TALBOT
Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight!
The Regent with Talbot broke his word,
And left us to the rage of France his sword.
Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take breath;
I gave life and rescued from death.
JOHN TALBOT
O, twice my father, twice am I son!
The life gav’st me first was lost and done,
Till with warlike sword, despite of fate,
To my determined time gav’st new date.
TALBOT
When from the Dauphin’s crest sword struck fire,
It warm’d father’s heart with proud desire
Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age,
Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage,
Beat down Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the pride of Gallia rescued .
The ireful Bastard Orleans, that drew blood
From , my boy, and had the maidenhood
Of first fight, I soon encountered,
And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed
Some of his bastard blood, and in disgrace
Bespoke him thus: “Contaminated, base,
And misbegotten blood I spill of ,
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine,
Which force from Talbot, my brave boy.”
Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,
Came in strong rescue. Speak, father’s care,
Art not weary, John? How fare?
Wilt yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,
Now art seal’d the son of chivalry?
Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead;
The help of one stands me in little stead.
O, too much folly is it, well I wot,
To hazard all our lives in one small boat!
If I today die not with Frenchmen’s rage,
Tomorrow I shall die with mickle age.
By me they nothing gain an if I stay;
but the short’ning of my life one day.
In mother dies, our household’s name,
My death’s revenge, youth, and England’s fame.
All these and more we hazard by stay;
All these are saved if wilt fly away.
JOHN TALBOT
The sword of Orleans not made me smart;
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart.
On that advantage, bought with such a shame,
To save a paltry life and slay bright fame,
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,
The coward horse that bears me fall and die!
And like me to the peasant boys of France,
To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance!
Surely, by all the glory you have won,
An if I fly, I am not Talbot’s son.
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot;
If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot.
TALBOT
Then follow desperate sire of Crete,
Icarus; life to me is sweet.
If wilt fight, fight by father’s side,
And, commendable proved, let’s die in pride.