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Sal. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched finners. Gar. O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man.
Tal. What chance is this, that suddenly hath croftus?
thou halt to look to heav'n for grace.
He beckons with his hand, and smiles on me,
Here an alarm, and it thunders and lightens. What stir is this? what tumults in the heav'ns ? Whence cometh this alarum and this noise?
Enter a Messenger. Mel. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd
head. The Dauphin with one Joan la Pucelle joind, A holy prophetess new risen up,
Is come with a great power to raise the fiege.
[Here Salisbury lifteth himself up, and groans. Tal. Hear, hear, how dying Salisbury doth groan! It irks his heart, he cannot be reveng'd. Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you. Pucelle or Pussel, Dauphin or Dog-fish, Your hearts I'll stamp out with my Horse's heels, And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. Convey brave Salisbury into his tent, And then we'll try what daftard Frenchmen dare.
(Alarm. Exeunt, bearing Salisbury and
Sir Thomas Gargrave out.
Here an alarm again; anTalbot pursueth the Dauphin, and driveth hin: then enter Joan la Pucelle, driving
Englishmen before her. Then enter Talbot. Tal. THERE is my strength, my valour, and
my force ?
Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them:
Enter Pucelle. Here, here, she comes. I'll have about with thee; Devil, or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee : Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch; And straightway give thy soul to'him thou serv'st. Pucel. Come, come, 'tis only I, that must disgrace thee.
(They fight. Tal. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My breaft I'll burst with straining of my courage, And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this bigh-minded strumpet.
Pucel. Talbot, farewel, thy hour is not yet come, I must go' vi&ual Orleans forthwith. [A fort alarm. Then enter the town with soldiers.
O'ertake me if thou canst, I scorn thy strength.
Tal. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel.
[Alarm. Here another Skirmish.
In spight of us, or aught that we could do.
[Alarm, Retreat, Flourish.
Alanson, and Soldiers.
Rescu'd is Orleans from the English Wolves :
Dau. Divineft creature, bright Afrea's daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success! Thy promises are like Adonis Garden, That one day bloom'd, and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess ! Recover'd is the town of Orleans ; More blessed hap did ne'er befal our state. [town?
Reig. Why ring not out the bells throughout the Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires, And feast and banquet in the open streets; To celebrate the joy, that God hath giv'n us.
Alan. All France will be replete with mirth and joy, When they shall hear how we have play'd the men.
Dau. 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won: For which I will divide my Crown with her; And all the priests and friars in my realm Shall in proceflion fing her endless praise. A statelier pyramid to her I'll rear, Than Rhodope's or Memphis' ever was! In memory of her, when she is dead, Her Athes, in an urn more precious Than the rich-jewel'd coffer of Darius, Transported (ball be at high festivals, Before the Kings and Queens of France. No longer on St. Dennis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's Saint. Come in, and let us banquet royally, After this golden day of vi&ory. [Hourish. Exeunt.
AC T. II. SCENE I.
Before ORLEAN S.
Near to the wall, by some apparent fign
Cent. Serjeant, you shall. Thus are poor fervitors (When others sleep upon their quiet beds) Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.
Enter Talbot, Bedford, and Burgundy, with scaling
ladders. Their drums beating a dead march. Tal. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Walloon, and Picardy are friends to us; This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day carous'd and banquetted. Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit, Contriv'd by art and baleful forcery. Bed. Coward of France! how much he wrongs his
fame, Despairing of his own arms' fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell!
Bur. Traitors have never other company. But what's that Pucelle, whom they term so pure ?
Tal. A maid, they say. Bed. A maid ? and be so martial ? Bur. Pray God, she prove not masculine ere long! If underneath the standard of the French
carry armour, as she hath begun. Tal Well,let them practise and converse with spirits; God is our fortress, in whose conqu’ring name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
Bed. Ascend, brave Talbot, we will follow thee.
Tal. Not all together : better far I guess,
Bed. Agreed ; I'll to yon corner.