Tal.
Lost and recover'd in a day again?
This is a double honour, Burgundy;
Yet heav'ns have glory for this victory!

Bur.
Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy
Inshrines thee in his heart; and there erects
Thy noble deeds, as Valour's monuments.

Tal.
Thanks, gentle Duke; but where is Pucelle now?
I think, her old Familiar is asleep.
Now where's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his glikes?
What, all a-mort? Roan hangs her head for grief;
That such a valiant company are fled.
Now we will take some order in the town,
Placing therein some expert officers,
And then depart to Paris to the King;
For there young Henry with his Nobles lyes.

Burg.
What wills lord Talbot, pleaseth Burgundy.

Tal.
But yet before we go, let's not forget
The noble Duke of Bedford, late deceas'd;
But see his exequies fulfill'd in Roan.
A braver soldier never couched launce,
A gentler heart did never sway in Court.
But Kings and mightiest potentates must die,
For that's the end of human misery. [Exeunt. Enter Dauphin, Bastard, Alanson, and Joan la Pucelle.

Pucel.
Dismay not, Princes, at this accident,
Nor grieve that Roan is so recovered.
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,
For things that are not to be remedy'd.
Let frantick Talbot triumph for awhile;
And, like a Peacock, sweep along his tail:
We'll pull his plumes and take away his train,
If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul'd.

Dau.
We have been guided by thee hitherto,
And of thy cunning had no diffidence.
One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.

Bast.
Search out thy wit for secret policies,
And we will make thee famous through the world.

Alan.
We'll set thy statue in some holy place,
And have thee reverenc'd like a blessed Saint.
Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.

Pucel.
Then thus it must be, this doth Joan devise:
By fair persuasions, mixt with sugar'd words,
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy
To leave the Talbot, and to follow us.

Dau.
Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do That,
France were no place for Henry's warriors;
Nor shall that nation boast it so with us,
But be extirped from our provinces.

Alan.
For ever should they be expuls'd from France,
And not have title of an Earldom here.

Pucel.
Your Honours shall perceive how I will work,
To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drum beats afar off.
Hark, by the sound of drum you may perceive
Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. [Here beat an English March.
There goes the Talbot with his Colours spread,
And all the troops of English after him. [French March.
Now, in the rereward, comes the Duke and his:
Fortune, in favour, makes him lag behind.
Summon a parley, we will talk with him. [Trumpets sound a parley. Enter the Duke of Burgundy marching.

Dau.
A parley with the Duke of Burgundy.—

Burg.
Who craves a parley with the Burgundy?

Pucel.
The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.

Burg.
What say'st thou, Charles? for I am marching hence.

Dau.
Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.

Pucel.
Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!
Stay, let thy humble hand-maid speak to thee.

Bur.
Speak on, but be not over-tedious.

Pucel.
Look on thy country, look on fertile France;
And see the cities, and the towns, defac'd
By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.
As looks the mother on her lowly babe,
When death doth close his tender dying eyes;
See, see the pining malady of France.
Behold the wounds, the most unnat'ral wounds,
Which thou thy self hast giv'n her woful breast.
Oh, turn thy edged sword another way;
Strike those, that hurt; and hurt not those, that help:
One drop of blood, drawn from thy country's bosom,
Should grieve thee more than streams of common gore;
Return thee, therefore, with a flood of tears,
And wash away thy country's stained spots.

Burg.
Either she hath bewitch'd me with her words,
Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Pucel.
Besides, all French and France exclaim on thee;
Doubting thy birth, and lawful progeny.
Whom join'st thou with, but with a lordly nation
That will not trust thee but for profit's sake?
When Talbot hath set footing once in France,
And fashion'd thee that instrument of Ill;
Who then but English Henry will be lord,
And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?
Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof;
Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe?
And was not he in England prisoner?
But when they heard he was thine enemy,
They set him free without his ransom paid;
In spight of Burgundy, and all his friends.
See then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen;
And join'st with them, will be thy slaughter-men.
Come, come, return; return, thou wand'ring lord;
Charles, and the rest will take thee in their arms.

Burg.
I'm vanquished. These haughty words of hers
Have batter'd me like roaring cannon-shot,
And made me almost yield upon my knees.

Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen;
And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace.
My forces and my pow'r of men are yours.
So farewel Talbot, I'll no longer trust thee.

Pucel.
Done, like a Frenchman: turn, and turn again!—(19) ^note

Dau.
Welcome, brave Duke! thy friendship makes us fresh.

Bast.
And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

Alan.
Pucelle hath bravely play'd her part in this,
And doth deserve a Coronet of gold.

Dau.
Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers;
And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [Exeunt.

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