nThe Noble Duke of Bedford, late deceas'd,\nBut see his Exequies fulfill'd in Roan.\nA brauer Souldier neuer couched Launce,\nA gentler Heart did neuer sway in Court.\nBut Kings and mightiest Potentates must die,\nFor that's the end of humane miserie.\nExeunt.\nScaena Tertia.\nEnter Charles, Bastard, Alanson, Pucell.\nPucell. Dismay not (Princes) at this accident,\nNor grieue that Roan is so recouered:\nCare is no cure, but rather corrosiue,\nFor things that are not to be remedy'd.\nLet frantike Talbot triumph for a while,\nAnd like a Peacock sweepe along his tayle,\nWee'le pull his Plumes, and take away his Trayne,\nIf Dolphin and the rest will be but rul'd\nCharles. We haue been guided by thee hitherto,\nAnd of thy Cunning had no diffidence,\nOne sudden Foyle shall neuer breed distrust\nBastard. Search out thy wit for secret pollicies,\nAnd we will make thee famous through the World\nAlans. Wee'le set thy Statue in some holy place,\nAnd haue thee reuerenc't like a blessed Saint.\nEmploy thee then, sweet Virgin, for our good\nPucell. Then thus it must be, this doth Ioane deuise:\nBy faire perswasions, mixt with sugred words,\nWe will entice the Duke of Burgonie\nTo leaue the Talbot, and to follow vs\nCharles. I marry Sweeting, if we could doe that,\nFrance were no place for Henryes Warriors,\nNor should that Nation boast it so with vs,\nBut be extirped from our Prouinces\nAlans. For euer should they be expuls'd from France,\nAnd not haue Title of an Earledome here\nPucell. Your Honors shall perceiue how I will worke,\nTo bring this matter to the wished end.\nDrumme sounds a farre off.\nHearke, by the sound of Drumme you may perceiue\nTheir Powers are marching vnto Paris-ward.\nHere sound an English March.\nThere goes the Talbot with his Colours spred,\nAnd all the Troupes of English after him.\nFrench March.\nNow in the Rereward comes the Duke and his:\nFortune in fauor makes him lagge behinde.\nSummon a Parley, we will talke with him.\nTrumpets sound a Parley.\nCharles. A Parley with the Duke of Burgonie\nBurg. Who craues a Parley with the Burgonie?\nPucell. The Princely Charles of France, thy Countreyman\nBurg. What say'st thou Charles? for I am marching\nhence\nCharles. Speake Pucell, and enchaunt him with thy\nwords\nPucell. Braue Burgonie, vndoubted hope of France,\nStay, let thy humble Hand-maid speake to thee\nBurg. Speake on, but be not ouer-tedious\nPucell. Looke on thy Country, look on fertile France,\nAnd see the Cities and the Townes defac't,\nBy wasting Ruine of the cruell Foe,\nAs lookes the Mother on her lowly Babe,\nWhen Death doth close his tender-dying Eyes.\nSee, see the pining Maladie of France:\nBehold the Wounds, the most vnnaturall Wounds,\nWhich thou thy selfe hast giuen her wofull Brest.\nOh turne thy edged Sword another way,\nStrike those that hurt, and hurt not those that helpe:\nOne drop of Blood drawne from thy Countries Bosome,\nShould grieue thee more then streames of forraine gore.\nReturne thee therefore with a floud of Teares,\nAnd wash away thy Countries stayned Spots\nBurg. Either she hath bewitcht me with her words,\nOr Nature makes me suddenly relent\nPucell. Besides, all French and France exclaimes on thee,\nDoubting thy Birth and lawfull Progenie.\nWho ioyn'st thou with, but with a Lordly Nation,\nThat will not trust thee, but for profits sake?\nWhen Talbot hath set footing once in France,\nAnd fashion'd thee that Instrument of Ill,\nWho then, but English Henry, will be Lord,\nAnd thou be thrust out, like a Fugitiue?\nCall we to minde, and marke but this for proofe:\nWas not the Duke of Orleance thy Foe?\nAnd was he not in England Prisoner?\nBut when they heard he was thine Enemie,\nThey set him free, without his Ransome pay'd,\nIn spight of Burgonie and all his friends.\nSee then, thou fight'st against thy Countreymen,\nAnd ioyn'st with them will be thy slaughter-men.\nCome, come, returne; returne thou wandering Lord,\nCharles and the rest will take thee in their armes\nBurg. I am vanquished:\nThese haughtie wordes of hers\nHaue batt'red me like roaring Cannon-shot,\nAnd made me almost yeeld vpon my knees.\nForgiue me Countrey, and sweet Countreymen:\nAnd Lords accept this heartie kind embrace.\nMy Forces and my Power of Men are yours.\nSo farwell Talbot, Ile no longer trust thee\nPucell. Done like a Frenchman: turne and turne againe\nCharles. Welcome braue Duke, thy friendship makes\nvs fresh\nBastard. And doth beget new Courage in our\nBreasts\nAlans. Pucell hath brauely play'd her part in this,\nAnd doth deserue a Coronet of Gold\nCharles. Now let vs on, my Lords,\nAnd ioyne our Powers,\nAnd seeke how we may preiudice the Foe.\nExeunt.\nScoena Quarta.\nEnter the King, Gloucester, Winchester, Yorke, Suffolke,\nSomerset,\nWarwicke, Exeter: To them, with his Souldiors, Talbot.\nTalb. My gracious Prince, and honorable Peeres,\nHearing of your arriuall in this Realme,\nI haue a while giuen Truce vnto my Warres,\nTo doe my dutie to my Soueraigne.\nIn signe whereof, this Arme, that hath reclaym'd\nTo your obedience, fiftie Fortresses,\nTwelue Cities, and seuen walled Townes of strength,\nBeside fiue hundred Prisoners of esteeme;\nLets fall his Sword before your Highnesse feet:\nAnd with submissiue loyaltie of heart\nAscribes the Glory of his Conquest got,\nFirst to my God, and next vnto your Grace\nKing. Is this the Lord Talbot, Vnckle Gloucester,\nThat hath so long beene resident in France?\nGlost. Yes, if it please your Maiestie, my Liege\nKing. Welcome braue Captaine, and victorious Lord.\nWhen I was young (as yet I am not old)\nI doe remember how my Father said,\nA stouter Champion neuer handled Sword.\nLong since we were resolued of your truth,\nYour faithfull seruice, and your toyle in Warre:\nYet neuer haue you tasted our Reward,\nOr beene reguerdon'd with so much as Thanks,\nBecause till now, we neuer saw your face.\nTherefore stand vp, and for these good deserts,\nWe here create you Earle of Shrewsbury,\nAnd in our Coronation take your place.\nSenet. Flourish. Exeunt.\nManet Vernon and Basset.\nVern. Now Sir, to you that were so hot at Sea,\nDisgracing of these Colours that I weare,\nIn honor of my Noble Lord of Yorke\nDar'st thou maintaine the former words thou spak'st?\nBass. Yes Sir, as well as you dare patronage\nThe enuious barking of your sawcie Tongue,\nAgainst my Lord the Duke of Somerset\nVern. Sirrha, thy Lord I honour as he is\nBass. Why, what is he? as good a man as Yorke\nVern. Hearke ye: not so: in witnesse take ye that.\nStrikes him.\nBass. Villaine, thou knowest\nThe Law of Armes is such,\nThat who so drawes a Sword, 'tis present death,\nOr else this Blow should broach thy dearest Bloud.\nBut Ile vnto his Maiestie, and craue,\nI may haue libertie to venge this Wrong,\nWhen thou shalt see, Ile meet thee to thy cost\nVern. Well miscreant, Ile be there as soone as you,\nAnd after meete you, sooner then you would.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus. Scena Prima.\nEnter King, Glocester, Winchester, Yorke, Suffolke, Somerset,\nWarwicke,\nTalbot, and Gouernor Exeter.\nGlo. Lord Bishop set the Crowne vpon his head\nWin. God saue King Henry of that name the sixt\nGlo. Now Gouernour of Paris take your oath,\nThat you elect no other King but him;\nEsteeme none Friends, but such as are his Friends,\nAnd none your Foes, but such as shall pretend\nMalicious practises against his State:\nThis shall ye do, so helpe you righteous God.