Tal. Thou never hadft renown, nor canft not lofe it John, Yes, your renowned name; fhall flight abufe it? Tal. Thy father's charge fhall clear thee from that stain. Jumele moronadorstai baɅ John. You cannot witnefs for me, being flain, no? If death be fo apparent, then both flyddogist Tal. And leave my followers here to fight and die My age was never tainted with fuch shame. bas nestá John. And fhall my youth be guilty of fuch blame? No more can I be fever'd from your fide, Than can yourself yourself in twain divide Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I,... For live I will not, if my father die.

147

Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair fon, Born to eclipfe thy life this afternoon.

Come, fide by fide, together live and die;

And foul with foul from France to heaven fly. [Exeunt.

Alarm: excurfions, wherein Talbot's fon is hemm3d about, and Talbot rescues him.D

Tal. St. George, and victory! fight, soldiers, fight: The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word, And left us to the rage of France's fword,

Where is John Talbot? pause, and take thy breath gave thee life, and refcu'd thee from death.

I

John. O, twice my father! twice am I thy fon;
The life thou gav'ft me first was loft and done,
Till with thy warlike fword, defpight of fate,
To my determin'd time thou gav'ft new date.
Tal. When from the Dauphin's creft thy fword
ftruck fire,

It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire
Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age,
Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage,
Beat down Alanfon, Orleans, Burgundy,

And from the pride of Gallia refcu'd thee.

The ireful baftard Orleans, that drew blood
From thee
my boy, and had the maidenhood
Of thy firft Fight, I foon encountered,
And, interchanging blows, I quickly fhed
Some of his baftard blood; and in difgrace
Bespoke him thus; Contaminated, base,
And mif-begotten blood I spill of thine,
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine,
Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy→
Here, purpofing the Bastard to destroy,

Came in ftrong refcue. Speak, thy father's care,
Art not thou weary, John? how doft thou fare?
Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,
Now thou art feal'd the fon of Chivalry?
Fly, to revenge my death, when I am dead;
The help of one ftands me in little ftead.
Oh, too much folly is it, well I wot,
To hazard all our lives in one fmall boat.
If I to-day die not with Frenchmens' rage,
To-morrow I fhall die with mickle age;
By me they nothing gain; and, if I stay,
'Tis but the fhortning of my life one day;
In thee thy mother dies, our houfhold's name,
My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame,
All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay,
All these are fav'd, if thou wilt fly away.

John. The fword of Orleans hath not made me smart,
Thefe words of yours draw life-blood from my heart.
Oh what advantage bought with fuch a fhame,
To fave a paultry life, and flay bright fame!

On that advantage, bought with fuch a Shame, To fare a faltry life, and flay bright Fame!] This paffage feeins to lie obfcure and difjointed. Neither the Grammar is to be justified; nor is the Sen

Before

timent better. I have ventur'd at a flight Alteration, which departs fo little from the Reading which has obtain'd, but fo much raises the Sense, as well as takes away the Obfcurity, that I am willing to think it reftores the 003 Author's

Before young Talbot from old Talbot,ym nsdw tud The coward horfe, that bears me, fall and diesT And like me to the peafant boys of Frante 49-yssia To be shame's fcorn, and subject of mifehandesbbu? Surely, by all the glory you have wongift

An if I fly, I am not Talbot's fond to st 181 ni baА
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot-19v 21H
If fon to Talbot, die at Talbot's footd yn fawrol yM
Tal. Then follow thou thy defp'rate Sire of Crete,
Thou Icarus! thy life to me is fweet

If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's fide e;
And, commendable prov'd, let's die in pride. [Exeunt.

Alarm. Excurfions. Enter old Talbot, led by the French.

Tal. Where is my other life? mine own is gone. O! where's young Talbot? where is valiant John? Triumphant Death, fmear'd with captivity! Young Talbot's valour makes me fmile at thee.vaiči When he perceiv'd me fhrink, and on my knee, n His bloody fword he brandifh'd over me, And, like a hungry Lion, did commence Rough deeds of rage, and ftern impatience; ro

Author's Meaning;

t

But when my angry Guardant food alone,co
or duti
3 Tendring my ruin, and affail'd of none,wor
Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart smul BA
Suddenly made him from my fide to start, od o
Into the cluftring battle of the French, and gisan?
And, in that fea of blood, my boy did drenchA
His over-mounting fpirit; and there dy'd f
My Icarus! my bloffom in his pride! To not t

4

Enter John Talbot, borne.

Serv. O my dear Lord! lo! where your fon is borne. Tal. Thou antick death, which laught'it us here to scorn,

Anon, from thy infulting tyranny,

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,

Two Talbots winged through the lither fky,
In thy defpight, fhall 'fcape mortality.

O thou, whose wounds become hard-favour'd death,
Speak to thy father, ere thou yield thy breath.
Brave death by fpeaking, whether he will or no,
Imagine him a Frenchman, and thy foe.

Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who fhould fay,
"Had death been French, then death had died to day
Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms,
My spirit can no longer bear thefe harms.
Soldiers, adieu. I have what I would have,
Now my old arms are young John Talbot's Grave.

[Dies.

5 Through the lither Sky 1 Lither is flexible or yielding. In much the fame fenfe Milton fays, He with broad fails Winnow'd the buxom air. That is, the obfequious air.

ACT V.

SCENE
Tort of em BubnoƆ

to violy sit baisido did on 73

Continues near Bourdeaux no
Caged Coollimdu2 p.)

HA

We fhould have found a bloody day of this. Bat. How the young whelp of Talbot's raging brood Did flesh his puny fword in Frenchmens' blood!

Pucel. Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said : "Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid.” But with a proud, majeftical, high scorn He anfwer'd thus: "Young Talbot was not born "To be the pillage of a giglot wench." So, rufhing in the Bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Bur. Doubtlefs, he would have made a noble Knight: See, where he lies inherfed in the arms Of the most bloody nurfer of his harms.

Baft. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones afunder; Whofe life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder.

Char. Oh, no. Forbear. For that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead.