Gloucester.
Lord Bishop, set the Crown upon his head.

Win.
God save King Henry, of that name the Sixth!

Glou.
Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath.
That you elect no other King but him;
Esteem none friends, but such as are his friends;
And none your foes, but such as shall pretend
Malicious practices against his state.
This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! Enter Fastolfe.

Fast.
My gracious Soveraign, as I rode from Calais,
To haste unto your Coronation;
A letter was deliver'd to my hands,
Writ to your Grace from th' Duke of Burgundy,

Tal.
Shame to the Duke of Burgundy, and thee!
I vow'd, base Knight, when I did meet thee next,
To tear the Garter from thy craven leg,
Which I have done; because unworthily
Thou wast installed in that high degree.
Pardon, my Princely Henry, and the rest:
This dastard, at the battle of Poictiers,
When but in all I was six thousand strong,

And that the French were almost ten to one,
Before we met, or that a stroke was given,
Like to a trusty 'squire, did run away.
In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;
My self and divers gentlemen beside
Were there surpriz'd, and taken prisoners.
Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;
Or whether that such cowards ought to wear
This ornament of knighthood, yea or no?

Glou.
To say the truth, this fact was infamous,
And ill beseeming any common man;
Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader.

Tal.
When first this Order was ordain'd, my lords,
Knights of the Garter were of noble birth;
Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage;
Such as were grown to Credit by the wars;
Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,
But always resolute in most extremes.
He then, that is not furnish'd in this sort,
Doth but usurp the sacred name of Knight,
Prophaning this most honourable Order;
And should, if I were worthy to be judge,
Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain
That doth presume to boast of gentle blood.

K. Henry.
Stain to thy countrymen! thou hear'st thou doom;
Be packing therefore, thou that wast a Knight;
Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death. [Exit Fastolfe.
And now, my lord Protector, view the letter
Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.

Glou.
What means his Grace, that he hath chang'd his stile?
No more but plain and bluntly, To the King. [Reading.
Hath he forgot, he is his Soveraign?
Or doth this churlish superscription
Portend some alteration in good will?
What's here? I have upon especial cause, [Reads.
Mov'd with compassion of my country's wrack,
Together with the pitiful complaints

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,
Forsaken your pernicious factions,
And join'd with Charles, the rightful King of France.
O monstrous treachery! can this be so?
That in alliance, amity, and oaths,
There should be found such false dissembling guile?

K. Henry.
What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt?

Glou.
He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

K. Henry.
Is that the worst this letter doth contain?

Glou.
It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.

K. Henry.
Why then lord Talbot there shall talk with him,
And give him chastisement for this abuse.
My lord, how say you, are you not content?

Tal.
Content, my Liege? yes: but that I'm prevented,
I should have begg'd I might have been employ'd.

K. Henry.
Then gather strength, and march unto him strait:
Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason,
And what offence it is to flout his friends.

Tal.
I go, my lord, in heart desiring still
You may behold confusion of your foes. [Exit Talbot. Enter Vernon, and Basset.

Ver.
Grant me the combat, gracious Soveraign.

Bas.
And me, my lord; grant me the combat too.

York.
This is my servant; hear him, noble Prince.

Som.
And this is mine; sweet Henry, favour him.

K. Henry.
Be patient, lords, and give them leave to speak.
Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?
And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom?

Ver.
With him, my lord, for he hath done me wrong.

Bas.
And I with him, for he hath done me wrong.

K. Henry.
What is the wrong whereon you both complain?
First let me know, and then I'll answer you.

Bas.
Crossing the sea from England into France,
This fellow here, with envious, carping tongue,
Upbraided me about the rose I wear;

Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves
Did represent my master's blushing cheeks;
When stubbornly he did repugn the truth
About a certain question in the law,
Argu'd betwixt the Duke of York and him;
With other vile and ignominious terms.
In confutation of which rude reproach,
And in defence of my lord's worthiness,
I crave the benefit of law of arms.

Ver.
And that is my petition, noble lord;
For though he seem with forged quaint conceit
To set a gloss upon his bold intent,
Yet know, my lord, I was provok'd by him;
And he first took exceptions at this badge,
Pronouncing, that the paleness of this flow'r
Bewray'd the faintness of my master's heart.

York.
Will not this malice, Somerset, be left?

