M. Gun.
Sirra, thou know'st how Orleans is besieg'd,
And how the English have the suburbs won.

Boy.
Father, I know, and oft have shot at them,
How e'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim.

M. Gun.
But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd by me:
Chief Master-gunner am I of this town,
Something I must do to procure me grace.
The Prince's 'spials have informed me,
The English, in the suburbs close intrench'd,
Went thro' a secret grate of iron bars,

In yonder tow'r, to over-peer the city;
And thence discover how, with most advantage,
They may vex us, with shot or with assault.
To intercept this inconvenience,
A piece of ord'nance 'gainst it I have plac'd;
And fully ev'n these three days have I watch'd,
If I could see them. Now, Boy, do thou watch.
For I can stay no longer.—
If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word,
And thou shalt find me at the Governor's. [Exit.

Boy.
Father, I warrant you; take you no care;
I'll never trouble you, If I may spy them. Enter Salisbury and Talbot on the turrets, with others.

Sal.
Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd!
How wert thou handled, being prisoner?
Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd?
Discourse, I pr'ythee, on this turret's top.

Tal.
The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner,
Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santraile.
For him was I exchang'd, and ransomed.
But with a baser man of arms by far,
Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me:
Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death,
Rather than I would be so vilde esteem'd.
In fine, redeem'd I was, as I desir'd.
But O, the treach'rous Fastolfe wounds my heart;
Whom with my bare fists I would execute,
If I now had him brought into my pow'r.

Sal.
Yet tell'st thou not, how thou wert entertain'd.

Tal.
With scoffs and scorns, and contumelious taunts,
In open market-place produc'd they me,
To be a publick spectacle to all.
Here, said they, is the terror of the French;
The scare-crow, that affrights our children so.
Then broke I from the officers that led me,
And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground,
To hurl at the beholders of my shame.
My grisly countenance made others fly;
None durst come near, for fear of sudden death.

In iron walls they deem'd me not secure:
So great a fear my name amongst them spread,
That they suppos'd, I could rend bars of steel;
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant.
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had;
They walk'd about me ev'ry minute-while;
And if I did but stir out of my bed,
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. Enter the Boy, with a Linstock.

Sal.
I grieve to hear what torments you endur'd,
But we will be reveng'd sufficiently.
Now it is supper-time in Orleans:
Here thro' this grate I can count every one,
And view the Frenchmen how they fortify:
Let us look in, the sight will much delight thee.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale,
Let me have your express opinions,
Where is best place to make our batt'ry next?

Gar.
I think, at the north gate; for there stand lords.

Glan.
And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

Tal.
For ought I see this city must be famish'd,
Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. [Here they shoot, and Salisbury falls down.

Sal.
O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners.

Gar.
O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man.

Tal.
What chance is this, that suddenly hath crost us?
Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak;
How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men?
One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off!
Accursed tow'r, accursed fatal hand,
That hath contriv'd this woful tragedy!
In thirteen battels Salisbury o'ercame:
Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars.
Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up,
His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.
Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? tho thy speech doth fail,
One eye thou hast to look to heav'n for grace.
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
Heav'n, be thou gracious to none alive,

If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!
Bear hence his body, I will help to bury it.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?
Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.
O Salisb'ry, chear thy spirit with this comfort,
Thou shalt not die, while—
—He beckons with his hand, and smiles on me,
As who should say, When I am dead and gone,
Remember to avenge me on the French.
Plantagenet, I will; and Nero-like,
Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn:
Wretched shall France be only in my name. [Here an alarm, and it thunders and lightens.
What stir is this? what tumult's in the heav'ns?
Whence cometh this alarum and this noise? Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd head.
The Dauphin with one Joan la Pucelle join'd,
A holy prophetess new risen up,
Is come with a great power to raise the siege. [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 Horses heels,
And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.
Convey brave Salisbury into his tent,
And then we'll try what dastard Frenchmen dare. [Alarum, Exeunt, bearing Salisbury and Sir Thomas Gargrave out. Here an alarm again; and Talbot pursueth the Dauphin, and driveth him: then enter Joan la Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her. Then enter Talbot.

Tal.
Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?
Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them:
A woman, clad in armour, chaseth them.

Enter Pucelle.
Here, here, she comes. I'll have a bout with thee;
Devil, or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee:
Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch;
And straitway 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 breast I'll burst with straining of my courage,
And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.

Pucel.
Talbot, farewel, thy hour is not yet come,
I must go victual Orleans forthwith. A short alarum. Then enter the town with soldiers.
O'ertake me if thou canst, I scorn thy strength.
Go, go, chear up thy hunger-starved men,
Help Salisbury to make his testament:
This day is ours, as many more shall be. [Exit Pucelle.

Tal.
My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel.
I know not where I am, nor what I do:
A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops, and conquers as she lists.
So Bees with smoak, and Doves with noisom stench,
Are from their hives, and houses, driv'n away.
They call'd us for our fierceness English dogs,
Now, like their whelps, we crying run away. [A short alarum.
Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,
Or tear the Lions out of England's Coat;
Renounce your soil, give Sheep in Lions stead:
Sheep run not half so tim'rous from the Wolf,
Or Horse or Oxen from the Leopard,
As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. [Alarum. Here another Skirmish.
It will not be: retire into your trenches:
You all consented unto Salisbury's death,
For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.
Pucelle is enter'd into Orleans,
In spight of us, or ought that we could do,

O, would I were to die with Salisbury!
The shame hereof will make me hide my head. [Exit Talbot. [Alarum, Retreat, Flourish. Enter on the Wall, Pucelle, Dauphin, Reignier, Alanson, and Soldiers.

Pucel.
Advance our waving colours on the walls,
Rescu'd is Orleans from the English Wolves:
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word.

Dau.
Divinest creature, bright Astrea's daughter,
How shall I honour thee for this success!
Thy promises are like Adonis' Garden,(10) ^note

Recover'd is the town of Orleans;
More blessed hap did ne'er befal our state.

Reig.
Why ring not out the bells throughout the town?
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 friers in my realm
Shall in procession sing 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 ashes, in an urn more precious
Than the rich-jewel'd coffer of Darius,(11) ^note
Transported shall 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 victory. [Flourish. Exeunt.

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