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Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee:

On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd

To wall thee from the liberty of flight;

And no way canst thou turn thee for redress,

But death doth front thee with apparent spoil,

And pale destruction meets thee in the face.

Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament

To rive their dangerous artillery

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man,

Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit!

This is the latest glory of thy praise

That I, thy enemy, due thee withal;

For ere the glass, that now begins to run,

Finish the process of his sandy hour,

These eyes, that see thee now well colored,

Shall see thee wither'd, bloody, pale, and dead.

[Drum afar off.]

Hark! hark! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell,

Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul;

And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

[Exeunt General, etc.]

TALBOT.

He fables not; I hear the enemy:

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.

O, negligent and heedless discipline!

How are we park'd and bounded in a pale,

A little herd of England's timorous deer,

Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs!

If we be English deer, be then in blood;

Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,

But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags,

Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel

And make the cowards stand aloof at bay:

Sell every man his life as dear as mine,

And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.

God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right,

Prosper our colors in this dangerous fight!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Plains in Gascony.

[Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York with trumpet and many soldiers.]

YORK.

Are not the speedy scouts return'd again,

That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin?

MESSENGER.

They are return'd, my lord, and give it out

That he is march'd to Bordeaux with his power,

To fight with Talbot: as he march'd along,

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,

Which join'd with him and made their march for Bordeaux.

YORK.

A plague upon that villain Somerset,

That thus delays my promised supply

Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege!

Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,

And I am lowted by a traitor villain,

And cannot help the noble chevalier:

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.

[Enter Sir William Lucy.]

LUCY.

Thou princely leader of our English strength,

Never so needful on the earth of France,

Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,

Who now is girdled with a waist of iron,

And hemm'd about with grim destruction.

To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York!

Else, farewell, Talbot, France, and England's honor.

YORK.

O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place!

So should we save a valiant gentleman

By forfeiting a traitor and a coward.

Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep,

That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

LUCY.

O, send some succor to the distress'd lord!

YORK.

He dies; we lose; I break my warlike word;

We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;

All 'long of this vile traitor Somerset.

LUCY.

Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul;

And on his son young John, who two hours since

I met in travel toward his warlike father!

This seven years did not Talbot see his son;

And now they meet where both their lives are done.

YORK.

Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have,

To bid his young son welcome to his grave?

Away! vexation almost stops my breath,

That sunder'd friends greet in the hour of death.

Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,

But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.

Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,

'Long all of Somerset and his delay.

[Exit, with his soldiers.]

LUCY.

Thus, while the vulture of sedition

Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,

Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss

The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,