Henry VI Part 1

EXETER: We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?
[…] What! shall we curse the planets of mishap
That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow?
Or shall we think the subtle-witted French
Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him
By magic verses have contrived his end?

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER: He was a king bless’d of the King of kings.
Unto the French the dreadful judgement-day
So dreadful will not be as was his sight.
The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:
The church’s prayers made him so prosperous.

GLOUCESTER: The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray’d,
His thread of life had not so soon decay’d:
None do you like but an effeminate prince,
Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe.

MESSENGER: All the whole army stood agazed on him:
His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit
A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain
And rush’d into the bowels of the battle.
Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up,
If Sir John Fastolf had not play’d the coward:
He, being in the vaward, placed behind
With purpose to relieve and follow them,
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.
Hence grew the general wreck and massacre;
Enclosed were they with their enemies:
A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace,
Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back,
Whom all France with their chief assembled strength
Durst not presume to look once in the face.

BEDFORD: Is Talbot slain? then I will slay myself,
For living idly here in pomp and ease,
Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,
Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d.

CHARLES: Then come, o’ God’s name; I fear no woman.

JOAN LA PUCELLE: And while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man.

Here they fight, and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes

CHARLES: Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon
And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

JOAN LA PUCELLE: Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too weak.

CHARLES: Whoe’er helps thee, ‘tis thou that must help me:
Impatiently I burn with thy desire;
My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.
Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,
Let me thy servant and not sovereign be:
‘Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.

JOAN LA PUCELLE: I must not yield to any rites of love,
For my profession’s sacred from above:
When I have chased all thy foes from hence,
Then will I think upon a recompense.

CHARLES: Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

TALBOT: Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?
Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them:
A woman clad in armour chaseth them.

[…] Here, here she comes. I’ll have a bout with thee;
Devil or devil’s dam, I’ll conjure thee:
Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,
And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest.

JOAN LA PUCELLE: Come, come, ‘tis only I that must disgrace thee.

Here they fight

TALBOT: Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?
My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage
And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder.
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.

[…] My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;
I know not where I am, nor what I do;
A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists[.]

TALBOT: Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite,
Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours!
Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age
And twit with cowardice a man half dead?
Damsel, I’ll have a bout with you again,
Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

[…] Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field?

JOAN LA PUCELLE: Belike your lordship takes us then for fools,
To try if that our own be ours or no.

TALBOT: I speak not to that railing Hecate,
But unto thee, Alanson, and the rest;
Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?

ALANSON: Signior, no.

TALBOT: Signior, hang! base muleters of France!
Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls
And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.

An alarum: excursions. Enter FASTOLF and a CAPTAIN

CAPTAIN: Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste?

FASTOLF: Whither away! to save myself by flight:
We are like to have the overthrow again.

CAPTAIN: What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?

FASTOLF: Ay,
All the Talbots in the world, to save my life!

Exit

CAPTAIN: Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!

Exit

Retreat: excursions. JOAN LA PUCELLE, ALANSON, and CHARLES fly

BEDFORD: Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please,
For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow.
What is the trust or strength of foolish man?
They that of late were daring with their scoffs
Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.

BEDFORD dies, and is carried in by two in his chair

TALBOT: 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,
Profaning 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.

KING HENRY VI: Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear’st thy doom!
Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight:
Henceforth we banish thee, on pain of death.

YORK: 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.

Exit, with his soldiers

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.

JOHN TALBOT: The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart;
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart:
On that advantage, 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 fail 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 desperate sire of Crete,
Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet:
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side;
And, commendable proved, let’s die in pride.

CHARLES: Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,
We should have found a bloody day of this.

BASTARD OF ORLEANCE: How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!

JOAN LA PUCELLE: Once I encounter’d 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[.]

JOAN LA PUCELLE: I am with child, ye bloody homicides:
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although ye hale me to a violent death.

[…] YORK: She and the Dauphin have been juggling:
I did imagine what would be her refuge.

[…] JOAN LA PUCELLE: You are deceived; my child is none of his:
It was Alanson that enjoy’d my love.

YORK: Alanson! that notorious Machiavel!
It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.

JOAN LA PUCELLE: O, give me leave, I have deluded you:
‘Twas neither Charles nor yet the duke I named,
But Reignier, king of Naples, that prevail’d.

[…] YORK: Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well,
There were so many, whom she may accuse.

WARWICK: It’s sign she hath been liberal and free.

YORK: And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.
Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee:
Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.

YORK: Is all our travail turn’d to this effect?
After the slaughter of so many peers,
So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers,
That in this quarrel have been overthrown
And sold their bodies for their country benefit,
Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?
Have we not lost most part of all the towns,
By treason, falsehood and by treachery,
Our great progenitors had conquered?
O Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief
The utter loss of all the realm of France.