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Reig. And I again in Henry's Royal name,
As Deputy unto that gracious King,
Give thee her hand for fign of plighted faith.

Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,
Because this is in traffick of a King.
And yet, methinks, I could be well content
To be mine own Attorney in this cafe.
I'll over then to England with this News,
And make this marriage to be folemniz'd.
So farewell, Reignier; fet this diamond safe
In golden Palaces, as it becomes.

[Afide.

Reig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace. The Chriftian Prince King Henry, were he here. Mar. Farewel, my Lord. Good wishes, praise and pray'rs

Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.

[She is going. Suf. Farewel, fweet Madam; hark you, Margaret; No princely commendations to my King?

Mar. Such commendations as become a maid, A virgin, and his fervant, fay to him.

Suf. Words fweetly plac'd, and modeftly directed. But, Madam, I muft trouble you again, No loving token to his Majefty?

Mar. Yes, my good Lord, a pure unfpotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I fend the King.

← To send fuch peevish tokens-] Peevish, for childish. Pp 2

Suf. And this withal.

[Kiffes her. Mar. That for thyfelf.-I will not fo prefume 4 To fend fuch peevish tokens to a King.

Suf. O, wert thou for myself!-but, Suffolk, stay; Thou may't not wander in that labyrinth; There Minotaurs, and ugly treafons, lurk. Sollicit Henry with her wond'rous praife, Bethink thee on her virtues that furmount, Her natʼral graces that extinguish art; Repeat their femblance often on the feas;

WARE.

That,

That, when thou com'ft to kneel at Henry's feet, Thou may'st bereave him of his wits with wonder. [Exeunt.

SCENE

VI.

Enter York, Warwick, a Shepherd, and Pucelle.
York. Bring forth that forcerefs, condemn'd to burn.
Shep. Ah, Joan! This kills thy father's heart out-
right.

Have I fought ev'ry country far and near,
And now it is my chance to find thee out,
Muft I behold thy timeless, cruel, death?
Ah, Jean, fweet daughter, I will die with thee.
Pucel. Decrepit mifer! bafe ignoble wretch!
I am defcended of a gentler blood.
Thou art no father, nor no friend of mine.

Shep. Out, out! - my Lords, an please you, 'tis
not fo;

I did beget her, all the parish knows,

Her mother, living yet, can teftify,
She was the firft-fruit of my batch'lorship.

War. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage ?1 York. This argues, what her kind of life hath been. Wicked and vile; and fo her death concludes.

Shep. Fy, Joan, that thou wilt be fo obftacle":
God knows, thou art a collop of my flesh,
And for thy fake have I fhed many a tear.
Deny me not, I pray thee, gentle Joan.

Pucel. Peafant, avaunt! You have fuborn'd this

man

Of purpose to obfcure my noble birth.

5

Why wilt thou be fo obftacle?] A vulgar corruption of obftinate, which I think has odly lafted fince our author's time till now. my noble birth. 'Tis true, I gave a noble-&c.]

6

4

This paffage feems to corroborate an explanation, fomewhat far fetched, which I have given in Henry IV. of the nobleman and Royal man.

Shep.

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Shep. 'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest,
The morn that I was wedded to her mother.
Kneel down and take my bleffing, good my girl.
Wilt thou not stoop? now curfed be the time
Of thy nativity! I would, the milk,

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Thy mother gave thee when thou fuck'dft her breast,
Had been a little ratfbane for thy fake;

Or elfe, when thou didft keep my lambs a-field,
I wish fome rav'nous wolf had eaten thee.

Doft thou deny thy father, curfed drab?
O, burn her, burn her; hanging is too good. [Exit
York. Take her away, for the hath liv'd too long,
To fill the world with vicious qualities.

Pucel. First, let me tell you, whom you have con-
demn'd.

Not me begotten of a fhepherd fwain,
But iffu'd from the progeny of Kings;
Virtuous and holy, chofen from above,
By infpiration of celestial grace,
To work exceeding miracles on earth:
I never had to do with wicked fpirits.
But you, that are polluted with your lufts,
Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,
Because you want the grace, that others have,
You judge it ftreight a thing impoffible
To compafs wonders, but by help of devils.
No, mifconceived Joan of Ark hath been
A virgin from her tender infancy,
Chafte and immaculate in very thought;
Whofe maiden blood thus rig'roufly effus'd,
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heav'n.

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York. Ay, ay; away with her to execution.
War. And hark ye, Sirs; because she is a maid,
Spare for no faggots, let there be enow;
Place pitchy barrels on the fatal ftake,
That fo her torture may be fhortened.
PP 3

Pucel

'

Pucel. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?
Then, Joan, difcover thine infirmity;
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.
I am with child, ye bloody homicides,
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although you hale me to a violent death.

York. Now heav'n forefend! the holy maid with
child!

War. The greatest miracle that ere you wrought.: Is all your ftrict precifenefs come to this?

York. She and the Dauphin have been juggling; I did imagine, what would be her refuge.

War. Well, go to ; we will have no baftards live; Efpecially, fince Charles muft father it.

Pucel. You are deceiv'd, my child is none of his; It was Alanson that enjoy'd my love.

York. Alanfon! that notorious Machiavel! It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.

Pucel. O, give me leave; I have deluded you; 'Twas neither Charles, nor yet the Duke I nam'd, But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail'd.

War. A married man! that's moft intolerable. York. Why, here's a girl.-I think, fhe knows not well.

There were fo many, whom fhe may accufe.

War. It's a fign, fhe hath been liberal and free. York. And yet, forfooth, she is a virgin pure. Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee; Ufe no intreaty, for it is in vain.

Pucel. Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse.

May never glorious fun reflect his beams
Upon the country where you make aboad!
But darkness and the gloomy fhade of death

7 Alanfon? that notorious Machiavel.] Machiavel being mentioned fomewhat before his

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Inviron you, 'till mischief and despair s

Drive you to break your necks, or hang yourselves!

[Exit guarded.

York. Break thou in pieces, and confume to ashes,
Thou foul accurfed minister of hell!

SCENE VII.

Enter Cardinal of Winchester.

Car. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence
With letters of Commiffion from the King.
For know, my Lords, the states of Christendom,
Mov'd with remorfe of these outragious broils,
Have earnestly implor'd a gen'ral Peace
Betwixt our nation and th' afpiring French ';
And fee at hand the Dauphin, and his train,
Approaching to confer about fome matters.

York. Is all our travel turn'd to this effect?
After the flaughter of fo many Peers,
So many Captains, gentlemen and foldiers,
That in this quarrel have been overthrown,
And fold their bodies for their country's benefit,
Shall we at laft conclude effeminate Peace?
Have we not loft most part of all the towns,
By treason, falfhood, and by treachery,
Our great progenitors had conquered?
Oh, Warwick, Warwick! I forefee with grief

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