They, that of late were daring with their scoffs,
Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.

[Dies, and is carried off in his Chair.

Alarum: Enter Talbot, BURGUNDY, and Others.

Tal. Lost, and recover'd in a day again!
This is a double honour, Burgundy:
Yet, heavens have glory for this victory!

Bur. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy
Enshrines thee in his heart; and there erects
Thy noble deeds, as valour's monument.

Tal. Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle now? I think, her old familiar is asleep: Now where's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his gleeks? What, all a-mort?—Roüen hangs her head for grief, That such a valiant company are fled. Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert officers; And then depart to Paris, to the king; For there young Harry, with his nobles, lies.

Bur. What wills lord Talbot, pleaseth Burgundy.

Tal. But yet, before we go, let's not forget
The noble duke of Bedford, late deceas'd,
But see his exequies fulfilled in Roüen;
A braver soldier never couched lance,
A gentler heart did never sway in court:
But kings and mightiest potentates, must die;
For that's the end of human misery.

Exeunt.

SCENE III.—The same. The Plains near the City.

Enter Charles, the Bastard, Alençon, La Pucelle,

and Forces.
Puc. Dismay not, princes, at this accident,
Nor grieve that Roüen is so recovered :
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,
For things that are not to be remedied.
Let frantick Talbot triumph for a while,
And like a peacock sweep along his tail;
We'll pull his plumes, and take away his train,
If Dauphin, and the rest, will be but ruld.

Char. We have been guided by thee hitherto,
And of thy cunning had no diffidence;
One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.

Bast. Search out thy wit for secret policies,
And we will make thee famous through the world.

Alen. We'll set thy statue in some holy place,
And have thee reverenc'd like a blessed saint;
Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.

Puc. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise :
By fair persuasions, mix'd with sugar'd words,
We will entice the duke of Burgundy
To leave the Talbot, and to follow us.

Char. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,
France were no place for Henry's warrior's;
Nor should that nation boast it so with us,
But be extirped from our provinces.

Alen. For ever should they be expuls'd from France, And not have title to an earldom here.

Puc. Your honours shall perceive how I will work, To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drums heard. Hark! by the sound of drum, you may perceive Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.

An English March. Enter, and pass over at a distance,

TALBOT, and his Forces.
There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread;
And all the troops of English after him.

A French March. Enter the Duke of BURGUNDY and

Forces.
Now, in the rearward, comes the duke, and his;
Fortune, in favour, makes him lag behind.
Summon a parley, we will talk with him.

[A Parley sounded.
Char. A parley with the duke of Burgundy.
Bur. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy ?
Puc. The princely Charles of France, thy countryman,
Bur. What say’st thou, Charles ? for I am marching

hence. Char. Speak, Pucelle; and enchant him with thy

words. Puc. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France ! Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.

Bur. Speak on ; but be not over-tedious.

Puc. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defac'd By wasting ruin of the cruel foe! As looks the mother on her lowly babe, When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see, the pining malady of France;

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,
Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast !
O, turn thy edged sword another way;
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help!
One drop of blood, drawn from thy country's bosoin,
Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore;
Return thee, therefore, with a flood of tears,
And wash away thy country's stained spots !

Bur. Either she hath bewitched me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Puc. Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee, Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. Who join'st thou with, but with a lordly nation, That will not trust thee, but for profit's sake? When Talbot hath set footing once in France, And fashion’d thee that instrument of ill, Who then, but English Henry, will be lord, And thou be thrust out, like a fugitive? Call we to mind,-and mark but this, for proof ;Was not the duke of Orleans thy foe? And was he not in England prisoner ? But, when they heard he was thine enemy, They set him free, without his ransom paid, In spite of Burgundy, and all his friends. See then! thou fight'st against thy countrymen, And join'st with them will be thy slaughter-men. Come, come, return; return, thou wand'ring lord; Charles, and the rest, will take thee in their arms.

Bur. I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers Have batter'd me like roaring cannon-shot, And made me almost yield upon my knees.Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen!

And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace:
My forces and my power of men are yours;
So, farewell, Talbot; I'll no longer trust thee.

Puc. Done like a Frenchman; turn, and turn again!
Char. Welcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes

us fresh. Bast. And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

Alen. Pucelle hath bravely played her part in this, And doth deserve a coronet of gold.

Char. Now, let us on, my lords, and join our powers; And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-Paris. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, GLOSTER, and other Lords, Ver

NON, BASSET, 8c. To them, TALBOT, and some of his Officers.

Tal. My gracious prince,-and honourable peers,Hearing of your arrival in this realm, I have a while given truce unto my wars, To do my duty to my sovereign : In sign whereof, this arm-that hath reclaim'd To your obedience fifty fortresses, Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength, Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem,Lets fall his sword before your highness' feet; And, with submissive loyalty of heart, Ascribes the glory of his conquest got, First to my God, and next unto your grace.

K. Hen. Is this the lord Talbot, uncle Gloster, That hath so long been resident in France?