Pucell. Then thus it must be, this doth Ioane deuise: By faire perswasions, mixt with sugred words, We will entice the Duke of Burgonie To leaue the Talbot, and to follow vs
Charles. I marry Sweeting, if we could doe that, France were no place for Henryes Warriors, Nor should that Nation boast it so with vs, But be extirped from our Prouinces
Alans. For euer should they be expuls'd from France, And not haue Title of an Earledome here
Pucell. Your Honors shall perceiue how I will worke, To bring this matter to the wished end.
Drumme sounds a farre off.
Hearke, by the sound of Drumme you may perceiue Their Powers are marching vnto Paris-ward.
Here sound an English March.
There goes the Talbot with his Colours spred, And all the Troupes of English after him.
Now in the Rereward comes the Duke and his: Fortune in fauor makes him lagge behinde. Summon a Parley, we will talke with him.
Trumpets sound a Parley.
Charles. A Parley with the Duke of Burgonie
Burg. Who craues a Parley with the Burgonie? Pucell. The Princely Charles of France, thy Countreyman
Burg. What say'st thou Charles? for I am marching hence
Charles. Speake Pucell, and enchaunt him with thy words
Pucell. Braue Burgonie, vndoubted hope of France, Stay, let thy humble Hand-maid speake to thee
Burg. Speake on, but be not ouer-tedious
Pucell. Looke on thy Country, look on fertile France, And see the Cities and the Townes defac't, By wasting Ruine of the cruell Foe, As lookes the Mother on her lowly Babe, When Death doth close his tender-dying Eyes. See, see the pining Maladie of France: Behold the Wounds, the most vnnaturall Wounds, Which thou thy selfe hast giuen her wofull Brest. Oh turne thy edged Sword another way, Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that helpe: One drop of Blood drawne from thy Countries Bosome, Should grieue thee more then streames of forraine gore. Returne thee therefore with a floud of Teares, And wash away thy Countries stayned Spots
Burg. Either she hath bewitcht me with her words, Or Nature makes me suddenly relent
Pucell. Besides, all French and France exclaimes on thee, Doubting thy Birth and lawfull Progenie. Who ioyn'st thou with, but with a Lordly Nation, That will not trust thee, but for profits sake? When Talbot hath set footing once in France, And fashion'd thee that Instrument of Ill, Who then, but English Henry, will be Lord, And thou be thrust out, like a Fugitiue? Call we to minde, and marke but this for proofe: Was not the Duke of Orleance thy Foe? And was he not in England Prisoner? But when they heard he was thine Enemie, They set him free, without his Ransome pay'd, In spight of Burgonie and all his friends. See then, thou fight'st against thy Countreymen, And ioyn'st with them will be thy slaughter-men. Come, come, returne; returne thou wandering Lord, Charles and the rest will take thee in their armes
Burg. I am vanquished: These haughtie wordes of hers Haue batt'red me like roaring Cannon-shot, And made me almost yeeld vpon my knees. Forgiue me Countrey, and sweet Countreymen: And Lords accept this heartie kind embrace. My Forces and my Power of Men are yours. So farwell Talbot, Ile no longer trust thee
Pucell. Done like a Frenchman: turne and turne againe
Charles. Welcome braue Duke, thy friendship makes vs fresh