Exeunt. Manet Yorke, Warwick, Exeter, Vernon.
War. My Lord of Yorke, I promise you the King Prettily (me thought) did play the Orator
Yorke. And so he did, but yet I like it not, In that he weares the badge of Somerset
War. Tush, that was but his fancie, blame him not, I dare presume (sweet Prince) he thought no harme
York. And if I wish he did. But let it rest, Other affayres must now be managed.
Flourish. Manet Exeter.
Exet. Well didst thou Richard to suppresse thy voice: For had the passions of thy heart burst out, I feare we should haue seene decipher'd there More rancorous spight, more furious raging broyles, Then yet can be imagin'd or suppos'd: But howsoere, no simple man that sees This iarring discord of Nobilitie, This shouldering of each other in the Court, This factious bandying of their Fauourites, But that it doth presage some ill euent. 'Tis much, when Scepters are in Childrens hands: But more, when Enuy breeds vnkinde deuision, There comes the ruine, there begins confusion. Enter.
Enter Talbot with Trumpe and Drumme, before Burdeaux.
Talb. Go to the Gates of Burdeaux Trumpeter, Summon their Generall vnto the Wall.
Enter Generall aloft.
English Iohn Talbot (Captaines) call you forth, Seruant in Armes to Harry King of England, And thus he would. Open your Citie Gates, Be humble to vs, call my Soueraigne yours, And do him homage as obedient Subiects, And Ile withdraw me, and my bloody power. But if you frowne vpon this proffer'd Peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Leane Famine, quartering Steele, and climbing Fire, Who in a moment, eeuen with the earth, Shall lay your stately, and ayre-brauing Towers, If you forsake the offer of their loue
Cap. Thou ominous and fearefull Owle of death, Our Nations terror, and their bloody scourge, The period of thy Tyranny approacheth, On vs thou canst not enter but by death: For I protest we are well fortified, And strong enough to issue out and fight. If thou retire, the Dolphin well appointed, Stands with the snares of Warre to tangle thee. On either hand thee, there are squadrons pitcht, To wall thee from the liberty of Flight; And no way canst thou turne thee for redresse, But death doth front thee with apparant spoyle, And pale destruction meets thee in the face: Ten thousand French haue tane the Sacrament, To ryue their dangerous Artillerie Vpon no Christian soule but English Talbot: Loe, there thou standst a breathing valiant man Of an inuincible vnconquer'd spirit: This is the latest Glorie of thy praise, That I thy enemy dew thee withall: For ere the Glasse that now begins to runne, Finish the processe of his sandy houre, These eyes that see thee now well coloured, Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead.
Drum a farre off.
Harke, harke, the Dolphins drumme, a warning bell, Sings heauy Musicke to thy timorous soule, And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.
Tal. He Fables not, I heare the enemie: Out some light Horsemen, and peruse their Wings. O negligent and heedlesse Discipline, How are we park'd and bounded in a pale? A little Heard of Englands timorous Deere, Maz'd with a yelping kennell of French Curres. If we be English Deere, be then in blood, Not Rascall-like to fall downe with a pinch, But rather moodie mad: And desperate Stagges, Turne on the bloody Hounds with heads of Steele, And make the Cowards stand aloofe at bay: Sell euery man his life as deere as mine, And they shall finde deere Deere of vs my Friends. God, and S[aint]. George, Talbot and Englands right, Prosper our Colours in this dangerous fight. Enter a Messenger that meets Yorke. Enter Yorke with Trumpet, and many Soldiers.