Imágenes de páginas

John. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be sever'd from your side, Than can yourself yourself in twain divide: Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not, if my father die.

Tal. 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.




Alarum: Excursions, wherein TALBOT's Son is hemm`d about, and TALBOT rescues him.

Tal. Saint George, and victory! fight, soldiers, fight:

The regent hath with Talbot broke his word,
And left us to the rage of France's 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, despight of fate,
Το my determin'd time thou gav'st new date.
Tal. 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 Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the pride of Gallia rescu'd 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 mis-begotten 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 not thou 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.
Oh, 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 shortning 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


These words of your's draw life-blood from my heart: Oh what 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, fall and die! 450
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.

Tal. 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 prov'd, let's die in pride. 460

[blocks in formation]

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 over-mounting spirit; and there dy'd
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

Enter JOHN TALBOT, borne,


Serv. O my dear lord! lo, where your son is borne ! Tal. Thou antic death, which laugh'st us here to


Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,
In thy despight, shall 'scape mortality.—


O thou whose wounds become hard-favour'd 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


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.



Continues near Bourdeaux. Enter CHARLES, ALENÇON, BURGUNDY, Bastard, and JOAN LA PUCELLE.


HAD York and Somerset brought rescue in,
We should have found a bloody day of this.
Bast. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging-

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood!
Pucel. 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.


Bur. Doubtless, he would have made a noble


See, where he lies inhersed in the arms

Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.

Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asun


Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder.


« AnteriorContinuar »