| ACT IV SCENE VII | A field of battle. | |
| [Alarum: excursions. Enter TALBOT led by a Servant] |
| TALBOT | Where is my other life? mine own is gone; |
| O, where's young Talbot? where is valiant John? |
| Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity, |
| Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee: |
| When he perceived me shrink and on my knee, | 5 |
| His bloody sword he brandish'd over me, |
| And, like a hungry lion, did commence |
| Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; |
| But when my angry guardant stood alone, |
| Tendering my ruin and assail'd of none, | 10 |
| Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart |
| Suddenly made him from my side to start |
| Into the clustering battle of the French; |
| And in that sea of blood my boy did drench |
| His over-mounting spirit, and there died, | 15 |
| My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. |
| Servant | O, my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne! |
| [Enter Soldiers, with the body of JOHN TALBOT] |
| TALBOT | Thou antic death, which laugh'st us here to scorn, |
| Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, |
| Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, | 20 |
| Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, |
| In thy despite shall 'scape mortality. |
| O, thou, whose wounds become hard-favour'd death, |
| Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! |
| Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no; | 25 |
| Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. |
| Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, |
| 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 these harms. | 30 |
| Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, |
| Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. |
| [Dies] |
| [
Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD OF
ORLEANS, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and forces
] |
| CHARLES | Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, |
| We should have found a bloody day of this. |
| BASTARD OF ORLEANS | How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging-wood, | 35 |
| Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! |
| JOAN LA PUCELLE | Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said: |
| 'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid:' |
| But, with a proud majestical high scorn, |
| He answer'd thus: 'Young Talbot was not born | 40 |
| To be the pillage of a giglot wench:' |
| So, rushing in the bowels of the French, |
| He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. |
| BURGUNDY | Doubtless he would have made a noble knight; |
| See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms | 45 |
| Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! |
| BASTARD OF ORLEANS | Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder |
| Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. |
| CHARLES | O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled |
| During the life, let us not wrong it dead. | 50 |
| [
Enter Sir William LUCY, attended; Herald of the
French preceding
] |
| LUCY | Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, |
| To know who hath obtained the glory of the day. |
| CHARLES | On what submissive message art thou sent?
|
| LUCY | Submission, Dauphin! 'tis a mere French word; |
| We English warriors wot not what it means. | 55 |
| I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en |
| And to survey the bodies of the dead. |
| CHARLES | For prisoners ask'st thou? hell our prison is. |
| But tell me whom thou seek'st. |
| LUCY | But where's the great Alcides of the field, | 60 |
| Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, |
| Created, for his rare success in arms, |
| Great Earl of Washford, Waterford and Valence; |
| Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, |
| Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, | 65 |
| Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, |
| The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge; |
| Knight of the noble order of Saint George, |
| Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece; |
| Great marshal to Henry the Sixth | 70 |
| Of all his wars within the realm of France? |
| JOAN LA PUCELLE | Here is a silly stately style indeed! |
| The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, |
| Writes not so tedious a style as this. |
| Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles | 75 |
| Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. |
| LUCY | Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen's only scourge, |
| Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis? |
| O, were mine eyeballs into bullets turn'd, |
| That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! | 80 |
| O, that I could but call these dead to life! |
| It were enough to fright the realm of France: |
| Were but his picture left amongst you here, |
| It would amaze the proudest of you all. |
| Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence | 85 |
| And give them burial as beseems their worth. |
| JOAN LA PUCELLE | I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost, |
| He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. |
| For God's sake let him have 'em; to keep them here, |
| They would but stink, and putrefy the air. | 90 |
| CHARLES | Go, take their bodies hence. |
| LUCY | I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd |
| A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. |
| CHARLES | So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou wilt. |
| And now to Paris, in this conquering vein: | 95 |
| All will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain. |
| [Exeunt] |
The Essential Student History Quiz (with answers and illustrations)