\nEnter Falstaffe.\nFal. My gracious Soueraigne, as I rode from Calice,\nTo haste vnto your Coronation:\nA Letter was deliuer'd to my hands,\nWrit to your Grace, from th' Duke of Burgundy\nTal. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy, and thee:\nI vow'd (base Knight) when I did meete the next,\nTo teare the Garter from thy Crauens legge,\nWhich I haue done, because (vnworthily)\nThou was't installed in that High Degree.\nPardon me Princely Henry, and the rest:\nThis Dastard, at the battell of Poictiers,\nWhen (but in all) I was sixe thousand strong,\nAnd that the French were almost ten to one,\nBefore we met, or that a stroke was giuen,\nLike to a trustie Squire, did run away.\nIn which assault, we lost twelue hundred men.\nMy selfe, and diuers Gentlemen beside,\nWere there surpriz'd, and taken prisoners.\nThen iudge (great Lords) if I haue done amisse:\nOr whether that such Cowards ought to weare\nThis Ornament of Knighthood, yea or no?\nGlo. To say the truth, this fact was infamous,\nAnd ill beseeming any common man;\nMuch more a Knight, a Captaine, and a Leader\nTal. When first this Order was ordain'd my Lords,\nKnights of the Garter were of Noble birth;\nValiant, and Vertuous, full of haughtie Courage,\nSuch as were growne to credit by the warres:\nNot fearing Death, nor shrinking for Distresse,\nBut alwayes resolute, in most extreames.\nHe then, that is not furnish'd in this sort,\nDoth but vsurpe the Sacred name of Knight,\nProphaning this most Honourable Order,\nAnd should (if I were worthy to be Iudge)\nBe quite degraded, like a Hedge-borne Swaine,\nThat doth presume to boast of Gentle blood\nK. Staine to thy Countrymen, thou hear'st thy doom:\nBe packing therefore, thou that was't a knight:\nHenceforth we banish thee on paine of death.\nAnd now Lord Protector, view the Letter\nSent from our Vnckle Duke of Burgundy\nGlo. What meanes his Grace, that he hath chaung'd\nhis Stile?\nNo more but plaine and bluntly? (To the King.)\nHath he forgot he is his Soueraigne?\nOr doth this churlish Superscription\nPretend some alteration in good will?\nWhat's heere? I haue vpon especiall cause,\nMou'd with compassion of my Countries wracke,\nTogether with the pittifull complaints\nOf such as your oppression feedes vpon,\nForsaken your pernitious Faction,\nAnd ioyn'd with Charles, the rightfull king of France.\nO monstrous Treachery: Can this be so?\nThat in alliance, amity, and oathes,\nThere should be found such false dissembling guile?\nKing. What? doth my Vnckle Burgundy reuolt?\nGlo. He doth my Lord, and is become your foe\nKing. Is that the worst this Letter doth containe?\nGlo. It is the worst, and all (my Lord) he writes\nKing. Why then Lord Talbot there shal talk with him,\nAnd giue him chasticement for this abuse.\nHow say you (my Lord) are you not content?\nTal. Content, my Liege? Yes: But y I am preuented,\nI should haue begg'd I might haue bene employd\nKing. Then gather strength, and march vnto him\nstraight:\nLet him perceiue how ill we brooke his Treason,\nAnd what offence it is to flout his Friends\nTal. I go my Lord, in heart desiring still\nYou may behold confusion of your foes.\nEnter Vernon and Bassit.\nVer. Grant me the Combate, gracious Soueraigne\nBas. And me (my Lord) grant me the Combate too\nYorke. This is my Seruant, heare him Noble Prince\nSom. And this is mine (sweet Henry) fauour him\nKing. Be patient Lords, and giue them leaue to speak.\nSay Gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaime,\nAnd wherefore craue you Combate? Or with whom?\nVer. With him (my Lord) for he hath done me wrong\nBas. And I with him, for he hath done me wrong\nKing. What is that wrong, wherof you both complain\nFirst let me know, and then Ile answer you\nBas. Crossing the Sea, from England into France,\nThis Fellow heere with enuious carping tongue,\nVpbraided me about the Rose I weare,\nSaying, the sanguine colour of the Leaues\nDid represent my Masters blushing cheekes:\nWhen stubbornly he did repugne the truth,\nAbout a certaine question in the Law,\nArgu'd betwixt the Duke of Yorke, and him:\nWith other vile and ignominious tearmes.\nIn confutation of which rude reproach,\nAnd in defence of my Lords worthinesse,\nI craue the benefit of Law of Armes\nVer. And that is my petition (Noble Lord:)\nFor though he seeme with forged queint conceite\nTo set a glosse vpon his bold intent,\nYet know (my Lord) I was prouok'd by him,\nAnd he first tooke exceptions at this badge,\nPronouncing that the palenesse of this Flower,\nBewray'd the faintnesse of my Masters heart\nYorke. Will not this malice Somerset be left?\nSom. Your priuate grudge my Lord of York, wil out,\nThough ne're so cunningly you smother it\nKing. Good Lord, what madnesse rules in brainesicke\nmen,\nWhen for so slight and friuolous a cause,\nSuch factious aemulations shall arise?\nGood Cosins both of Yorke and Somerset,\nQuiet your selues (I pray) and be at peace\nYorke. Let this dissention first be tried by fight,\nAnd then your Highnesse shall command a Peace\nSom. The quarrell toucheth none but vs alone,\nBetwixt our selues let vs decide it then\nYorke. There is my pledge, accept it Somerset\nVer. Nay, let it rest where it began at first\nBass. Confirme it so, mine honourable Lord\nGlo. Confirme it so? Confounded be your strife,\nAnd perish ye with your audacious prate,\nPresumptuous vassals, are you not asham'd\nWith this immodest clamorous outrage,\nTo trouble and disturbe the King, and Vs?\nAnd you my Lords, me thinkes you do not well\nTo beare with their peruerse Obiections:\nMuch lesse to take occasion from their mouthes,\nTo raise a mutiny betwixt your selues.\nLet me perswade you take a better course\nExet. It greeues his Highnesse,\nGood my Lords, be Friends\nKing. Come hither you that would be Combatants:\nHenceforth I charge you, as you loue our fauour,\nQuite to forget this Quarrell, and the cause.\nAnd you my Lords: Remember where we are,\nIn France, amongst a fickle wauering Nation:\nIf they perceyue dissention in our lookes,\nAnd that within our selues we disagree;\nHow will their grudging stomackes be prouok'd\nTo wilfull Disobedience, and Rebell?\nBeside, What infamy will there arise,\nWhen Forraigne Princes shall be certified,\nThat for a toy, a thing of no regard,\nKing Henries Peeres, and cheefe Nobility,\nDestroy'd themselues, and lost the Realme of France?\nOh thinke vpon the Conquest of my Father,\nMy tender yeares, and let vs not forgoe\nThat for a trifle, that was bought with blood.\nLet me be Vmper in this doubtfull strife:\nI see no reason if I weare this Rose,\nThat any one should therefore be suspitious\nI more incline to Somerset, than Yorke:\nBoth are my kinsmen, and I loue them both.\nAs well they may vpbray'd me with my Crowne,\nBecause (forsooth) the King of Scots is Crown'd.\nBut your discretions better can perswade,\nThen I am able to instruct or teach:\nAnd therefore, as we hither came in peace,\nSo let vs still continue peace, and loue.\nCosin of Yorke, we institute your Grace\nTo be our Regent in these parts of France:\nAnd good my Lord of Somerset, vnite\nYour Troopes of horsemen, with his Bands of foote,\nAnd like true Subiects, sonnes of your Progenitors,\nGo cheerefully together, and digest\nYour angry Choller on your Enemies.