John. Is my Name Talbot? and am I your Son And fhall I fly? O! if you love my Mother, Difhonour not her Honourable Namé,
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 stood.
Tal. Fly, to revenge my Death, if I be slain.
John. He that flies fo, will ne'er return again.
Tal. If we both ftay, we both are fure to die.
John. Then let me ftay, and, Father, do you fly:
Your 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 will, 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 swear :
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 fhame 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 fhame.
John. And fhall 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 eclipse thy Life this Afternoon:
Come, fide by fide, together live and die,
And Soul with Soul from France to Heav'n fly. [Exeunt. Alarum: Excursions, wherein Talbot's Son is hemm'd about, and Talbot rescues 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,
I gave thee Life, and refcu'd thee from Death.
John. O twice my Father, twice am I 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'ft 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. Then Leaden Age,
Quicken'd with youthful Spleen, and warlike Rage,
Beat down Alenfon, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the Pride of Gallia rescued 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 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 Baftard to deftroy,
Came in ftrong Refcue. Speak, thy Father's Care,
Art not thou weary, John? How do'st 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 1 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 Household'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 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 shame,
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 Mischance.
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 Foor.
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 fmile at thee.
When he perceiv'd me fhrink, and on my Knee,
His bloody Sword he brandifh'd over me,
And like a hungry Lion did commence
Rough deeds of Rage, and ftern Impatience:
But when my angry Guardant stood 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 fcorn, 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, ere thou yield thy Breath.
Brave Death by speaking, 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 Talbot's Grave. [Dies.
Enter Charles, Alenfon, Burgundy, Bastard, and Pucelle.
Char. HAD York and Somerset brought Refcue in,
We should have found a bloody Day of this.
Baft. How the young whelp of Talbot's raging Brood,
Did flesh his puny Sword in Frenchmen's Blood.
Pucel. Once I encountred him, and thus I faid:
Thou Maiden Youth, be vanquifht by a Maid.
But with a proud Majeftical high fcorn
He anfwer'd thus: Young Talbot was not born
To be the Pillage of a Giglot Wench.
He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.
Bur. Doubtless he would have made a noble Knight: See where he lyes inherfed in the Arms Of the most bloody Nurfer of his harms.
Baft. Hew them to pieces, hack their Bones afunder, Whole 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.
Lury. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's Tent, To know who hath obtain'd the Glory of the Day. Char. On what fubmiffive Meffage art thou fent? Lucy. Submiffion, Dauphin? 'tis a meer French word: We English Warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what Prisoners thou haft ta'en, And to furvey the Bodies of the Dead.
Char. For Prifoners ask't thou? Hell our Prifon is, But tell me whom thou seek'ft?
Lucy. Where is the great Alcides of the Field,
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury?
Created for his rare Succefs in Arms,
Great Earl of Wafhford, Waterford, and Valence,
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield;
Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdon of Alton,
Lord Cromwel of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffeild,
The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge,
Knight of the Noble Order of St. George,
Worthy St. Michael, and the Golden Fleece,
Great Marshal to our King Henry the Sixth,
Of all his Wars within the Ream of France.
Pucel. Here's a filly ftately Style indeed:
The Turk, that two and fifty Kingdoms hath,
Writes not fo tedious à Style as this.
Him that thou magnify'ft with all these Titles,
Stinking and fly-blown lyes here at our Feet.
Lucy. Is Talbot flain, the Frenchmens only Scourge,
Your Kingdom's Terrour, and black Nemefis?
Oh were mine Eye-balls 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 Realm of France.
Were but his Picture left among you here,
It would amaze the proudeft of you all.
Give me their Bodies that I may bear them hence,
And give them Burial, as befeems their Worth
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