Shakespeare's First Folio Part 359

Talb. Part of thy Father may be sau'd in thee

Iohn. No part of him, but will be shame in mee

Talb. Thou neuer hadst Renowne, nor canst not lose it

Iohn. Yes, your renowned Name: shall flight abuse it?

Talb. Thy Fathers charge shal cleare thee from y staine

Iohn. You cannot witnesse for me, being slaine.

If Death be so apparant, then both flye

Talb. And leaue my followers here to fight and dye?

My Age was neuer tainted with such shame

Iohn. And shall my Youth be guiltie of such blame?

No more can I be seuered from your side, Then can your selfe, your selfe in twaine diuide: Stay, goe, doe what you will, the like doe I; For liue I will not, if my Father dye

Talb. Then here I take my leaue of thee, faire Sonne, Borne to eclipse thy Life this afternoone: Come, side by side, together liue and dye, And Soule with Soule from France to Heauen flye.

Enter.

Alarum: Excursions, wherein Talbots Sonne is hemm'd about, and Talbot rescues him.

Talb. Saint George, and Victory; fight Souldiers, fight: The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word, And left vs to the rage of France his Sword.

Where is Iohn Talbot? pawse, and take thy breath, I gaue thee Life, and rescu'd thee from Death

Iohn. O twice my Father, twice am I thy Sonne: The Life thou gau'st me first, was lost and done, Till with thy Warlike Sword, despight of Fate, To my determin'd time thou gau'st new date

Talb. When fro[m] the Dolphins Crest thy Sword struck fire, It warm'd thy Fathers heart with prowd desire Of bold-fac't Victorie. Then Leaden Age, Quicken'd with Youthfull Spleene, and Warlike Rage, Beat downe Alanson, Orleance, Burgundie, And from the Pride of Gallia rescued thee.

The irefull b.a.s.t.a.r.d Orleance, that drew blood From thee my Boy, and had the Maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soone encountred, And interchanging blowes, I quickly shed Some of his b.a.s.t.a.r.d blood, and in disgrace Bespoke him thus: Contaminated, base, And mis-begotten blood, I spill of thine, Meane and right poore, for that pure blood of mine, Which thou didst force from Talbot, my braue Boy.

Here purposing the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speake thy Fathers care: Art thou not wearie, Iohn? How do'st thou fare?

Wilt thou yet leaue the Battaile, Boy, and flie, Now thou art seal'd the Sonne of Chiualrie?

Flye, to reuenge my death when I am dead, The helpe of one stands me in little stead.

Oh, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our liues in one small Boat.

If I to day dye not with Frenchmens Rage, To morrow I shall dye with mickle Age.

By me they nothing gaine, and if I stay, 'Tis but the shortning of my Life one day.

In thee thy Mother dyes, our Households Name, My Deaths Reuenge, thy Youth, and Englands Fame: All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay; All these are sau'd, if thou wilt flye away

Iohn. The Sword of Orleance hath not made me smart, These words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart.

On that aduantage, bought with such a shame, To saue a paltry Life, and slay bright Fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot flye, The Coward Horse that beares me, fall and dye: And like me to the pesant Boyes of France, To be Shames scorne, and subiect of Mischance.

Surely, by all the Glorie you haue wonne, And if I flye, I am not Talbots Sonne.

Then talke no more of flight, it is no boot, If Sonne to Talbot, dye at Talbots foot

Talb. Then follow thou thy desp'rate Syre of Creet, Thou Icarus, thy Life to me is sweet: If thou wilt fight, fight by thy Fathers side, And commendable prou'd, let's dye in pride.

Enter.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter old Talbot led.

Talb. Where is my other Life? mine owne is gone.

O, where's young Talbot? where is valiant Iohn?

Triumphant Death, smear'd with Captiuitie, Young Talbots Valour makes me smile at thee.

When he perceiu'd me shrinke, and on my Knee, His bloodie Sword he brandisht ouer mee, And like a hungry Lyon did commence Rough deeds of Rage, and sterne Impatience: But when my angry Guardant stood alone, Tendring my ruine, and a.s.sayl'd of none, Dizzie-ey'd Furie, and great rage of Heart, Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the cl.u.s.tring Battaile of the French: And in that Sea of Blood, my Boy did drench His ouer-mounting Spirit; and there di'de My Icarus, my Blossome, in his pride.

Enter with Iohn Talbot, borne.

Seru. O my deare Lord, loe where your Sonne is borne

Tal. Thou antique Death, which laugh'st vs here to scorn, Anon from thy insulting Tyrannie, Coupled in bonds of perpetuitie, Two Talbots winged through the lither Skie, In thy despight shall scape Mortalitie.

O thou whose wounds become hard fauoured death, Speake to thy father, ere thou yeeld thy breath, Braue death by speaking, whither he will or no: Imagine him a Frenchman, and thy Foe.

Poore Boy, he smiles, me thinkes, as who should say, Had Death bene French, then Death had dyed to day.

Come, come, and lay him in his Fathers armes, My spirit can no longer beare these harmes.

Souldiers adieu: I haue what I would haue, Now my old armes are yong Iohn Talbots graue.

Dyes

Enter Charles, Alanson, Burgundie, b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and Pucell.

Char. Had Yorke and Somerset brought rescue in, We should haue found a b.l.o.o.d.y day of this

Bast. How the yong whelpe of Talbots raging wood, Did flesh his punie-sword in Frenchmens blood

Puc. Once I encountred him, and thus I said: Thou Maiden youth, be vanquisht by a Maide.

But with a proud Maiesticall high scorne He answer'd thus: Yong Talbot was not borne To be the pillage of a Giglot Wench: So rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as vnworthy fight

Bur. Doubtlesse he would haue made a n.o.ble Knight: See where he lyes inherced in the armes Of the most b.l.o.o.d.y Nursser of his harmes

Bast. Hew them to peeces, hack their bones a.s.sunder, Whose life was Englands glory, Gallia's wonder

Char. Oh no forbeare: For that which we haue fled During the life, let vs not wrong it dead.

Enter Lucie.

Lu. Herald, conduct me to the Dolphins Tent, To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day

Char. On what submissiue message art thou sent?

Lucy. Submission Dolphin? Tis a meere French word: We English Warriours wot not what it meanes.

I come to know what Prisoners thou hast tane, And to suruey the bodies of the dead

Char. For prisoners askst thou? h.e.l.l our prison is.

But tell me whom thou seek'st?

Luc. But where's the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot Earle of Shrewsbury?

Created for his rare successe in Armes, Great Earle of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Vrchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdon of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingefield, Lord Furniuall of Sheffeild, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the n.o.ble Order of S[aint]. George, Worthy S[aint]. Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshall to Henry the sixt, Of all his Warres within the Realme of France

Puc. Heere's a silly stately stile indeede: The Turke that two and fiftie Kingdomes hath, Writes not so tedious a Stile as this.

Him that thou magnifi'st with all these t.i.tles, Stinking and fly-blowne lyes heere at our feete

Lucy. Is Talbot slaine, the Frenchmens only Scourge, Your Kingdomes terror, and blacke Nemesis?

Oh were mine eye-balles into Bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces.

Oh, that I could but call these dead to life, It were enough to fright the Realme of France.

Were but his Picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the prowdest of you all.

Giue me their Bodyes, that I may beare them hence, And giue them Buriall, as beseemes their worth