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On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d,
To wall thee from the liberty of fight;
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 unconquered 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 timorous soul;
And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

[Exeunt General, &c. 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 timorous 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 Saint George! Talbot, and England's right!
Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! [Exeunt.

SCENE III.--Plains in Gascony,

Enter York, with Forces; to him a Messenger. York. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again, That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin?

Mess. They are returned, my lord; and give it out,
That he is march'd to Bourdeaux with his power,
To fight with Talbot: As he march'd along,
By your espials were discovered
Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led;
Which join’d with him, and made their march for Bour-

deaux.
York. A plague upon that yillain 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, farewell wars in France.

Enter Sir WILLIAM LUCY. Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the carth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot ; Who now is girdled with a waist of iron, And hemm'd about with grim destruction:

To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, York !
Else, farewell 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; whom, two hours since,
I met in travel toward his warlike father!
This seven 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 sunder'd friends greet in the hour of death.
Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.-
Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,
’Long all of Somerset, and his delay.

Lucy. Thus, while the vulture of sedition
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss
The conquest of our scarce-cold conqueror,
That ever-living man of memory,
Henry the fifth :-Whiles they each other cross,
Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. (Erit.

[Exit. SCENE IV.-Other Plains of Gascony.

Enter Somerset, with his Forces; an Officer of Tal

Bot's with him. Som. It is too late; I cannot send them now : This expedition was by York, and Talbot, Too rashly plotted; all our general 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, desperate, wild adventure: York set him on to fight, and die in shame, That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

Of. 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 whiles 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,
Alençon, 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 withhold 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 entrapp'd the noble-minded Talbot: Never to England shall he bear his life; But dies, betrayed to fortune by your strife.

Som. Come, go; I will despatch the horsemen straight: 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 V.The English Camp near Bourdeaux.

Enter Talbot, and John 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,

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