\nOur Selfe, my Lord Protector, and the rest,\nAfter some respit, will returne to Calice;\nFrom thence to England, where I hope ere long\nTo be presented by your Victories,\nWith Charles, Alanson, and that Traiterous rout.\nExeunt. Manet Yorke, Warwick, Exeter, Vernon.\nWar. My Lord of Yorke, I promise you the King\nPrettily (me thought) did play the Orator\nYorke. And so he did, but yet I like it not,\nIn that he weares the badge of Somerset\nWar. Tush, that was but his fancie, blame him not,\nI dare presume (sweet Prince) he thought no harme\nYork. And if I wish he did. But let it rest,\nOther affayres must now be managed.\nExeunt.\nFlourish. Manet Exeter.\nExet. Well didst thou Richard to suppresse thy voice:\nFor had the passions of thy heart burst out,\nI feare we should haue seene decipher'd there\nMore rancorous spight, more furious raging broyles,\nThen yet can be imagin'd or suppos'd:\nBut howsoere, no simple man that sees\nThis iarring discord of Nobilitie,\nThis shouldering of each other in the Court,\nThis factious bandying of their Fauourites,\nBut that it doth presage some ill euent.\n'Tis much, when Scepters are in Childrens hands:\nBut more, when Enuy breeds vnkinde deuision,\nThere comes the ruine, there begins confusion.\nEnter.\nEnter Talbot with Trumpe and Drumme, before Burdeaux.\nTalb. Go to the Gates of Burdeaux Trumpeter,\nSummon their Generall vnto the Wall.\nSounds.\nEnter Generall aloft.\nEnglish Iohn Talbot (Captaines) call you forth,\nSeruant in Armes to Harry King of England,\nAnd thus he would. Open your Citie Gates,\nBe humble to vs, call my Soueraigne yours,\nAnd do him homage as obedient Subiects,\nAnd Ile withdraw me, and my bloody power.\nBut if you frowne vpon this proffer'd Peace,\nYou tempt the fury of my three attendants,\nLeane Famine, quartering Steele, and climbing Fire,\nWho in a moment, eeuen with the earth,\nShall lay your stately, and ayre-brauing Towers,\nIf you forsake the offer of their loue\nCap. Thou ominous and fearefull Owle of death,\nOur Nations terror, and their bloody scourge,\nThe period of thy Tyranny approacheth,\nOn vs thou canst not enter but by death:\nFor I protest we are well fortified,\nAnd strong enough to issue out and fight.\nIf thou retire, the Dolphin well appointed,\nStands with the snares of Warre to tangle thee.\nOn either hand thee, there are squadrons pitcht,\nTo wall thee from the liberty of Flight;\nAnd no way canst thou turne thee for redresse,\nBut death doth front thee with apparant spoyle,\nAnd pale destruction meets thee in the face:\nTen thousand French haue tane the Sacrament,\nTo ryue their dangerous Artillerie\nVpon no Christian soule but English Talbot:\nLoe, there thou standst a breathing valiant man\nOf an inuincible vnconquer'd spirit:\nThis is the latest Glorie of thy praise,\nThat I thy enemy dew thee withall:\nFor ere the Glasse that now begins to runne,\nFinish the processe of his sandy houre,\nThese eyes that see thee now well coloured,\nShall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead.\nDrum a farre off.\nHarke, harke, the Dolphins drumme, a warning bell,\nSings heauy Musicke to thy timorous soule,\nAnd mine shall ring thy dire departure out.\nExit\nTal. He Fables not, I heare the enemie:\nOut some light Horsemen, and peruse their Wings.\nO negligent and heedlesse Discipline,\nHow are we park'd and bounded in a pale?\nA little Heard of Englands timorous Deere,\nMaz'd with a yelping kennell of French Curres.\nIf we be English Deere, be then in blood,\nNot Rascall-like to fall downe with a pinch,\nBut rather moodie mad: And desperate Stagges,\nTurne on the bloody Hounds with heads of Steele,\nAnd make the Cowards stand aloofe at bay:\nSell euery man his life as deere as mine,\nAnd they shall finde deere Deere of vs my Friends.\nGod, and S[aint]. George, Talbot and Englands right,\nProsper our Colours in this dangerous fight.\nEnter a Messenger that meets Yorke. Enter Yorke with Trumpet,\nand many\nSoldiers.\nYorke. Are not the speedy scouts return'd againe,\nThat dog'd the mighty Army of the Dolphin?\nMess. They are return'd my Lord, and giue it out,\nThat he is march'd to Burdeaux with his power\nTo fight with Talbot as he march'd along.\nBy your espyals were discouered\nTwo mightier Troopes then that the Dolphin led,\nWhich ioyn'd with him, and made their march for Burdeaux\nYorke. A plague vpon that Villaine Somerset,\nThat thus delayes my promised supply\nOf horsemen, that were leuied for this siege.\nRenowned Talbot doth expect my ayde,\nAnd I am lowted by a Traitor Villaine,\nAnd cannot helpe the noble Cheualier:\nGod comfort him in this necessity:\nIf he miscarry, farewell Warres in France.\nEnter another Messenger\n2.Mes. Thou Princely Leader of our English strength,\nNeuer so needfull on the earth of France,\nSpurre to the rescue of the Noble Talbot,\nWho now is girdled with a waste of Iron,\nAnd hem'd about with grim destruction:\nTo Burdeaux warlike Duke, to Burdeaux Yorke,\nElse farwell Talbot, France, and Englands honor\nYorke. O God, that Somerset who in proud heart\nDoth stop my Cornets, were in Talbots place,\nSo should wee saue a valiant Gentleman,\nBy forfeyting a Traitor, and a Coward:\nMad ire, and wrathfull fury makes me weepe,\nThat thus we dye, while remisse Traitors sleepe\nMes. O send some succour to the distrest Lord\nYorke. He dies, we loose: I breake my warlike word:\nWe mourne, France smiles: We loose, they dayly get,\nAll long of this vile Traitor Somerset\nMes. Then God take mercy on braue Talbots soule,\nAnd on his Sonne yong Iohn, who two houres since,\nI met in trauaile toward his warlike Father;\nThis seuen yeeres did not Talbot see his sonne,\nAnd now they meete where both their liues are done\nYorke. Alas, what ioy shall noble Talbot haue,\nTo bid his yong sonne welcome to his Graue:\nAway, vexation almost stoppes my breath,\nThat sundred friends greete in the houre of death.\nLucie farewell, no more my fortune can,\nBut curse the cause I cannot ayde the man.\nMaine, Bloys, Poytiers, and Toures, are wonne away,\nLong all of Somerset, and his delay.\nExit\nMes. Thus while the Vulture of sedition,\nFeedes in the bosome of such great Commanders,\nSleeping neglection doth betray to losse:\nThe Conquest of our scarse-cold Conqueror,\nThat euer-liuing man of Memorie,\nHenrie the fift: Whiles they each other crosse,\nLiues, Honours, Lands, and all, hurrie to losse.\nEnter Somerset with his Armie.\nSom. It is too late, I cannot send them now:\nThis expedition was by Yorke and Talbot,\nToo rashly plotted. All our generall force,\nMight with a sally of the very Towne\nBe buckled with: the ouer-daring Talbot\nHath sullied all his glosse of former Honor\nBy this vnheedfull, desperate, wilde aduenture:\nYorke set him on to fight, and dye in shame,\nThat Talbot dead, great Yorke might beare the name\nCap. Heere is Sir William Lucie, who with me\nSet from our ore-matcht forces forth for ayde\nSom. How now Sir William, whether were you sent?\nLu. Whether my Lord, from bought & sold L[ord]. Talbot,\nWho ring'd about with bold aduersitie,\nCries out for noble Yorke and Somerset,\nTo beate assayling death from his weake Regions,\nAnd whiles the honourable Captaine there\nDrops bloody swet from his warre-wearied limbes,\nAnd in aduantage lingring lookes for rescue,\nYou his false hopes, the trust of Englands honor,\nKeepe off aloofe with worthlesse emulation:\nLet not your priuate discord keepe away\nThe leuied succours that should lend him ayde,\nWhile he renowned Noble Gentleman\nYeeld vp his life vnto a world of oddes.\nOrleance the Bastard, Charles, Burgundie,\nAlanson, Reignard, compasse him about,\nAnd Talbot perisheth by your default\nSom. Yorke set him on, Yorke should haue sent him\nayde\nLuc. And Yorke as fast vpon your Grace exclaimes,\nSwearing that you with-hold his leuied hoast,\nCollected for this expidition\nSom. York lyes: He might haue sent, & had the Horse:\nI owe him little Dutie, and lesse Loue,\nAnd take foule scorne to fawne on him by sending\nLu. The fraud of England, not the force of France,\nHath now intrapt the Noble-minded Talbot:\nNeuer to England shall he beare his life,\nBut dies betraid to fortune by your strife\nSom. Come go, I will dispatch the Horsemen strait:\nWithin sixe houres, they will be at his ayde\nLu. Too late comes rescue, he is tane or slaine,\nFor flye he could not, if he would haue fled:\nAnd flye would Talbot neuer though he might\nSom. If he be dead, braue Talbot then adieu\nLu. His Fame liues in the world. His Shame in you.\nExeunt.\nEnter Talbot and his Sonne.\nTal. O yong Iohn Talbot, I did send for thee\nTo tutor thee in stratagems of Warre,\nThat Talbots name might be in thee reuiu'd,\nWhen saplesse Age, and weake vnable limbes\nShould bring thy Father to his drooping Chaire.\nBut O malignant and ill-boading Starres,\nNow thou art come vnto a Feast of death,\nA terrible and vnauoyded danger:\nTherefore deere Boy, mount on my swiftest horse,\nAnd Ile direct thee how thou shalt escape\nBy sodaine flight. Come, dally not, be gone\nIohn. Is my name Talbot? and am I your Sonne?\nAnd shall I flye? O, if you loue my Mother,\nDishonor not her Honorable Name,\nTo make a Bastard, and a Slaue of me:\nThe World will say, he is not Talbots blood,\nThat basely fled, when Noble Talbot stood\nTalb. Flye, to reuenge my death, if I be slaine\nIohn. He that flyes so, will ne're returne againe\nTalb. If we both stay, we both are sure to dye\nIohn. Then let me stay, and Father doe you flye:\nYour losse is great, so your regard should be;\nMy worth vnknowne, no losse is knowne in me.\nVpon my death, the French can little boast;\nIn yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.\nFlight cannot stayne the Honor you haue wonne,\nBut mine it will, that no Exploit haue done.\nYou fled for Vantage, euery one will sweare:\nBut if I bow, they'le say it was for feare.\nThere is no hope that euer I will stay,\nIf the first howre I shrinke and run away:\nHere on my knee I begge Mortalitie,\nRather then Life, preseru'd with Infamie\nTalb. Shall all thy Mothers hopes lye in one Tombe?\nIohn. I, rather then Ile shame my Mothers Wombe\nTalb. Vpon my Blessing I command thee goe\nIohn. To fight I will, but not to flye the Foe\nTalb. Part of thy Father may be sau'd in thee\nIohn. No part of him, but will be shame in mee\nTalb. Thou neuer hadst Renowne, nor canst not lose it\nIohn. Yes, your renowned Name: shall flight abuse it?\nTalb. Thy Fathers charge shal cleare thee from y staine\nIohn. You cannot witnesse for me, being slaine.\nIf Death be so apparant, then both flye\nTalb. And leaue my followers here to fight and dye?\nMy Age was neuer tainted with such shame\nIohn. And shall my Youth be guiltie of such blame?\nNo more can I be seuered from your side,\nThen can your selfe, your selfe in twaine diuide:\nStay, goe, doe what you will, the like doe I;\nFor liue I will not, if my Father dye\nTalb. Then here I take my leaue of thee, faire Sonne,\nBorne to eclipse thy Life this afternoone:\nCome, side by side, together liue and dye,\nAnd Soule with Soule from France to Heauen flye.\nEnter.\nAlarum: Excursions, wherein Talbots Sonne is hemm'd about, and\nTalbot\nrescues him.\nTalb. Saint George, and Victory; fight Souldiers, fight:\nThe Regent hath with Talbot broke his word,\nAnd left vs to the rage of France his Sword.\nWhere is Iohn Talbot? pawse, and take thy breath,\nI gaue thee Life, and rescu'd thee from Death\nIohn. O twice my Father, twice am I thy Sonne:\nThe Life thou gau'st me first, was lost and done,\nTill with thy Warlike Sword, despight of Fate,\nTo my determin'd time thou gau'st new date\nTalb. When fro[m] the Dolphins Crest thy Sword struck fire,\nIt warm'd thy Fathers heart with prowd desire\nOf bold-fac't Victorie. Then Leaden Age,\nQuicken'd with Youthfull Spleene, and Warlike Rage,\nBeat downe Alanson, Orleance, Burgundie,\nAnd from the Pride of Gallia rescued thee.\nThe irefull Bastard Orleance, that drew blood\nFrom thee my Boy, and had the Maidenhood\nOf thy first fight, I soone encountred,\nAnd interchanging blowes, I quickly shed\nSome of his Bastard blood, and in disgrace\nBespoke him thus: Contaminated, base,\nAnd mis-begotten blood, I spill of thine,\nMeane and right poore, for that pure blood of mine,\nWhich thou didst force from Talbot, my braue Boy.\nHere purposing the Bastard to destroy,\nCame in strong rescue. Speake thy Fathers care:\nArt thou not wearie, Iohn? How do'st thou fare?\nWilt thou yet leaue the Battaile, Boy, and flie,\nNow thou art seal'd the Sonne of Chiualrie?\nFlye, to reuenge my death when I am dead,\nThe helpe of one stands me in little stead.\nOh, too much folly is it, well I wot,\nTo hazard all our liues in one small Boat.\nIf I to day dye not with Frenchmens Rage,\nTo morrow I shall dye with mickle Age.\nBy me they nothing gaine, and if I stay,\n'Tis but the shortning of my Life one day.\nIn thee thy Mother dyes, our Households Name,\nMy Deaths Reuenge, thy Youth, and Englands Fame:\nAll these, and more, we hazard by thy stay;\nAll these are sau'd, if thou wilt flye away\nIohn. The Sword of Orleance hath not made me smart,\nThese words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart.\nOn that aduantage, bought with such a shame,\nTo saue a paltry Life, and slay bright Fame,\nBefore young Talbot from old Talbot flye,\nThe Coward Horse that beares me, fall and dye:\nAnd like me to the pesant Boyes of France,\nTo be Shames scorne, and subiect of Mischance.\nSurely, by all the Glorie you haue wonne,\nAnd if I flye, I am not Talbots Sonne.\nThen talke no more of flight, it is no boot,\nIf Sonne to Talbot, dye at Talbots foot\nTalb. Then follow thou thy desp'rate Syre of Creet,\nThou Icarus, thy Life to me is sweet:\nIf thou wilt fight, fight by thy Fathers side,\nAnd commendable prou'd, let's dye in pride.\nEnter.\nAlarum. Excursions. Enter old Talbot led.\nTalb. Where is my other Life? mine owne is gone.\nO, where's young Talbot? where is valiant Iohn?\nTriumphant Death, smear'd with Captiuitie,\nYoung Talbots Valour makes me smile at thee.\nWhen he perceiu'd me shrinke, and on my Knee,\nHis bloodie Sword he brandisht ouer mee,\nAnd like a hungry Lyon did commence\nRough deeds of Rage, and sterne Impatience:\nBut when my angry Guardant stood alone,\nTendring my ruine, and assayl'd of none,\nDizzie-ey'd Furie, and great rage of Heart,\nSuddenly made him from my side to start\nInto the clustring Battaile of the French:\nAnd in that Sea of Blood, my Boy did drench\nHis ouer-mounting Spirit; and there di'de\nMy Icarus, my Blossome, in his pride.\nEnter with Iohn Talbot, borne.\nSeru. O my deare Lord, loe where your Sonne is borne\nTal. Thou antique Death, which laugh'st vs here to scorn,\nAnon from thy insulting Tyrannie,\nCoupled in bonds of perpetuitie,\nTwo Talbots winged through the lither Skie,\nIn thy despight shall scape Mortalitie.