Yor.
Are not the speedy scouts return'd again,
That dog'd the mighty army of the dauphin?

Mes.
They are return'd, my lord; and give it out,
That he is march'd to Bourdeaux with his power,
To fight with Talbot: As he march'd along,
By your espials were discovered
Two mightier troops than that the dauphin led;
Which join'd with him, and made their march for Bourdeaux.

Yor.
A plague upon that villain, Somerset;
That thus delays my promised supply
Of horsemen, that were levy'd for this siege!
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid;
And I am louted by a traitor villain,

And cannot help the noble chevalier:
Heav'n comfort him in this necessity!
If he miscarry, farewel wars in France. Enter sir William Lucy.

Luc.
Thou princely leader of our English strength,
Never so needful on the earth of France,
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot;
Who now is girdl'd with a waste of iron,
And hem'd about with grim destruction:
To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, York!
Else, farewel Talbot, France, and England's honour.

Yor.
O heav'n! that Somerset—who, in proud heart,
Doth stop my cornets—were in Talbot's place!
So should we save a valiant gentleman,
By forfeiting a traitor, and a coward.
Mad ire, and wrathful fury, makes me weep,
That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

Luc.
O, send some succour to the distress'd lord!

Yor.
He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word:
We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;
All long of this vile traitor, Somerset.

Luc.
Then, heav'n take mercy on brave Talbot's soul!
And on his son, young John; whom, two hours since,
I met in travel towards his warlike father!
This seven years did not Talbot see his son,
And now they meet where both their lives are done.

Yor.
Alas! what joy shall noble Talbot have,
To bid his young son welcome to his grave?
Away! vexation almost stops my breath,
That sunder'd friends greet in the hour of death.—
Lucy, farewel, no more my fortune can,
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.—
Maine, Bloys, Poitiers, and Tours, are won away:
'Long all of Somerset, and his delay. [Exit.

Luc.
Thus, while the vultur of sedition
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss
The conquest of our scarce-cold conqueror,
That ever-living man of memory,

Henry the fifth: whiles they each other cross,
Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. [Exeunt.‡ ^note

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