Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one! on which day, K. Hen. Prepare we for our marriage : Thus far, with rough and all unable pen, Mangling by starts the full course of their glory. This star of England. Fortune made his sword, Of France and England, did this king succeed; [Exeunt. That they lost France, and made his England bleed; [Exit. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. KING HENRY THE SIXTH. HENRY BEAUFORT, Bishop of JOHN BEAUFORT, Earl of Somer set. RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke EARLS OF WARWICK, SALIS- JOHN TALBOT, his Son. EDMUND MORTIMER, Earl of A French Sergeant. A Porter. An March. Mortimer's Keeper, and a Lawyer. old Shepherd, Father to Joan la MARGARET, Daughter to Reignier. Fiends appearing to La Pucelle, Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, SCENE, partly in England, and partly in France. ACT I. SCENE I. Westminster Abbey. Dead March. The Corpse of King HENRY the Fifth is discovered, lying in state; attended on by the Dukes of Bedford, GlosTER, and EXETER; the Earl of WARWICK, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, &c. Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, Glo. England ne'er had a king, until his time. His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; He ne'er lift up his hand, but conquered. Exe. We mourn in black: why mourn me not in blood? Upon a wooden coffin we attend; Win. He was a king, bless'd of the King of kings. So dreadful will not be, as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought: Glo. The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd, His thread of life had not so soon decay'd: None do you like but an effeminate prince, Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe. Win. Gloster, whate'er we like, thou art protector, And lookest to command the prince, and realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe, More than God, or religious churchmen may. Glo. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Bed. Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in peace! Let's to the altar: Heralds, wait on us. Instead of gold, we 'll offer up our arms, Since arms avail not, now that Henry 's dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all. Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. Bed. What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns Will make him burst his lead, and rise from death. Glo. Is Paris lost? is Rouen yielded up? |