King Henry the Sixth.
Duke of Gloster, Uncle to the King, and Protector.
Duke of BEDFORD, Uncle to the King, and Regent of France.
Thomas BEAUFORT, Duke of Exeter, great Uncle to the
King
Henry BEAUFORT, great Uncle to the King, Bishop of
WINCHESTER, and afterwards Cardinal. John BEAUFORT, Earl of Somerset; afterwards, Duke. RICHARD PLANTAGENET, eldest Son of RICHARD, late
Earl of CAMBRIDGE; afterwards Duke of York. Earl of WARWICK. Earl of SALISBURY. Earl of SUFFOLK. Lord Talbot, afterwards Earl of ShrewSBURY: John TALBOT, his Son. EDMUND MORTIMER, Earl of MARCH. Mortimer's Keeper, and a Lawyer. Sir John FASTolre. Sir WILLIAM LUCY. Sir WILLIAM GLANSDALE. Sir THOMAS GARGRAVE. Mayor of London. Woodville, Lieutenant of the Tower. Vernon, of the White Rose, or York Faction. Basset, of the Red Rose, or Lancaster Faction. CHARLES, Dauphin, and afterwards King of FRANCE. REIGNIER, Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples. Duke of BURGUNDY. Duke of ALENÇON. Governor of Paris. Bastard of Orleans. Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son. General of the French Forces in Bourdeaur. A French Sergeant. A Porter. An old Shepherd, Father to JOAN LA Pucelle. MARGARET, Daughter to REIGNIER; afterwards married
to King Henry. Countess of Auvergne. JOAN LA Pucelle, commonly called Joan of Arc. Fiends appearing to LA PUCELLE, Lords, Warders of the
Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and several Attendants both on the English and French. SCENE, partly in England, and partly in France.
Dead march. Corpse of King Henry the Fifth discover
ed, lying in state; attended on by the Dukes of Bed-
FORD, GLOSTER, and EXETER; the Earl of WAR-
WICK, the Bishop of WINCHESTER, Heralds, &c.
Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to
night!
Comets, importing change of times and states,
VOL. VIII.
A 2
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky;
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,
That have consented unto Henry's death!
Henry the fifth, too famous to live long !
England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.
Glo. England ne'er had a king, until his time.
Virtue he had, deserving to command :
His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams;
His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;
His sparkling eyes replete with wrathful fire,
More dazzled and drove back his enemies,
Than mid-day sun, fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech :
He ne'er lift up his hand, but conquered.
Exe. We mourn in black; Why mourn we not in
blood ?
Henry is dead, and never shall revive:
Upon a wooden coffin we attend;
And death's dishonourable victory
We with our stately presence glorify,
Like captives bound to a triumphant car.
What? shall we curse the planets of mishap,
That plotted thus our glory's overthrow ?
Or shall we think the subtile-witted French
Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,
By magic verses have contriv'd his end?
Win. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings.
Unto the French the dreadful judgment 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.
Glo. 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.
Win. Gloster, whate'er we like, thou art protector;
And lookest to command the prince, and realm.
Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,
More than God, or religious churchmen, may.
Glo. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against thy foes.
Bed. Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in
Let's to the altar :-Heralds, wait on us :
Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms;
Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead.
Posterity, await for wretched years,
When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck;
Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,
And none but women left to wail the dead.-
Henry the fifth ! thy ghost I invocate;
Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils !
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens !
A far more glorious star thy soul will make,
Than Julius Cæsar, or bright-
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all i
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,
Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:
|