\nO thou whose wounds become hard fauoured death,\nSpeake to thy father, ere thou yeeld thy breath,\nBraue death by speaking, whither he will or no:\nImagine him a Frenchman, and thy Foe.\nPoore Boy, he smiles, me thinkes, as who should say,\nHad Death bene French, then Death had dyed to day.\nCome, come, and lay him in his Fathers armes,\nMy spirit can no longer beare these harmes.\nSouldiers adieu: I haue what I would haue,\nNow my old armes are yong Iohn Talbots graue.\nDyes\nEnter Charles, Alanson, Burgundie, Bastard, and Pucell.\nChar. Had Yorke and Somerset brought rescue in,\nWe should haue found a bloody day of this\nBast. How the yong whelpe of Talbots raging wood,\nDid flesh his punie-sword in Frenchmens blood\nPuc. Once I encountred him, and thus I said:\nThou Maiden youth, be vanquisht by a Maide.\nBut with a proud Maiesticall high scorne\nHe answer'd thus: Yong Talbot was not borne\nTo be the pillage of a Giglot Wench:\nSo rushing in the bowels of the French,\nHe left me proudly, as vnworthy fight\nBur. Doubtlesse he would haue made a noble Knight:\nSee where he lyes inherced in the armes\nOf the most bloody Nursser of his harmes\nBast. Hew them to peeces, hack their bones assunder,\nWhose life was Englands glory, Gallia's wonder\nChar. Oh no forbeare: For that which we haue fled\nDuring the life, let vs not wrong it dead.\nEnter Lucie.\nLu. Herald, conduct me to the Dolphins Tent,\nTo know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day\nChar. On what submissiue message art thou sent?\nLucy. Submission Dolphin? Tis a meere French word:\nWe English Warriours wot not what it meanes.\nI come to know what Prisoners thou hast tane,\nAnd to suruey the bodies of the dead\nChar. For prisoners askst thou? Hell our prison is.\nBut tell me whom thou seek'st?\nLuc. But where's the great Alcides of the field,\nValiant Lord Talbot Earle of Shrewsbury?\nCreated for his rare successe in Armes,\nGreat Earle of Washford, Waterford, and Valence,\nLord Talbot of Goodrig and Vrchinfield,\nLord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdon of Alton,\nLord Cromwell of Wingefield, Lord Furniuall of Sheffeild,\nThe thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge,\nKnight of the Noble Order of S[aint]. George,\nWorthy S[aint]. Michael, and the Golden Fleece,\nGreat Marshall to Henry the sixt,\nOf all his Warres within the Realme of France\nPuc. Heere's a silly stately stile indeede:\nThe Turke that two and fiftie Kingdomes hath,\nWrites not so tedious a Stile as this.\nHim that thou magnifi'st with all these Titles,\nStinking and fly-blowne lyes heere at our feete\nLucy. Is Talbot slaine, the Frenchmens only Scourge,\nYour Kingdomes terror, and blacke Nemesis?\nOh were mine eye-balles into Bullets turn'd,\nThat I in rage might shoot them at your faces.\nOh, that I could but call these dead to life,\nIt were enough to fright the Realme of France.\nWere but his Picture left amongst you here,\nIt would amaze the prowdest of you all.\nGiue me their Bodyes, that I may beare them hence,\nAnd giue them Buriall, as beseemes their worth\nPucel. I thinke this vpstart is old Talbots Ghost,\nHe speakes with such a proud commanding spirit:\nFor Gods sake let him haue him, to keepe them here,\nThey would but stinke, and putrifie the ayre\nChar. Go take their bodies hence\nLucy. Ile beare them hence: but from their ashes shal\nbe reard\nA Phoenix that shall make all France affear'd\nChar. So we be rid of them, do with him what y wilt.\nAnd now to Paris in this conquering vaine,\nAll will be ours, now bloody Talbots slaine.\nEnter.\nScena secunda.\nSENNET.\nEnter King, Glocester, and Exeter.\nKing. Haue you perus'd the Letters from the Pope,\nThe Emperor, and the Earle of Arminack?\nGlo. I haue my Lord, and their intent is this,\nThey humbly sue vnto your Excellence,\nTo haue a godly peace concluded of,\nBetweene the Realmes of England, and of France\nKing. How doth your Grace affect their motion?\nGlo. Well (my good Lord) and as the only meanes\nTo stop effusion of our Christian blood,\nAnd stablish quietnesse on euery side\nKing. I marry Vnckle, for I alwayes thought\nIt was both impious and vnnaturall,\nThat such immanity and bloody strife\nShould reigne among Professors of one Faith\nGlo. Beside my Lord, the sooner to effect,\nAnd surer binde this knot of amitie,\nThe Earle of Arminacke neere knit to Charles,\nA man of great Authoritie in France,\nProffers his onely daughter to your Grace,\nIn marriage, with a large and sumptuous Dowrie\nKing. Marriage Vnckle? Alas my yeares are yong:\nAnd fitter is my studie, and my Bookes,\nThen wanton dalliance with a Paramour.\nYet call th' Embassadors, and as you please,\nSo let them haue their answeres euery one:\nI shall be well content with any choyce\nTends to Gods glory, and my Countries weale.\nEnter Winchester, and three Ambassadors.\nExet. What, is my Lord of Winchester install'd,\nAnd call'd vnto a Cardinalls degree?\nThen I perceiue, that will be verified\nHenry the Fift did sometime prophesie.\nIf once he come to be a Cardinall,\nHee'l make his cap coequall with the Crowne\nKing. My Lords Ambassadors, your seuerall suites\nHaue bin consider'd and debated on,\nYour purpose is both good and reasonable:\nAnd therefore are we certainly resolu'd,\nTo draw conditions of a friendly peace,\nWhich by my Lord of Winchester we meane\nShall be transported presently to France\nGlo. And for the proffer of my Lord your Master,\nI haue inform'd his Highnesse so at large,\nAs liking of the Ladies vertuous gifts,\nHer Beauty, and the valew of her Dower,\nHe doth intend she shall be Englands Queene\nKing. In argument and proofe of which contract,\nBeare her this Iewell, pledge of my affection.\nAnd so my Lord Protector see them guarded,\nAnd safely brought to Douer, wherein ship'd\nCommit them to the fortune of the sea.\nExeunt.\nWin. Stay my Lord Legate, you shall first receiue\nThe summe of money which I promised\nShould be deliuered to his Holinesse,\nFor cloathing me in these graue Ornaments\nLegat. I will attend vpon your Lordships leysure\nWin. Now Winchester will not submit, I trow,\nOr be inferiour to the proudest Peere;\nHumfrey of Gloster, thou shalt well perceiue,\nThat neither in birth, or for authoritie,\nThe Bishop will be ouer-borne by thee:\nIle either make thee stoope, and bend thy knee,\nOr sacke this Country with a mutiny.\nExeunt.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter Charles, Burgundy, Alanson, Bastard, Reignier, and Ione.\nChar. These newes (my Lords) may cheere our drooping\nspirits:\n'Tis said, the stout Parisians do reuolt,\nAnd turne againe vnto the warlike French\nAlan. Then march to Paris Royall Charles of France,\nAnd keepe not backe your powers in dalliance\nPucel. Peace be amongst them if they turne to vs,\nElse ruine combate with their Pallaces.\nEnter Scout.\nScout. Successe vnto our valiant Generall,\nAnd happinesse to his accomplices\nChar. What tidings send our Scouts? I prethee speak\nScout. The English Army that diuided was\nInto two parties, is now conioyn'd in one,\nAnd meanes to giue you battell presently\nChar. Somewhat too sodaine Sirs, the warning is,\nBut we will presently prouide for them\nBur. I trust the Ghost of Talbot is not there:\nNow he is gone my Lord, you neede not feare\nPucel. Of all base passions, Feare is most accurst.