Enter TALBOT and JOHN his son
TALBOT. 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-boding stars!
Now thou art 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.
TALBOT. Fly to
revenge my death, if I be slain.
JOHN. He that flies so will ne'er return again.
TALBOT. 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, every 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.
TALBOT. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb?
JOHN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb.
TALBOT. Upon my
blessing I command thee go.
JOHN. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.
TALBOT. Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee.
JOHN. No part of him but will be shame in me.
TALBOT. Thou never hadst
renown, nor canst not lose it.
JOHN. Yes, your
renowned name; shall
flight abuse it?
TALBOT. 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.
TALBOT. 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 severed from your side
Than can yourself yourself yourself in twain divide.
Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;
For live I will not if my father die.
TALBOT. 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
SCENE 6.
A field of battle
Alarum: excursions
wherein JOHN TALBOT is hemm'd
about, and TALBOT
rescues him
TALBOT. Saint George and
victory! Fight, soldiers, fight.
The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word
And left us to the rage of France his 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,
despite of fate,
To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date.
TALBOT. 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 Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the pride of Gallia
rescued 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 misbegotten 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 thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare?
Wilt thou yet leave the battle, 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.
O, 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 an if I stay:
'Tis but the short'ning of my life one day.
In thee thy mother dies, our household'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.
On that ad
vantage, bought with such a shame,
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.
TALBOT. Then follow thou thy desp'rate sire of Crete,
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
SCENE 7.
Another part of the field
Alarum; excursions. Enter old TALBOT led by a SERVANT
TALBOT. 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,
Tend'ring 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 clust'ring battle of the French;
And in that sea of blood my boy did drench
His overmounting spirit; and there died,
My Icarus, my
blossom, in his pride.
Enter soldiers,
bearing the body of JOHN TALBOT
SERVANT. O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne!
TALBOT. Thou antic 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
despite shall scape mortality.
O thou whose wounds become hard-favoured 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]
Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD,
LA PUCELLE, and forces
CHARLES. Had York and Somerset brought
rescue in,
We should have found a
bloody day of this.
BASTARD. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood!
PUCELLE. Once I encount'red him, and thus I said:
'Thou
maiden youth, be vanquish'd 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.'
So, rushing in the bowels of the French,
He left me
proudly, as
unworthy fight.
BURGUNDY. Doubtless he would have made a noble knight.
See where he lies inhearsed in the arms
Of the most
bloody nurser of his harms!
BASTARD. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,
Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder.
CHARLES. O, no; forbear! For that which we have fled
During the life, let us not wrong it dead.
Enter SIR WILLIAM Lucy, attended; a FRENCH
HERALD preceding
LUCY. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent,
To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day.
CHARLES. On what submissive message art thou sent?
LUCY. Submission, Dauphin! 'Tis a mere 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.
CHARLES. For prisoners ask'st thou? Hell our prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek'st.
LUCY. But where's 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 Verdun of Alton,
Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,
The
thricevictorious Lord of Falconbridge,
Knight of the noble order of Saint George,
Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece,
Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth
Of all his wars within the realm of France?
PUCELLE. 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 tides,