Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each others cross,
Lives, Honours, Lands, and all, hurry to lofs.
Enter Somerfet 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 general force
Might with a Sally of the very Town
Be buckled with; the over-daring Talbot
Hath fullied all his glofs of former Honour
By this unheedful, defperate, wild Adventure:
York fet him on to fight, and dye 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-matcht Forces forth for aid.
Som. How now, Sir William, whither werft thou fent? Lucy. Whither my Lord? from Bought and Sold L. Talbot, Who ring'd about with bold adverfity,
Cries out for Noble Tork and Somerset,
To beat affailing Death from his weak Legions;
And whiles the Honourable Captain there
Drops bloody Sweat from his War-wearied Limbs,
And in advantage lingring looks for Rescue,
You, his falfe Hopes, the truft of England's Honour,
Keep off aloof with worthlefs Emulation:
Let not your private Discord keep away
The levied Succours that fhall lend him aid,
While he, renowned noble Gentleman,
Yields up his Life unto a world of odds.
Orleans the Baftard, Charles, and Burgundy,
Alenfon, Reignier, compass him about,
And Talbot perisheth by your default.
Som. Tork 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. Tork lies: He might have fent, and had the Horfe:
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 ftrife.
Som. Come, go, I will difpatch the Horfemen straight: Within fix ho irs, they will be at his aid.
Lucy. Too late comes Refcue, if he's 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 Shame in you.
Enter Talbot and his Son.
Tal. O young John Talbot, I did fend for thee,
To tutor thee in Stratagems 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 Feaft of Death,
A terrible and unavoided danger,
Therefore, dear Boy, mount on thy fwifteft Horse.
And I'll dire& thee how thou shalt escape
By fudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone,
John. Is my Name Talbot? and am I your Son?
And fhall I fly? O! if you love my Mother,
Dishonour not her Honourable Name,
To make a Baftard and a Slave of me.
The World will fay, he is not Talbot's Blood,
That bafely fled, when Noble Talbot ftood.
Tal. Fly, to revenge my Death, if I be flain.
John. He that fles fo, will ne'er return again.
Tal. If we both ftay, we both are fure to dye.
John. Then let me ftay, and, Father, do you fly :
You lofs is great, fo your regard fhould be;
My worth unknown, no lofs is known in me.
Upon my Death, the French can little boaft;
In yours they wil', in you all hopes are loft.
Flight cannot ftain the Honour you have won,
But mine it will, that no Exploit have done,
You fled for Vantage, every one will fwear:
But if I bow, they'll fay it was for Fear.
There is no hope that ever I will stay,
If the first hour I fhrink and run away.
Here on my Knee I beg Mortality,
Rather than Life, preferv'd with Infamy.
Tal. Shall all thy Mother's hopes lye in one Tomb?
John. Ay, rather then I'll fhame my Mother's Womb.
Tal. Upon my bleffing I command thee go.
John. To fight I will, but not to fly the Foe.
Tal. Part of thy Father may be fav'd in thee.
John. No part of him but will be shame in me.
Tal. Thou never hadft Renown, nor canft not lose it.
John. Yes, your renowned Name; fhall flight abuse it?
Tal. Thy Father's charge fhall clear thee from the ftain.
John. You cannot witnefs for me, being flain.
If Death be fo apparent, then both fly.
Tal. And leave my Followers here to fight and die?
My Age was never tainted with fuch fuch fhame.
John. And hall my Youth be guilty of fuch blame?
No more can I be fevered from your fide,
Than can your felf your felf in twain divide:
Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;
For live I will not; if my Father die.
Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair Son,
Born to eclipfe thy Life this afternoon:
Come, fide by fide, together live and die,
And Soul with Soul from France to Heaven fly.
Alarum: Excurfions, wherein Talbot's Son is bemm'd
about, and Talbot refcues him.
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 Sword.
Where is John Talbot? Paufe, and take thy Breath,
gave thee Life, and refcu'd thee from Death.
John. O twice my Father, twice I am thy Son:
The Life thou gav'ft me firft, was loft and done,
'Till with thy warlike Sword, defpight of Fate,
To my determin'd time thou gav't new date.
Tal. When from the Dauphin's Creft thy Sword ftruck fire,
It warm'd thy Father's Heart with proud defire
Of bold-fac'd Victory. Tien Leaden Age,
Quicken'd with Youthful Spleen, and Warlike Rage,
Beat down Alenfon, Orieans, Burgundy,
And from the Pride of Gallia refcued thee.
The ireful Baftard Orleans, that drew Blood
From thee, my Boy, and had the Maidenhood
Of thy first fight, I foon encountered,
And interchanging blows, I quickly fhed
Some of his Baftard Blood, and in difgrace.
Bespoke him thus: Contaminated, bafe
And mifs-begotten Blood, I fpill 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 do'ft thou fare?
Wilt thou yet leave the Battel, Boy, and fly?
Now thou art feal'd the Son 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 ftay,
'Tis but the fhortning of my Life one day.
In thee thy Mother dies, our Household's Name,
My Death's Revenge,thy Youth, and England's Fame,
All thefe, and more, we hazard by thy ftay;
All these are fav'd, if thou wilt fly away.
John. The Sword of Orleans hath not made me fmart,
Thefe Words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart.
On that advantage, bought with fuch a fhame,
To fave a paltry Life, and flay bright Fame,
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,
The Coward Horfe that bears me, fall and die;
And like me to the Peafant Boys of France,
To be Shame's Scorn, and Subject of Mifchance.
Surely, by all the Glory you have won,
And if I fly, I am not Talbot's Son.
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot,
If Son to Talbot, die at Talbot's Foot.
Tal. Then follow thou thy defp'rate Sire of Creet,
Thou Icarus, thy Life to me is fweet:
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy Father's fide,
And commendable prov'd let's die in Pride.
Alarum. Excurfions. Enter old Talbot led.
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 fimile at thee.
When he perceiv'd me fhrink, and on my Knee,
His bloody Sword he brandish'd over me,
And like a hungry Lion did commence
Rough deeds of Rage, and ftern Impatience:
But when my angry Guardant ftood alone,
Tendring my ruin, and affail'd of none,
Dizzy-ey'd Fury, and great rage of heart,
Suddenly made him from my fide to start
Into the clustering Battel of the French:
And in that Sea of Blood, my Boy did drench
His over-mounting Spirit; and there dy'd
My Icarus, my Bloffom in his Pride.
Serv. O, my dear Lord! lo where your Son is born. Tal. Thou antick Death, which laugh'ft us here to scorn, Anon from thy infulting Tyranny,
Coupled in Bonds of Perpetuity,
Two Talbots winged through the lither Sky,
In thy defpight fhall fcape Mortality.
O thou, whofe wounds become hard favoured death,
Speak to thy Father, e'er thou yield thy breath.
Brave Death by fpeaking, whether he will or no:
Imagine him a Frenchman, and thy Foe.
Poor Boy, he fmiles, 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 Talbor's Grave. [Dies
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