Char.
Had York and Somerset brought Rescue in,
We should have found a bloody Day of this.

Bast.
How the young whelp of Talbot's raging Wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood.

Pucel.
Once I encountred him, and thus I sai
Thou Maiden Youth, be vanquisht by a Maid.
But with a proud Majestical high scorn
He answer'd thus: Young Talbot was not born
To be the pillage of a Giglot Wench,
He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Bur.
Doubtless he would have made a noble Knight:
See where he lyes inhearsed in the Arms
Of the most bloody Nurser of his harms.

Bast.
Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,
Whose life was England's Glory, Gallia's Wonder.

Char.
Oh no, forbear: For that which we have fled
During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter Lucy.

Lucy.
Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's Tent.
To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the Day.

Char.
On what submissive Message art thou sent?

Lucy.
Submission, Dauphin? 'tis a meer French word:
We English Warriors wot not what it means.
I come to know what Prisoners thou hast ta'en,
And to survey the Bodies of the Dead.

Char.
For Prisoners ask'st thou? Hell our Prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek'st?

Lucy.
Where is the great Alcides of the Field,
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 Verdon of Alton,
Lord Cromwel of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffeild,
The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge,
Knight of the Noble Order of St. George,

Worthy St. Michael, and the Golden Fleece,
Great Marshal to our King Henry the sixth,
Of all his Wars within the Realm of France.

Pucel.
Here's a silly stately style indeed:
The Turk, that two and fifty Kingdoms hath,
Writes not so tedious a Style as this.
Him that thou magnifi'st with all these Titles,
Stinking and fly-blown lyes here at our feet.

Lucy.
Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmens only Scourge,
Your Kingdom's terrour, and black Nemesis?
Oh were mine Eye-balls into Bullets turn'd,
That I in rage might shoot them at your Faces.
Oh, that I could but call these dead to life,
It were enough to fright the Realm of France.
Were but his Picture left among you here,
It would amaze the proudest of you all.
Give me their Bodies that I may bear them hence,
And give them Burial, as beseems their worth.

Pucel.
I think this upstart is old Talbot's Ghost,
He speaks with such a proud commanding Spirit:
For Gods sake, let him have him; to keep them here,
They would but stink, and putrifie the air.

Char.
Go take their Bodies hence.

Lucy.

I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd

Char.
So we be rid of them, do with them what thou wilt.
And now to Paris in this Conquering vein,
All will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain. [Exeunt.

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