Upon no christian foul but English Talbot.
Lo! there thou ftand'ft, a breathing valiant man,
Of an invincible, unconquer'd fpirit:
This is the latest glory of thy praise,
That I thy enemy due thee withal;
For ere the glass, that now begins to run,
Finish the process of this fandy hour,
These eyes, that fee thee now well coloured,
Shall fee thee wither'd, bloody, pale and dead.
[Drum afar off. Hark! hark! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy mufick to thy tim'rous foul;
And mine fhall ring thy dire departure out.
Tal. He fables not: I hear the enemy:
Out, fome light horfemen, and perufe their wings.
O, negligent and heedlefs difcipline!
How are we park'd, and bounded in a pale?
A little herd of England's tim'rous Deer,
Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs.
If we be English Deer, be then in blood;
Not rafcal-like to fall down with a pinch,
But rather moody, mad, and defp'rate Stags,
Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel,
And make the cowards ftand aloof at bay.
Sell every man his life as dear as mine,
And they fhall find dear Deer of us, my friends.
God and St. George, Talbot, and England's right,
Profper our Colours in this dangerous fight!
S CE EN E IV.
Another Part of France.
Enter a Messenger, that meets York. Enter York, with trumpet, and many foldiers.
York. A That dogg'd the mighty army of the RE not the speedy scouts return'd again,
Mell. They are return'd, my lord, and give it out That he is march'd to Bourdeaux with his pow'r, To fight with Talbot as he march'd along, By your efpyals were discovered
Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,
Which join'd with him, and made their march for
Bourdeaux.
York. A plague upon that villain Somerset,
That thus delays my promifed fupply
Of horsemen, that were levied for this fiege!
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,
And I am lowted by a traitor villain,!
And cannot help the noble chevalier:
God comfort him in this neceffity!
If he miscarry, farewel wars in France.
Enter Sir William Lucy.
Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English ftrength, Never fo needful on the earth of France,
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot;
Who now is girdled with a waste of iron,
And hem'd about with grim deftruction :
To Bourdeaux, warlike Duke; to Bourdeaux, York!
Elfe farewel Talbot, France, and England's honour.
York. O God! that Somerset, who in proud heart
Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place!
So fhould we fave a valiant gentleman,
By forfeiting a traitor and a coward:
Mad ire, and wrathful fury, makes me weep,
That thus we die, while remifs traitors fleep.
Lucy. O, fend fome fuccour to the diftrefs'd lord! York. He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word: We mourn, France fmiles; we lofe, they daily get: All long of this vile traitor Somerfet.
Lucy. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's foul, And on his fon young John! whom, two hours fince, I met in travel towards his warlike father;
This fev'n years did not Talbot fee his fon,
And now they meet, where both their lives are done..
York. Alas! what joy fhall noble Talbot have,
To bid his young fon welcome to his grave!
Away! vexation almoft ftops my breath,
That fundred friends greet in the hour of death.
Lucy, farewel; no more my fortune can,
But curfe the caufe; I cannot aid the man.
Maine, Bloys, Poitiers, and Tours are won away,
Long all of Somerfet, and his delay.
Lucy. Thus while the vulture of fedition
Feeds in the bofom of fuch great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to lofs
The Conquefts of our fcarce-cold Conqueror;..:
That ever-living man of memory,
Henry the Fifth-While they each other cross,
Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to lofs. [Exit,
CEN E V.
Another Part of France.
Enter Somerset, with his army.
Som. IT is too late; I cannot fend them now.
This expedition was by York and Talbot
Too rafhly plotted. All our gen❜ral force
Might with a fally of the very town
Be buckled with. The over-daring Talbot
Hath fullied all his glofs of former honour,
By this unheedful, defp'rate, wild adventure :
York fet him on to fight, and die in fhame,
That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.
Capt. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me
Set from our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid.
Enter Sir William Lucy.
Som. How now, Sir William, whither were you fent?
Lucy. Whither, my lord? from bought and fold lord
Talbot:
Who, ring'd about with bold adverfity,
Cries out for noble York and Somerset,
To beat affailing death from his weak legions.
And while the honourable Captain there
Drops bloody fweat from his war-wearied limbs,
And, in advantage ling'ring, looks for rescue;
You, his falfe hopes, the truft of England's honour,
Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.
Let not your private discord keep away
The levied fuccours, that fhould lend him aid;
While he, renowned noble gentleman,
Yields up his life unto a world of odds.
Orleans the Baftard, Charles, and Burgundy,
Alanfon, Reignier, compass him about;
And Talbot perisheth by your default.
Som. York fet him on, York fhould have fent him aid. Lucy. And York as faft upon your Grace exclaims; Swearing, that you with-hold his levied hoft, Collected for this expedition.
Som. York lies: he might have fent, and had the horse:
I owe him little duty, and lefs love,
And take foul fcorn to fawn on him by fending.
Lucy. The fraud of England, not the force of France,
Hath now entrapt the noble-minded Talbot:
Never to England fhall he bear his life;
But dies, betray'd to fortune by your strife.
Som. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen ftrait : Within fix hours they will be at his aid.
Lucy. Too late comes refcue; he is ta'en, or flain; For fly he could not, if he would have fled : And fy would Talbot never, though he might.
Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu! Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his fhame in you.
A Field of Battle near Bourdeaux.
Enter Talbot, and his fon.
Young John Talbot, I did fend for thee
To tutor thee in ftratagems of war;
That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd,
When faplefs age, and weak unable limbs,
Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.
But, O malignant and ill-boading stars!
Now art thou come unto a feast of death,
A terrible and unavoided danger.
Therefore, dear boy, mount on my fwifteft horfe
And I'll direct thee how thou fhalt escape
By fudden flight. Come, dally not; be gone.
John. Is my name Talbot? and am I your fon?
And fhall I fly? O! if you love my mother,
Dishonour not her honourable name,
To make a bastard, and a flave of me.
The world will fay, he is not Talbot's blood,
That bafely fled, when noble Talbot stood.
Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.
John. He that flies fo, will ne'er return again.
1 To tutor thee in ftratagems of war ;] Stratagem, for art amply.
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