Tal. Thou antique Death, which laugh'st vs here to scorn, Anon from thy insulting Tyrannie, Coupled in bonds of perpetuitie, Two Talbots winged through the lither Skie, In thy despight shall scape Mortalitie. O thou whose wounds become hard fauoured death, Speake to thy father, ere thou yeeld thy breath, Braue death by speaking, whither he will or no: Imagine him a Frenchman, and thy Foe. Poore Boy, he smiles, me thinkes, as who should say, Had Death bene French, then Death had dyed to day. Come, come, and lay him in his Fathers armes, My spirit can no longer beare these harmes. Souldiers adieu: I haue what I would haue, Now my old armes are yong Iohn Talbots graue.
Enter Charles, Alanson, Burgundie, Bastard, and Pucell.
Char. Had Yorke and Somerset brought rescue in, We should haue found a bloody day of this
Bast. How the yong whelpe of Talbots raging wood, Did flesh his punie-sword in Frenchmens blood
Puc. Once I encountred him, and thus I said: Thou Maiden youth, be vanquisht by a Maide. But with a proud Maiesticall high scorne He answer'd thus: Yong Talbot was not borne To be the pillage of a Giglot Wench: So rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as vnworthy fight
Bur. Doubtlesse he would haue made a noble Knight: See where he lyes inherced in the armes Of the most bloody Nursser of his harmes
Bast. Hew them to peeces, hack their bones assunder, Whose life was Englands glory, Gallia's wonder
Char. Oh no forbeare: For that which we haue fled During the life, let vs not wrong it dead. Enter Lucie.
Lu. Herald, conduct me to the Dolphins Tent, To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day
Char. On what submissiue message art thou sent? Lucy. Submission Dolphin? Tis a meere French word: We English Warriours wot not what it meanes. I come to know what Prisoners thou hast tane, And to suruey the bodies of the dead
Char. For prisoners askst thou? Hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek'st? Luc. But where's the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot Earle of Shrewsbury? Created for his rare successe in Armes, Great Earle of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Vrchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdon of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingefield, Lord Furniuall of Sheffeild, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the Noble Order of S[aint]. George, Worthy S[aint]. Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshall to Henry the sixt, Of all his Warres within the Realme of France
Puc. Heere's a silly stately stile indeede: The Turke that two and fiftie Kingdomes hath, Writes not so tedious a Stile as this. Him that thou magnifi'st with all these Titles, Stinking and fly-blowne lyes heere at our feete
Lucy. Is Talbot slaine, the Frenchmens only Scourge, Your Kingdomes terror, and blacke Nemesis? Oh were mine eye-balles into Bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces. Oh, that I could but call these dead to life, It were enough to fright the Realme of France. Were but his Picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the prowdest of you all. Giue me their Bodyes, that I may beare them hence, And giue them Buriall, as beseemes their worth
Pucel. I thinke this vpstart is old Talbots Ghost, He speakes with such a proud commanding spirit: For Gods sake let him haue him, to keepe them here, They would but stinke, and putrifie the ayre
Char. Go take their bodies hence