\nCommand the Conquest Charles, it shall be thine:\nLet Henry fret, and all the world repine\nChar. Then on my Lords, and France be fortunate.\nExeunt. Alarum. Excursions.\nEnter Ione de Pucell.\nPuc. The Regent conquers, and the Frenchmen flye.\nNow helpe ye charming Spelles and Periapts,\nAnd ye choise spirits that admonish me,\nAnd giue me signes of future accidents.\nThunder.\nYou speedy helpers, that are substitutes\nVnder the Lordly Monarch of the North,\nAppeare, and ayde me in this enterprize.\nEnter Fiends.\nThis speedy and quicke appearance argues proofe\nOf your accustom'd diligence to me.\nNow ye Familiar Spirits, that are cull'd\nOut of the powerfull Regions vnder earth,\nHelpe me this once, that France may get the field.\nThey walke, and speake not.\nOh hold me not with silence ouer-long:\nWhere I was wont to feed you with my blood,\nIle lop a member off, and giue it you,\nIn earnest of a further benefit:\nSo you do condiscend to helpe me now.\nThey hang their heads.\nNo hope to haue redresse? My body shall\nPay recompence, if you will graunt my suite.\nThey shake their heads.\nCannot my body, nor blood-sacrifice,\nIntreate you to your wonted furtherance?\nThen take my soule; my body, soule, and all,\nBefore that England giue the French the foyle.\nThey depart.\nSee, they forsake me. Now the time is come,\nThat France must vale her lofty plumed Crest,\nAnd let her head fall into Englands lappe.\nMy ancient Incantations are too weake,\nAnd hell too strong for me to buckle with:\nNow France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.\nEnter.\nExcursions. Burgundie and Yorke fight hand to hand. French flye.\nYorke. Damsell of France, I thinke I haue you fast,\nVnchaine your spirits now with spelling Charmes,\nAnd try if they can gaine your liberty.\nA goodly prize, fit for the diuels grace.\nSee how the vgly Witch doth bend her browes,\nAs if with Circe, she would change my shape\nPuc. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be:\nYor. Oh, Charles the Dolphin is a proper man,\nNo shape but his can please your dainty eye\nPuc. A plaguing mischeefe light on Charles, and thee,\nAnd may ye both be sodainly surpriz'd\nBy bloudy hands, in sleeping on your beds\nYorke. Fell banning Hagge, Inchantresse hold thy\ntongue\nPuc. I prethee giue me leaue to curse awhile\nYorke. Curse Miscreant, when thou comst to the stake\nExeunt.\nAlarum. Enter Suffolke with Margaret in his hand.\nSuff. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.\nGazes on her.\nOh Fairest Beautie, do not feare, nor flye:\nFor I will touch thee but with reuerend hands,\nI kisse these fingers for eternall peace,\nAnd lay them gently on thy tender side.\nWho art thou, say? that I may honor thee\nMar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a King,\nThe King of Naples, who so ere thou art\nSuff. An Earle I am, and Suffolke am I call'd.\nBe not offended Natures myracle,\nThou art alotted to be tane by me:\nSo doth the Swan her downie Signets saue,\nKeeping them prisoner vnderneath his wings:\nYet if this seruile vsage once offend,\nGo, and be free againe, as Suffolkes friend.\nShe is going\nOh stay: I haue no power to let her passe,\nMy hand would free her, but my heart sayes no.\nAs playes the Sunne vpon the glassie streames,\nTwinkling another counterfetted beame,\nSo seemes this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.\nFaine would I woe her, yet I dare not speake:\nIle call for Pen and Inke, and write my minde:\nFye De la Pole, disable not thy selfe:\nHast not a Tongue? Is she not heere?\nWilt thou be daunted at a Womans sight?\nI: Beauties Princely Maiesty is such,\n'Confounds the tongue, and makes the senses rough\nMar. Say Earle of Suffolke, if thy name be so,\nWhat ransome must I pay before I passe?\nFor I perceiue I am thy prisoner\nSuf. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suite,\nBefore thou make a triall of her loue?\nM. Why speak'st thou not? What ransom must I pay?\nSuf. She's beautifull; and therefore to be Wooed:\nShe is a Woman; therefore to be Wonne\nMar, Wilt thou accept of ransome, yea or no?\nSuf. Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife,\nThen how can Margaret be thy Paramour?\nMar. I were best to leaue him, for he will not heare\nSuf. There all is marr'd: there lies a cooling card\nMar. He talkes at randon: sure the man is mad\nSuf. And yet a dispensation may bee had\nMar. And yet I would that you would answer me\nSuf. Ile win this Lady Margaret. For whom?\nWhy for my King: Tush, that's a woodden thing\nMar. He talkes of wood: It is some Carpenter\nSuf. Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,\nAnd peace established betweene these Realmes.\nBut there remaines a scruple in that too:\nFor though her Father be the King of Naples,\nDuke of Aniou and Mayne, yet is he poore,\nAnd our Nobility will scorne the match\nMar. Heare ye Captaine? Are you not at leysure?\nSuf. It shall be so, disdaine they ne're so much:\nHenry is youthfull, and will quickly yeeld.\nMadam, I haue a secret to reueale\nMar. What though I be inthral'd, he seems a knight\nAnd will not any way dishonor me\nSuf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say\nMar. Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French,\nAnd then I need not craue his curtesie\nSuf. Sweet Madam, giue me hearing in a cause\nMar. Tush, women haue bene captiuate ere now\nSuf. Lady, wherefore talke you so?\nMar. I cry you mercy, 'tis but Quid for Quo\nSuf. Say gentle Princesse, would you not suppose\nYour bondage happy, to be made a Queene?\nMar. To be a Queene in bondage, is more vile,\nThan is a slaue, in base seruility:\nFor Princes should be free\nSuf. And so shall you,\nIf happy Englands Royall King be free\nMar. Why what concernes his freedome vnto mee?\nSuf. Ile vndertake to make thee Henries Queene,\nTo put a Golden Scepter in thy hand,\nAnd set a precious Crowne vpon thy head,\nIf thou wilt condiscend to be my-\nMar. What?\nSuf. His loue\nMar. I am vnworthy to be Henries wife\nSuf. No gentle Madam, I vnworthy am\nTo woe so faire a Dame to be his wife,\nAnd haue no portion in the choice my selfe.\nHow say you Madam, are ye so content?\nMar. And if my Father please, I am content\nSuf. Then call our Captaines and our Colours forth,\nAnd Madam, at your Fathers Castle walles,\nWee'l craue a parley, to conferre with him.\nSound. Enter Reignier on the Walles.\nSee Reignier see, thy daughter prisoner\nReig. To whom?\nSuf. To me\nReig. Suffolke, what remedy?\nI am a Souldier, and vnapt to weepe,\nOr to exclaime on Fortunes ficklenesse\nSuf. Yes, there is remedy enough my Lord,\nConsent, and for thy Honor giue consent,\nThy daughter shall be wedded to my King,\nWhom I with paine haue wooed and wonne thereto:\nAnd this her easie held imprisonment,\nHath gain'd thy daughter Princely libertie\nReig. Speakes Suffolke as he thinkes?\nSuf. Faire Margaret knowes,\nThat Suffolke doth not flatter, face, or faine\nReig. Vpon thy Princely warrant, I descend,\nTo giue thee answer of thy iust demand\nSuf. And heere I will expect thy comming.\nTrumpets sound. Enter Reignier.\nReig. Welcome braue Earle into our Territories,\nCommand in Aniou what your Honor pleases\nSuf. Thankes Reignier, happy for so sweet a Childe,\nFit to be made companion with a King:\nWhat answer makes your Grace vnto my suite?