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Another part of the field.
[Alarum: excursions. Enter TALBOT led by a Servant]
TALBOT
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Where is | my ot|her life?| Mine^own | is gone.
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O, where's | young Tal|bot? where | is val|iant
John?
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triumph|ant death,| smeared with | capti/vity,
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Young Tal|bot's val|or makes | me smile | at
thee.
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When he | perceived | me shrink,| and on | my
knee,
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His blood|y sword | he bran|dished ov|er me,
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And like | a hun|gry li|on, did | commence
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Rough deeds of rage,| and stern | impa|tience:
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But when | my ang|ry guar|dant stood | alone,
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Tender|ing my | ruin, and | assailed | of none,
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Dizzy-|eyed fu/ry, and | great rage of heart,
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Sudden|ly made | him from | my side | to start
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Into | the clus|tering bat|tle of | the French:
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And in | that sea | of blood,| my boy | did
drench
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His ov|er-moun|ting spir|it; and / there died
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My Ic|arus,| my blos|som, in | his pride.
SERVANT
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O my / dear lord,| lo where | your son | is
borne.
[Enter Soldiers, with the body of JOHN TALBOT]
TALBOT
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Thou ant|ic death,| which laughst | us here | to
scorn,
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Anon | from thy | insult|ing tyr|anny,
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Coupled | in bonds | of perp|etu|ity,
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Two* Tal|bots wing|ed through | the lith|er sky,
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In thy | despite | shall escape | mortal|ity.
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O thou | whose^wounds | become hard-fav|ored
death,
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Speak to | thy fath|er, ere | thou yield | thy
breath,
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Brave death by speak|ing, wheth|er he will | or
no:
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Imag|ine him | a French|man, and | thy foe.
T T .
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Poor boy, he smiles,| methinks,| as who | should
say,
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Had death | been French,| then death | had died |
today.
T T . T
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Come, come, and lay | him in | his fath|er's
arms,
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My spir|it can | no long|er bear | these harms.
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Soldiers | adieu:| I have | what I | would have,
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Now my | old^arms | are young | John^Tal|bot's
grave.
[Dies. Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD OF ORLEANS, JOAN LA
PUCELLE, and forces]
CHARLES
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Had York | and Som|erset | brought res|cue in,
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We should | have found | a blood|y day | of this.
BASTARD OF ORLEANS
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How the / young whelp | of Tal|bot's rag|ing
wood,
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Did flesh | his pu|ny sword | in French|men's
blood.
JOAN LA PUCELLE
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Once I | encount|ered him,| and thus | I said:
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Thou maid|en youth,| be van|quished by | a maid.
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But with | a proud | majest|ical / high scorn
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He ans|wered thus:| Young* Tal|bot was / not born
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To be | the pil|lage of | a gig|lot wench:
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So rush|ing in | the bow|els of | the French,
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He left | me proud|ly, as | unworth|y fight.
BURGUNDY
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Doubtless | he would | have made | a nob|le
knight:
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See where | he lies | inhears|ed in | the arms
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Of the / most blood|y nurs|er of | his harms.
BASTARD OF ORLEANS
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o
Hew them | to pie|ces, hack | their bones |
asund|er,
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o
Whose life | was Eng|land's glo|ry, Gal|lia's
wond|er. (hex with prev)
CHARLES
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O no | forbear:| for that | which we | have fled
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During | the life,| let us | not wrong | it dead.
[Enter Sir William LUCY, attended; Herald of the
French preceding]
LUCY
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Herald,| conduct | me to | the Dauph|in's tent,
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To know | who hath | obtained | the glo|ry of the
day.
CHARLES
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On what | submiss|ive mes|sage art | thou sent?
LUCY
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Submis|sion Dauph|in? 'tis a // mere French word:
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We Eng|lish wa|rriors / wot not | what it means.
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I come | to know | what pris|oners thou | hast tane,
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And to | survey | the bod|ies of | the dead.
CHARLES
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For pris|oners / askst thou?| Hell our | prison
|| is.
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But | tell me | whom thou | seekst.|
LUCY
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But where's | the great | Alcid|es of | the field,
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Vali|ant Lord | Talbot | Earl of | Shrewsbury?
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Creat|ed for | his rare | success | in arms,
T T . T
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Great Earl of Wash|ford, Wat|erford and |
Valence;
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Lord Tal/bot of | Goodrig | and Urch|infield,
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Lord Strange of Black|mere, Lord^|Verdun of |
Alton,
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Lord Crom|well of Wing|field, Lord^|Furnival of |
Sheffield,
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The thrice-|victor|ious Lord | of Fal|conbridge,
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Knight of | the nob|le ord|er of / Saint George,
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Worthy | Saint Mich/ael, and | the gold|en
Fleece,
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Great marsh/al to | Henry | the Sixth,|
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Of all | his wars | within | the realm | of
France.
JOAN LA PUCELLE
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Here is | a sil|ly state|ly style | indeed:
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The Turk | that two | and fif|ty king|doms hath,
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Writes^not | so ted|ious | a style | as this.
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Him that | thou mag|nifiest | with all | these
titles,
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Stinking | and fly-|blown lies here | at our feet.
LUCY
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Is Tal|bot slain,| the French|men's on|ly
scourge,
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Your king|dom's ter|ror, and / black Nem|esis?
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Oh were | mine eye|balls in|to bul|lets turned,
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That I | in rage | might shoot / them at your
| faces.
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Oh, that | I could | but call | these dead | to
life,
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It were | enough | to fright | the realm | of
France.
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Were but | his pic|ture left | amongst | you
here,
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It would | amaze | the proud|est of | you all.
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Give me their | bodies,| that I | may bear | them
hence,
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And give | them bur|ial, as | beseems | their
worth.
JOAN LA PUCELLE
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I think | this up|start is | old^Tal|bot's ghost,
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He speaks | with such | a proud | command|ing
spirit:
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For God's | sake let him | have him,| to keep |
them here,
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They would | but stink,| and put|refy | the air.
CHARLES
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Go take | their bod|ies hence.
LUCY
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I'll bear | them hence:|| but from their |
ashes | shall be | reared
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A phoe|nix that | shall make | all France afeard.
CHARLES
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So we | be rid | of them, do | with him what |
thou wilt.
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And now | to Par|is in | this con|quering vein,
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All will | be ours,| now blood|y Tal|bot's^slain.
[Exeunt]