Som.
Your private grudge, my lord of York, will out,
Though ne'er so cunningly you smother it.

K. Henry.
Good lord! what madness rules in brainsick men!
When, for so slight and frivolous a cause,
Such factious emulations shall arise!
Good cousins both of York and Somerset,
Quiet your selves, I pray, and be at peace.

York.
Let this dissention first be try'd by fight,
And then your Highness shall command a peace.

Som.
The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;
Betwixt our selves let us decide it then.

York.
There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset.

Ver.
Nay, let it rest, where it began at first.

Bas.
Confirm it so, mine honourable lord.

Glou.
Confirm it so? confounded be your strife,
And perish ye with your audacious prate;
Presumptuous vassals! are you not asham'd
With this immodest clamorous outrage
To trouble and disturb the King, and us?
And you, my lords, methinks, you do not well
To bear with their perverse objections:
Much less to take occasion from their mouths

To raise a mutiny betwixt your selves:
Let me persuade you take a better course.

Exe.
It grieves his Highness: good my lords, be friends.

K. Henry.
Come hither you, that would be combatants:
Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,
Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause.
And you, my lords; remember where we are;
In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation:
If they perceive dissention in our looks,
And that within our selves we disagree,
How will their grudging stomachs be provok'd
To wilful Disobedience, and Rebell?
Beside, what infamy will there arise,
When foreign Princes shall be certify'd,
That for a toy, a thing of no regard,
King Henry's Peers and chief Nobility
Destroy'd themselves, and lost the realm of France?
O, think upon the Conquest of my father,
My tender years, and let us not forego
That for a trifle, which was bought with blood.
Let me be Umpire in this doubtful strife:
I see no reason, if I wear this rose,
That any one should therefore be suspicious
I more encline to Somerset, than York.
Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.
As well they may upbraid me with my Crown,
Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown'd.
But your discretions better can perswade,
Than I am able to instruct or teach:
And therefore, as we hither came in peace,
So let us still continue peace and love.
Cousin of York, we institute your Grace
To be our Regent in these parts of France:
And, good my lord of Somerset, unite
Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;
And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,
Go chearfully together, and digest
Your angry choler on your enemies.

Our self, my lord Protector, and the rest,
After some respite, will return to Calais;
From thence to England; where I hope ere long
To be presented, by your victories,
With Charles, Alanson, and that trait'rous rout. [Flourish. Exeunt. Manent York, Warwick, Exeter, and Vernon.

War.
My lord of York, I promise you, the King
Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

York.
And so he did; but yet I like it not,
In that he wears the badge of Somerset.

War.
Tush, that was but his fancy, blame him not;
I dare presume, sweet Prince, he thought no harm.

York.
An if I wis, he did.—But let it rest;(22) ^note

Exe.
Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice:
For had the passions of thy heart burst out,
I fear, we should have seen decypher'd there
More ranc'rous spight, mre furious raging broils,
Than yet can be imagin'd or suppos'd.
But howsoe'er, no simple man that sees
This jarring discord of Nobility,
This should'ring of each other in the Court,
This factious bandying of their favourites;
But that he doth presage some ill event.
'Tis much, when scepters are in childrens hands;

But more, when envy breeds unkind division:
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. [Exit. Scene 2 SCENE, before the Walls of Bourdeaux. Enter Talbot with trumpets, and drum.

Tal.
Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter,
Summon their General unto the Wall. [Sounds. Enter General, aloft.
English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth,
Servant in arms to Harry King of England;
And thus he would.—Open your city-gates,
Be humbled to us, call my Soveraign yours,
And do him homage as obedient subjects,
And I'll withdraw me and my bloody pow'r.
But if you frown upon this proffer'd peace,
You tempt the fury of my three attendants,
Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;
Who in a moment even with the earth
Shall lay your stately and air-braving tow'rs,
If you forsake the offer of their love.

