LITMIR.BIZ

      Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:

      I must go victual Orleans forthwith.

      O'ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.

      Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men;

      Help Salisbury to make his testament:

      This day is ours, as many more shall be.

      My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel;

      I know not where I am, nor what I do;

      A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,

      Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists.

      So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench

      Are from their hives and houses driven away.

      They call'd us for our fierceness English dogs;

      Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.

      Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,

      Or tear the lions out of England's coat;

      Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead:

      Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,

      Or horse or oxen from the leopard,

      As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.

      It will not be: retire into your trenches:

      You all consented unto Salisbury's death,

      For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

      Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans,

      In spite of us or aught that we could do.

      O, would I were to die with Salisbury!

      The shame hereof will make me hide my head.

      Advance our waving colours on the walls;

      Rescued is Orleans from the English:

      Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word.

      Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter,

      How shall I honour thee for this success?

      Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens

      That one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next.

      France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!

      Recover'd is the town of Orleans.

      More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state.

      Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town?

      Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

      And feast and banquet in the open streets,

      To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

      All France will be replete with mirth and joy,

      When they shall hear how we have play'd the men.

      'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;

      For which I will divide my crown with her;

      And all the priests and friars in my realm

      Shall in procession sing her endless praise.

      A statelier pyramis to her I 'll rear

      Than Rhodope's of Memphis ever was;

      In memory of her when she is dead,

      Her ashes, in an urn more precious

      Than the rich-jewel'd coffer of Darius,

      Transported shall be at high festivals

      Before the kings and queens of France.

      No longer on Saint Denis will we cry,

      But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint.

      Come in, and let us banquet royally

      After this golden day of victory.

      Sirs, take your places and be vigilant:

      If any noise or soldier you perceive

      Near to the walls, by some apparent sign

      Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.

      Sergeant, you shall. [Exit Sergeant.

      Thus are poor servitors,

      When others sleep upon their quiet beds,

      Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain and cold.

      Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,

      By whose approach the regions of Artois,

      Wallon and Picardy are friends to us,

      This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

      Having all day caroused and banqueted:

      Embrace we then this opportunity,

      As fitting best to quittance their deceit

      Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery.

      Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame,

      Despairing of his own arm's fortitude,

      To join with witches and the help of hell!

      Traitors have never other company.

      But what 's that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

      A maid, they say.

      A maid! and be so martial!

      Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,

      If underneath the standard of the French

      She carry armour as she hath begun.

      Well, let them practice and converse with spirits:

      God is our fortress, in whose conquering name

      Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

      Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.

      Not all together: better far, I guess,

      That we

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