God and St. George, Talbot, and England's right, Profper our Colours in this dangerous fight! [Exeunt.
Another Part of France,
Enter a Messenger, that meets York. Enter York, with trumpet, and many foldiers.
RE not the speedy fcouts return'd again, That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin ?
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 difcovered
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 mifcarry, farewel wars in France.
Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English ftrength, Never fo needful on the earth of France,
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot
5 And I am lowted] To lowt may fignify to deprefs, to lower, to dishonour; but I do not remember it fo ufed. We
may read, And I am flouted. I am mocked, and treated with con tempt.
Who now is girdled with a wafte 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 Somerfet, 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 lofe; 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 almost stops 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 Somerset, and his delay.
Lucy. Thus while the vulture of fedit on
Feeds in the bofom of such great commanders.
Sleeping neglection doth betray to lofs :
The Conquefts of our scarce 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.
the vulture] Alluding to the tale of Prometheus.
Another Part of France.
Enter Somerfet, with his army.
Som. T 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 shame, i
That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.
Capt. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me,
Sfrom our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid. -
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 Somerfet,
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 refcue;
You, his falfe hopes, the truft of England's honour,
Keep off aloof with worthless emulation
Let not your private difcord keep away
The levied fuccours that should lend him aid;
While he, renowned noble gentleman,
7-ring'd about] Environed, encircled.
* In advantage ling'ring.] Pro tracting his refiitance by the advantage of a ftrong poft. VOL. IV.
worthless emulation.] In this line emulation fignifies merely rivalry, not struggle for fuperior excellence.
Yields up his life unto a world of odds.
odds.bps sidst Â
Orleans the Bestard, Charles, and Burgundy101519 I
Alanfon, Reignier, compafs him about; Boni il' baA
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And Talbot perifheth by your default.inst
Som, York let 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.
Ponedì a busfind a sho bus gdam oT Som. York lies; he might have fent, and had the
horfe; I owe him little duty and lefs love,101 v NR „beft yfsled LanT 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 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 fly would Talbot never, though he might.
Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu !g Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. [Exeunt.
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 fapless age, and weak unable limbs,
Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.
But, O malignant and ill-boading ftars 1
Now art thou come unto a feaft of death,
A feoft of death.] To a field where death will be feafted with flaughter.
A terrible and unavoided danger.
Therefore, dear boy, mount on my fwifteft horfe;
And I'll direct thee how thou fhalt efcape
By fudden ome, dally not; begone.
John, Is my name Talbot 25
Talbot? and am I your fon?
And fhall I Ĥy? Of if you love my mother,
Dishonour not her honourable name,
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To make a baftard and a flave of me.
The world will fay, he is not Talbot's blood
That balely fled, when noble Talbot stood.
Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if I be flain.
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 loss 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, ev'ry one will fwear,
But if I bow, they'll fay, it was for fear.
There is no hope that ever I will ftay,
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 lie in one tomb?
John. Ay, rather than 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.
emi .... MASH BR
9 For what reafon this fcene is written in rhyme I cannot guefs. If Shakespeare had not in other plays mingled his rhymes and blank verfes in the fame mar.ner, I should have fufpected that this dialogue had been a part of fome
other poem which was never fi nifhed, and that being loath to throw his labour away, he inferted it here.
*Your regard.] Your care of your own fafety. 002
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