Act III.
Scene III.
Scene III.—The Plains near Roan.
Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS,
ALENCON, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and Forces.
Joan. Dismay not, princes, at this accident,
Nor grieve that Roan is so recovered;
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,
For things that are not to be remedied.
Let frantic 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 rul'd.
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.
Joan. 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 warriors;
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 of an earldom here.
Joan. Your honours shall perceive how I will
work
To bring this matter to the wished end.
[Drums heard afar off.
Hark! by the sound of drum you may per-
ceive
Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.
Here sound an English march. Enter, and
pass over, 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 his 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.
Char. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!
Bur. Who craves a parley with the Bur-
gundy?
Joan. The princely diaries of France, thy
countryman.
Bur. What sayst thou, Charles? for I am
marching hence.
Char. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with
thy words.
Joan. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of
France!
Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.
Bur. Speak on; but be not over-tedious.
Joan. 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 tlie pining malady of Franco;
Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,
Which thou thyself hast given her woeful 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
bosom,
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 bewitch'd me with her
words,
Or nature makes me suddenly relent.
Joan. Besides, all French and France ex-
claims 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.
Joan. 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 play'd 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.
|
