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 ^{3 note}

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!
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 friars 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,
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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