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Plains in Gascony. | |
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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 return’d, my lord; and give it out, | 5 |
| 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 Bourdeaux. | 10 |
| York. A plague upon that villain Somerset, | |
| That thus delays my promised supply | |
| Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! | |
| Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, | |
| And I am louted by a traitor villain, | 15 |
| And cannot help the noble chevalier. | |
| God comfort him in this necessity! | |
| If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. | |
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Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY. | |
| Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English strength, | 20 |
| Never so needful on the earth 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, war-like duke! To Bourdeaux, York! | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| Mad ire and wrathful fury, make 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 war-like word; | |
| We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get; | 35 |
| 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 war-like father. | |
| This seven years did not Talbot see his son; | 40 |
| 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. | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss. [Exit. | |
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