Gen.
Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,
Our nation's terrour, and their bloody scourge!
The period of thy tyranny approacheth.
On us thou canst not enter, but by death:
For, I protest, we are well fortify'd;
And strong enough to issue out and fight.
If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,
Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee.
On either hand thee, there are squadrons pitch'd
To wall thee from the liberty of flight;
And no way canst thou turn thee for redress:
But death doth front thee with apparent spoil;
And pale destruction meets thee in the face.
Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament,
To rive their dangerous artillery
Upon no christian soul but English Talbot.
Lo! there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man,

Of an invincible, unconquer'd spirit:
This is the latest glory of thy praise,
That I thy enemy due thee withal;
For ere the glass, that now begins to run,
Finish the process of his sandy hour,
These eyes, that see thee now well coloured,
Shall see thee wither'd, bloody, pale and dead. [Drum afar off.
Hark! hark! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell,
Sings heavy musick to thy tim'rous soul;
And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. [Exit from the Walls.

Tal.
He fables not. I hear the enemy:
Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.
O, negligent and heedless discipline!
How are we park'd and bounded in a pale?
A little herd of England's tim'rous Deer,
Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs.
If we be English Deer, be then in blood;
Not rascal-like to fall down with a pinch,
But rather moody, mad, and desperate Stags,
Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel,
And make the cowards stand aloof at bay.
Sell every man his life as dear as mine,
And they shall find dear Deer of us, my friends.
God and St. George, Talbot, and England's right,
Prosper our Colours in this dangerous fight! [Exeunt. Scene 3 SCENE, another Part of France. Enter a Messenger, that meets York. Enter York, with trumpet, and many soldiers.

York.
Are not the speedy scouts return'd again,
That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin?

Mess.
They are return'd, my lord, and give it out
That he is march'd to Bourdeaux with his pow'r,
To fight with Talbot; as he march'd along,
By your espyals were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,
Which join'd with him, and made their march for Bourdeaux.

York.
A plague upon that villain Somerset,
That thus delays my promised supply
Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege!
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,
And I am lowted by a traitor villain,
And cannot help the noble chevalier:
God comfort him in this necessity!
If he miscarry, farewel wars in France. Enter Sir William Lucy.

Lucy.
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 girdled 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.

York.
O God! 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.

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

York.
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.

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

York.
Alas! what joy shall noble Talbot have,
To bid his young son welcome to his grave!
Away! vexation almost stops my breath,
That sundred 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, Poictiers, and Tours are won away,
Long all of Somerset, and his delay. [Exit.

Lucy.
Thus while the vulture of sedition
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss
The Conquests of our scarce-cold Conqueror;
That ever-living man of memory,
Henry the Fifth!—While they each other cross,
Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. [Exit. Scene 4 SCENE, another Part of France. Enter Somerset, with his army.

Som.
It is too late; I cannot send them now:
This expedition was by York and Talbot
Too rashly plotted. All our gen'ral force
Might with a sally of the very town
Be buckled with. The over-daring Talbot
Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour,
By this unheedful, desp'rate, wild adventure:
York set him on to fight, and die in shame,
That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

Capt.
Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me
Set from our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid. Enter Sir William Lucy.

Som.
How now, Sir William, whither were you sent?

Lucy.
Whither, my lord? from bought and sold lord Talbot:
Who, ring'd about with bold adversity,
Cries out for noble York and Somerset,
To beat assailing death from his weak legions.
And while the honourable Captain there
Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs,
And, in advantage ling'ring, looks for rescue;
You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour,
Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.
Let not your private discord keep away

The levied succours, that should lend him aid;
While he, renowned noble gentleman,
Yields up his life unto a world of odds.
Orleans the Bastard, Charles, and Burgundy,
Alanson, Reignier, compass him about;
And Talbot perisheth by your default.

Som.
York set him on, York should have sent him aid.

Lucy.
And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims;
Swearing, that you with-hold his levied host,
Collected for this expedition.

Som.
York lies: he might have sent, and had the horse:
I owe him little duty, and less love,
And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending.

Lucy.
The fraud of England, not the force of France,
Hath now entrapt the noble-minded Talbot:
Never to England shall he bear his life;
But dies, betray'd to fortune by your strife.

Som.
Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen strait:
Within six hours they will be at his aid.

Lucy.
Too late comes rescue: he is ta'en, or slain;
For fly he could not, if he would have fled:
And fly would Talbot never, though he might.

Som.
If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu!

Lucy.
His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. [Exeunt. Scene 5 SCENE, a Field of Battle near Bourdeaux. Enter Talbot, and his son.

Tal.
O Young John Talbot, I did send for thee
To tutor thee in stratagems of war;
That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd,
When sapless age, and weak unable limbs,
Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.
But, O malignant and ill-boading stars!
Now art thou come unto a feast of death,
A terrible and unavoided danger.
Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse;

And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape
By sudden flight. Come, dally not; be gone.