\nReig. Since thou dost daigne to woe her little worth,\nTo be the Princely Bride of such a Lord:\nVpon condition I may quietly\nEnioy mine owne, the Country Maine and Aniou,\nFree from oppression, or the stroke of Warre,\nMy daughter shall be Henries, if he please\nSuf. That is her ransome, I deliuer her,\nAnd those two Counties I will vndertake\nYour Grace shall well and quietly enioy\nReig. And I againe in Henries Royall name,\nAs Deputy vnto that gracious King,\nGiue thee her hand for signe of plighted faith\nSuf. Reignier of France, I giue thee Kingly thankes,\nBecause this is in Trafficke of a King.\nAnd yet me thinkes I could be well content\nTo be mine owne Atturney in this case.\nIle ouer then to England with this newes.\nAnd make this marriage to be solemniz'd:\nSo farewell Reignier, set this Diamond safe\nIn Golden Pallaces as it becomes\nReig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace\nThe Christian Prince King Henrie were he heere\nMar. Farewell my Lord, good wishes, praise, & praiers,\nShall Suffolke euer haue of Margaret.\nShee is going.\nSuf. Farwell sweet Madam: but hearke you Margaret,\nNo Princely commendations to my King?\nMar. Such commendations as becomes a Maide,\nA Virgin, and his Seruant, say to him\nSuf. Words sweetly plac'd, and modestie directed,\nBut Madame, I must trouble you againe,\nNo louing Token to his Maiestie?\nMar. Yes, my good Lord, a pure vnspotted heart,\nNeuer yet taint with loue, I send the King\nSuf. And this withall.\nKisse her.\nMar. That for thy selfe, I will not so presume,\nTo send such peeuish tokens to a King\nSuf. Oh wert thou for my selfe: but Suffolke stay,\nThou mayest not wander in that Labyrinth,\nThere Minotaurs and vgly Treasons lurke,\nSolicite Henry with her wonderous praise.\nBethinke thee on her Vertues that surmount,\nMad naturall Graces that extinguish Art,\nRepeate their semblance often on the Seas,\nThat when thou com'st to kneele at Henries feete,\nThou mayest bereaue him of his wits with wonder.\nExit\nEnter Yorke, Warwicke, Shepheard, Pucell.\nYor. Bring forth that Sorceresse condemn'd to burne\nShep. Ah Ione, this kils thy Fathers heart out-right,\nHaue I sought euery Country farre and neere,\nAnd now it is my chance to finde thee out,\nMust I behold thy timelesse cruell death:\nAh Ione, sweet daughter Ione, Ile die with thee\nPucel. Decrepit Miser, base ignoble Wretch,\nI am am descended of a gentler blood.\nThou art no Father, nor no Friend of mine\nShep. Out, out: My Lords, and please you, 'tis not so\nI did beget her, all the Parish knowes:\nHer Mother liueth yet, can testifie\nShe was the first fruite of my Bach'ler-ship\nWar. Gracelesse, wilt thou deny thy Parentage?\nYorke. This argues what her kinde of life hath beene,\nWicked and vile, and so her death concludes\nShep. Fye Ione, that thou wilt be so obstacle:\nGod knowes, thou art a collop of my flesh,\nAnd for thy sake haue I shed many a teare:\nDeny me not, I prythee, gentle Ione\nPucell. Pezant auant. You haue suborn'd this man\nOf purpose, to obscure my Noble birth\nShep. 'Tis true, I gaue a Noble to the Priest,\nThe morne that I was wedded to her mother.\nKneele downe and take my blessing, good my Gyrle.\nWilt thou not stoope? Now cursed be the time\nOf thy natiuitie: I would the Milke\nThy mother gaue thee when thou suck'st her brest,\nHad bin a little Rats-bane for thy sake.\nOr else, when thou didst keepe my Lambes a-field,\nI wish some rauenous Wolfe had eaten thee.\nDoest thou deny thy Father, cursed Drab?\nO burne her, burne her, hanging is too good.\nEnter.\nYorke. Take her away, for she hath liu'd too long,\nTo fill the world with vicious qualities\nPuc. First let me tell you whom you haue condemn'd;\nNot me, begotten of a Shepheard Swaine,\nBut issued from the Progeny of Kings.\nVertuous and Holy, chosen from aboue,\nBy inspiration of Celestiall Grace,\nTo worke exceeding myracles on earth.\nI neuer had to do with wicked Spirits.\nBut you that are polluted with your lustes,\nStain'd with the guiltlesse blood of Innocents,\nCorrupt and tainted with a thousand Vices:\nBecause you want the grace that others haue,\nYou iudge it straight a thing impossible\nTo compasse Wonders, but by helpe of diuels.\nNo misconceyued, Ione of Aire hath beene\nA Virgin from her tender infancie,\nChaste, and immaculate in very thought,\nWhose Maiden-blood thus rigorously effus'd,\nWill cry for Vengeance, at the Gates of Heauen\nYorke. I, I: away with her to execution\nWar. And hearke ye sirs: because she is a Maide,\nSpare for no Faggots, let there be enow:\nPlace barrelles of pitch vpon the fatall stake,\nThat so her torture may be shortned\nPuc. Will nothing turne your vnrelenting hearts?\nThen Ione discouer thine infirmity,\nThat warranteth by Law, to be thy priuiledge.\nI am with childe ye bloody Homicides:\nMurther not then the Fruite within my Wombe,\nAlthough ye hale me to a violent death\nYor. Now heauen forfend, the holy Maid with child?\nWar. The greatest miracle that ere ye wrought.\nIs all your strict precisenesse come to this?\nYorke. She and the Dolphin haue bin iugling,\nI did imagine what would be her refuge\nWar. Well go too, we'll haue no Bastards liue,\nEspecially since Charles must Father it\nPuc. You are deceyu'd, my childe is none of his,\nIt was Alanson that inioy'd my loue\nYorke. Alanson that notorious Macheuile?\nIt dyes, and if it had a thousand liues\nPuc. Oh giue me leaue, I haue deluded you,\n'Twas neyther Charles, nor yet the Duke I nam'd,\nBut Reignier King of Naples that preuayl'd\nWar. A married man, that's most intollerable\nYor. Why here's a Gyrle: I think she knowes not wel\n(There were so many) whom she may accuse\nWar. It's signe she hath beene liberall and free\nYor. And yet forsooth she is a Virgin pure.\nStrumpet, thy words condemne thy Brat, and thee.\nVse no intreaty, for it is in vaine\nPu. Then lead me hence: with whom I leaue my curse.\nMay neuer glorious Sunne reflex his beames\nVpon the Countrey where you make abode:\nBut darknesse, and the gloomy shade of death\nInuiron you, till Mischeefe and Dispaire,\nDriue you to break your necks, or hang your selues.\nExit\nEnter Cardinall.\nYorke. Breake thou in peeces, and consume to ashes,\nThou fowle accursed minister of Hell\nCar. Lord Regent, I do greete your Excellence\nWith Letters of Commission from the King.\nFor know my Lords, the States of Christendome,\nMou'd with remorse of these out-ragious broyles,\nHaue earnestly implor'd a generall peace,\nBetwixt our Nation, and the aspyring French;\nAnd heere at hand, the Dolphin and his Traine\nApproacheth, to conferre about some matter\nYorke. Is all our trauell turn'd to this effect,\nAfter the slaughter of so many Peeres,\nSo many Captaines, Gentlemen, and Soldiers,\nThat in this quarrell haue beene ouerthrowne,\nAnd sold their bodyes for their Countryes benefit,\nShall we at last conclude effeminate peace?\nHaue we not lost most part of all the Townes,\nBy Treason, Falshood, and by Treacherie,\nOur great Progenitors had conquered:\nOh Warwicke, Warwicke, I foresee with greefe\nThe vtter losse of all the Realme of France\nWar. Be patient Yorke, if we conclude a Peace\nIt shall be with such strict and seuere Couenants,\nAs little shall the Frenchmen gaine thereby.\nEnter Charles, Alanson, Bastard, Reignier.