Henry VI, Part 1 (Folio 1, 1623)
Not Peer Reviewed
¶
Scæna Tertia.
1585
Enter Charles, Bastard, Alanson, Pucell.
¶Nor grieue that Roan is so recouered:
¶Care is no cure, but rather corrosiue,
¶For things that are not to be remedy'd.
1590Let frantike Talbot triumph for a while,
¶And like a Peacock sweepe along his tayle,
¶Wee'le pull his Plumes, and take away his Trayne,
¶If Dolphin and the rest will be but rul'd.
¶ Charles. We haue been guided by thee hitherto,
1595And of thy Cunning had no diffidence,
¶And we will make thee famous through the World.
¶Employ thee then, sweet Virgin, for our good.
¶We will entice the Duke of Burgonie
1605To leaue the Talbot, and to follow vs.
¶ Charles. I marry Sweeting, if we could doe that,
¶France were no place for Henryes Warriors,
¶But be extirped from our Prouinces.
¶And not haue Title of an Earledome here.
¶To bring this matter to the wished end.
¶
Drumme sounds a farre off.
1615Hearke, by the sound of Drumme you may perceiue
¶Their Powers are marching vnto Paris-ward.
¶
Here sound an English March.
¶There goes the Talbot, with his Colours spred,
¶And all the Troupes of English after him.
1620
French March.
¶Now in the Rereward comes the Duke and his:
¶Fortune in fauor makes him lagge behinde.
¶Summon a Parley, we will talke with him.
¶
Trumpets sound a Parley.
1625 Charles. A Parley with the Duke of Burgonie.
¶ Burg. Who craues a Parley with the Burgonie?
¶ Pucell. The Princely Charles of France, thy Countrey-
¶man.
1630hence.
¶ Charles. Speake Pucell, and enchaunt him with thy
¶words.
¶ Pucell. Braue Burgonie, vndoubted hope of France,
¶Stay, let thy humble Hand-maid speake to thee.
1635 Burg. Speake on, but be not ouer-tedious.
¶ Pucell. Looke on thy Country, look on fertile France,
¶And see the Cities and the Townes defac't,
¶By wasting Ruine of the cruell Foe,
¶As lookes the Mother on her lowly Babe,
1640When Death doth close his tender-dying Eyes.
¶See, see the pining Maladie of France:
¶Behold the Wounds, the most vnnaturall Wounds,
¶Oh turne thy edged Sword another way,
¶One drop of Blood drawne from thy Countries Bosome,
¶Should grieue thee more then streames of forraine gore.
¶Returne thee therefore with a floud of Teares,
¶Or Nature makes me suddenly relent.
¶Doubting thy Birth and lawfull Progenie.
¶Who ioyn'st thou with, but with a Lordly Nation,
¶When Talbot hath set footing once in France,
¶Who then, but English Henry, will be Lord,
¶And thou be thrust out, like a Fugitiue?
1660Call we to minde, and marke but this for proofe:
¶Was not the Duke of Orleance thy Foe?
¶And was he not in England Prisoner?
¶But when they heard he was thine Enemie,
1665In spight of Burgonie and all his friends.
¶Come, come, returne; returne thou wandering Lord,
¶Charles and the rest will take thee in their armes.
¶These haughtie wordes of hers
¶Haue batt'red me like roaring Cannon-shot,
¶And made me almost yeeld vpon my knees.
¶Forgiue me Countrey, and sweet Countreymen:
1675And Lords accept this heartie kind embrace.
¶My Forces and my Power of Men are yours.
¶So farwell Talbot, Ile no longer trust thee.
¶ Pucell. Done like a Frenchman: turne and turne a-
¶gaine.
¶vs fresh.
¶ Bastard. And doth beget new Courage in our
¶Breasts.
¶ Alans. Pucell hath brauely play'd her part in this,
1685And doth deserue a Coronet of Gold.
¶ Charles. Now let vs on, my Lords,
¶And ioyne our Powers,
¶And seeke how we may preiudice the Foe.
Exeunt.