John.
Is my name Talbot? and am I your son?
And shall I fly? O! if you love my mother,
Dishonour not her honourable name,
To make a bastard, and a slave of me.
The world will say, he is not Talbot's blood,
That basely fled, when noble Talbot stood.

Tal.
Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.

John.
He that flies so, will ne'er return again.

Tal.
If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

John.
Then let me stay, and, father, do you fly:
Your loss is great, so your regard should be;
My worth unknown, no loss is known in me.
Upon my death the French can little boast;
In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.
Flight cannot stain the honour you have won:
But mine it will, that no exploit have done.
You fled for vantage, ev'ry one will swear:
But if I bow, they'll say, it was for fear.
There is no hope that ever I will stay,
If the first hour I shrink, and run away.
Here, on my knee, I beg mortality,
Rather than life preserv'd with infamy.

Tal.
Shall all thy mother's hopes lye in one tomb?

John.
Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb.

Tal.
Upon my blessing I command thee go.

John.
To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.

Tal.
Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee.

John.
No part of him, but will be shame in me.

Tal.
Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.

John.
Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it?

Tal.
Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain.

John.
You cannot witness for me, being slain.
If death be so apparent, then both fly.

Tal.
And leave my followers here to fight, and die?
My age was never tainted with such shame.

John.
And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?
No more can I be sever'd from your side,
Than can your self your self in twain divide:

Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;
For live I will not; if my father die.

Tal.
Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,
Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon:
Come, side by side, together live and die;
And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. [Exeunt. Alarum: excursions, wherein Talbot's son his hemm'd about, and Talbot rescues him.

Tal.
St. George, and victory! fight, soldiers, fight:
The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word,
And left us to the rage of France's sword.
Where is John Talbot? pause, and take thy breath;
I gave thee life, and rescu'd thee from death.

John.
O, twice my father! twice am I thy son:
The life, thou gav'st me first, was lost and done;
Till with thy warlike sword, despight of fate,
To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date.

Tal.
When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire,
It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire
Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age,
Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage,
Beat down Alanson, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the pride of Gallia rescu'd thee.
The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood
From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood
Of thy first Fight, I soon encountered;
And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed
Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace
Bespoke him thus: Contaminated, base,
And mis-begotten blood I spill of thine,
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine,
Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy—
Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,
Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care,
Art not thou weary, John? how dost thou fare?
Wilt thou yet leave the battel, boy, and fly,
Now thou art seal'd the son of Chivalry?
Fly, to revenge my death, when I am dead;
The help of one stands me in little stead.

Oh, too much folly is it, well I wot,
To hazard all our lives in one small boat.
If I to day die not with Frenchmen's rage,
To morrow I shall die with mickle age.
By me they nothing gain; and if I stay,
'Tis but the shortning of my life one day.
In thee thy mother dies, our houshold's name,
My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame:
All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay;
All these are sav'd, if thou wilt fly away.

John.
The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart,
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart.
Out on that vantage bought with such a shame,(23) ^note



To save a paltry life, and slay bright fame!
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,
The coward horse, that bears me, fall and die!
And like me to the peasant boys of France,
To be shame's scorn, and subject of mischance.
Surely, by all the glory you have won,
An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son:
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot;
If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot.

Tal.
Then follow thou thy desp'rate Sire of Creet,
Thou Icarus! thy life to me is sweet:
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side;
And, commendable prov'd, let's die in pride. [Exeunt. Alarum. Excursions. Enter old Talbot, led.

Tal.
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 perceiv'd me shrink, and on my knee,
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,
Tendring my ruin, and assail'd of none,
Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart
Suddenly made him from my side to start,
Into the clustring battel of the French:
And, in that sea of blood, my boy did drench
His over-mounting spirit; and there dy'd
My Icarus! my blossom in his pride! Enter John Talbot, borne.

Serv.
O my dear lord! lo! where your son is borne.

Tal.
Thou antick death, which laugh'st us here to scorn,
Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,
Two Talbots winged through the lither sky,
In thy despight, 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:
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.
Soldiers, adieu: I have what I would have,
Now my old arms are young John Talbot's Grave. [Dies.

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