\nChar. Since Lords of England, it is thus agreed,\nThat peacefull truce shall be proclaim'd in France,\nWe come to be informed by your selues,\nWhat the conditions of that league must be\nYorke. Speake Winchester, for boyling choller chokes\nThe hollow passage of my poyson'd voyce,\nBy sight of these our balefull enemies\nWin. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:\nThat in regard King Henry giues consent,\nOf meere compassion, and of lenity,\nTo ease your Countrie of distressefull Warre,\nAnd suffer you to breath in fruitfull peace,\nYou shall become true Liegemen to his Crowne.\nAnd Charles, vpon condition thou wilt sweare\nTo pay him tribute, and submit thy selfe,\nThou shalt be plac'd as Viceroy vnder him,\nAnd still enioy thy Regall dignity\nAlan. Must he be then as shadow of himselfe?\nAdorne his Temples with a Coronet,\nAnd yet in substance and authority,\nRetaine but priuiledge of a priuate man?\nThis proffer is absurd, and reasonlesse\nChar. 'Tis knowne already that I am possest\nWith more then halfe the Gallian Territories,\nAnd therein reuerenc'd for their lawfull King.\nShall I for lucre of the rest vn-vanquisht,\nDetract so much from that prerogatiue,\nAs to be call'd but Viceroy of the whole?\nNo Lord Ambassador, Ile rather keepe\nThat which I haue, than coueting for more\nBe cast from possibility of all\nYorke. Insulting Charles, hast thou by secret meanes\nVs'd intercession to obtaine a league,\nAnd now the matter growes to compremize,\nStand'st thou aloofe vpon Comparison.\nEither accept the Title thou vsurp'st,\nOf benefit proceeding from our King,\nAnd not of any challenge of Desert,\nOr we will plague thee with incessant Warres\nReig. My Lord, you do not well in obstinacy,\nTo cauill in the course of this Contract:\nIf once it be neglected, ten to one\nWe shall not finde like opportunity\nAlan. To say the truth, it is your policie,\nTo saue your Subiects from such massacre\nAnd ruthlesse slaughters as are dayly seene\nBy our proceeding in Hostility,\nAnd therefore take this compact of a Truce,\nAlthough you breake it, when your pleasure serues\nWar. How sayst thou Charles?\nShall our Condition stand?\nChar. It Shall:\nOnely reseru'd, you claime no interest\nIn any of our Townes of Garrison\nYor. Then sweare Allegeance to his Maiesty,\nAs thou art Knight, neuer to disobey,\nNor be Rebellious to the Crowne of England,\nThou nor thy Nobles, to the Crowne of England.\nSo, now dismisse your Army when ye please:\nHang vp your Ensignes, let your Drummes be still,\nFor heere we entertaine a solemne peace.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus.\nEnter Suffolke in conference with the King, Glocester, and Exeter.\nKing. Your wondrous rare description (noble Earle)\nOf beauteous Margaret hath astonish'd me:\nHer vertues graced with externall gifts,\nDo breed Loues setled passions in my heart,\nAnd like as rigour of tempestuous gustes\nProuokes the mightiest Hulke against the tide,\nSo am I driuen by breath of her Renowne,\nEither to suffer Shipwracke, or arriue\nWhere I may haue fruition of her Loue\nSuf. Tush my good Lord, this superficiall tale,\nIs but a preface of her worthy praise:\nThe cheefe perfections of that louely Dame,\n(Had I sufficient skill to vtter them)\nWould make a volume of inticing lines,\nAble to rauish any dull conceit.\nAnd which is more, she is not so Diuine,\nSo full repleate with choice of all delights,\nBut with as humble lowlinesse of minde,\nShe is content to be at your command:\nCommand I meane, of Vertuous chaste intents,\nTo Loue, and Honor Henry as her Lord\nKing. And otherwise, will Henry ne're presume:\nTherefore my Lord Protector, giue consent,\nThat Marg'ret may be Englands Royall Queene\nGlo. So should I giue consent to flatter sinne,\nYou know (my Lord) your Highnesse is betroath'd\nVnto another Lady of esteeme,\nHow shall we then dispense with that contract,\nAnd not deface your Honor with reproach?\nSuf. As doth a Ruler with vnlawfull Oathes,\nOr one that at a Triumph, hauing vow'd\nTo try his strength, forsaketh yet the Listes\nBy reason of his Aduersaries oddes.\nA poore Earles daughter is vnequall oddes,\nAnd therefore may be broke without offence\nGloucester. Why what (I pray) is Margaret more\nthen that?\nHer Father is no better than an Earle,\nAlthough in glorious Titles he excell\nSuf. Yes my Lord, her Father is a King,\nThe King of Naples, and Ierusalem,\nAnd of such great Authoritie in France,\nAs his alliance will confirme our peace,\nAnd keepe the Frenchmen in Allegeance\nGlo. And so the Earle of Arminacke may doe,\nBecause he is neere Kinsman vnto Charles\nExet. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower,\nWhere Reignier sooner will receyue, than giue\nSuf. A Dowre my Lords? Disgrace not so your King,\nThat he should be so abiect, base, and poore,\nTo choose for wealth, and not for perfect Loue.\nHenry is able to enrich his Queene,\nAnd not to seeke a Queene to make him rich,\nSo worthlesse Pezants bargaine for their Wiues,\nAs Market men for Oxen, Sheepe, or Horse.\nMarriage is a matter of more worth,\nThen to be dealt in by Atturney-ship:\nNot whom we will, but whom his Grace affects,\nMust be companion of his Nuptiall bed.\nAnd therefore Lords, since he affects her most,\nMost of all these reasons bindeth vs,\nIn our opinions she should be preferr'd.\nFor what is wedlocke forced? but a Hell,\nAn Age of discord and continuall strife,\nWhereas the contrarie bringeth blisse,\nAnd is a patterne of Celestiall peace.\nWhom should we match with Henry being a King,\nBut Margaret, that is daughter to a King:\nHer peerelesse feature, ioyned with her birth,\nApproues her fit for none, but for a King.\nHer valiant courage, and vndaunted spirit,\n(More then in women commonly is seene)\nWill answer our hope in issue of a King.\nFor Henry, sonne vnto a Conqueror,\nIs likely to beget more Conquerors,\nIf with a Lady of so high resolue,\n(As is faire Margaret) he be link'd in loue.\nThen yeeld my Lords, and heere conclude with mee,\nThat Margaret shall be Queene, and none but shee\nKing. Whether it be through force of your report,\nMy Noble Lord of Suffolke: Or for that\nMy tender youth was neuer yet attaint\nWith any passion of inflaming Loue,\nI cannot tell: but this I am assur'd,\nI feele such sharpe dissention in my breast,\nSuch fierce alarums both of Hope and Feare,\nAs I am sicke with working of my thoughts.\nTake therefore shipping, poste my Lord to France,\nAgree to any couenants, and procure\nThat Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come\nTo crosse the Seas to England, and be crown'd\nKing Henries faithfull and annointed Queene.\nFor your expences and sufficient charge,\nAmong the people gather vp a tenth.\nBe gone I say, for till you do returne,\nI rest perplexed with a thousand Cares.\nAnd you (good Vnckle) banish all offence:\nIf you do censure me, by what you were,\nNot what you are, I know it will excuse\nThis sodaine execution of my will.\nAnd so conduct me, where from company,\nI may reuolue and ruminate my greefe.\nEnter.\nGlo. I greefe I feare me, both at first and last.\nExit Glocester.\nSuf. Thus Suffolke hath preuail'd, and thus he goes\nAs did the youthfull Paris once to Greece,\nWith hope to finde the like euent in loue,\nBut prosper better than the Troian did:\nMargaret shall now be Queene, and rule the King:\nBut I will rule both her, the King, and Realme.\nExit\nFINIS. The first Part of Henry the Sixt.","title":"The first Part of Henry the Sixt","type":"page"}