Henry VI Part 1

A base Wallon, to win the Dauphin’s grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back, Whom all France with their chief assembled strength Durst not presume to look once in the face.

A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler heart did never sway in court; But kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that’s the end of human misery.

A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee! And may ye both be suddenly surpris’d By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!

Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have To bid his young son welcome to his grave? Away! Vexation almost stops my breath, That sund’red friends greet in the hour of death.

And by his treason, stand’st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood, And till thou be restor’d, thou art a yeoman

And here I prophesy: this brawl today, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

And in a vision full of majesty Will’d me to leave my base vocation And free my country from calamity.

And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother, Dishonor not her honorable name To make a bastard and a slave of me! The world will say, he is not Talbot’s blood, That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be severed from your side Than can yourself yourself in twain divide. Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not if my father die.

And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! And as my duty springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your Majesty!

And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover, wherein shipp’d, Commit them to the fortune of the sea.

And that I’ll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will. For your partaker Pole, and you yourself, I’ll note you in my book of memory, To scourge you for this apprehension. Look to it well, and say you are well warn’d.

And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happened in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d;

And therefore haste I to the parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my will th’ advantage of my good.

And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged, in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.

As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths, Or one that at a triumph, having vow’d To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists By reason of his adversary’s odds.

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honors new begot. Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms, Of England’s coat one half is cut away.

Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French in stead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries.

Ay; beauty’s princely majesty is such, ’Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough

Be gone, I say, for till you do return, I rest perplexed with a thousand cares.

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself hast given her woeful breast. O, turn the edged sword another way, Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.

Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no.

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch, Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth, Between two blades, which bears the better temper, Between two horses, which doth bear him best, Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye—

Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth, How may I reverently worship thee enough?

But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tend’ring my ruin and assail’d of none, Dizzy-ey’d fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clust’ring battle of the French;

CHAR. ’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.

Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof: Was not the Duke of Orleance thy foe? And was he not in England prisoner?

Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance? Then take my soul—my body, soul, and all, Before that England give the French the foil

Cardinal, I’ll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet, and break our minds at large.

Chief master gunner am I of this town, Something I must do to procure me grace.

Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms, My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave.

Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry’s death: King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

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.

Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Farewell, my masters, to my task will I. Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make, To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal.

For Henry, son unto a conqueror, Is likely to beget more conquerors, If with a lady of so high resolve (As is fair Margaret) he be link’d in love. Then yield, my lords, and here conclude with me That Margaret shall be Queen, and none but she.

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 withered, bloody, pale, and dead.

For what is wedlock forced, but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.

Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.

Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe To give me hearing what I shall reply.

Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster’d in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun.

Good Lord, what madness rules in brain-sick men, When for so slight and frivolous a cause Such factious emulations shall arise!

good my Lord of Somerset, unite Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot, And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies.

Great is the rumor of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account; Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears To give their censure of these rare reports.

Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Hark, hark, the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul, And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

He answer’d thus: Young Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench. So rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

He bears him on the place’s privilege, Or durst not for his craven heart say thus.

Henry is able to enrich his queen, And not to seek a queen to make him rich: So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, As market men for oxen, sheep, or horse.

Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart, And like as rigor of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown, Either to suffer shipwrack, or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.

Here on my knee I beg mortality, Rather than life preserv’d with infamy.

His fame lives in the world, his shame in you.

His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled and drove back his enemies Than midday sun fierce bent against their faces.

I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You may behold confusion of your foes.

I have no power to let her pass, My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.

I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession’s sacred from above. When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense.

I think by some odd gimmors or device Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do.

I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done.

If I today die not with Frenchmen’s rage, Tomorrow I shall die with mickle age. By me they nothing gain and if I stay, ’Tis but the short’ning of my life one day.

If they perceive dissension in our looks, And that within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provok’d To willful disobedience, and rebel!

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.

Knights of the Garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, Such as were grown to credit by the wars; Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes.

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.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

Let not your private discord keep away The levied succors that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman, Yield up his life unto a world of odds.

Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks

Lets fall his sword before your Highness’ feet, And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his conquest got First to my God and next unto your Grace.

Like peasant footboys do they keep the walls, And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.

Lo, whilest I waited on my tender lambs, And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks, God’s Mother deigned to appear to me,

Lucy, farewell, no more my fortune can, But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.

Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I’ll sort some other time to visit you.

Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship. Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed.

Marriage, uncle? Alas, my years are young; And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.

Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens, So in the earth, to this day is not known. Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors, upon us he smiles.

May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode; But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!

More truly now may this be verified, For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!

Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good, Only give order for my funeral. And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!

My Lord of York, I promise you, the King Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of this contract. If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like opportunity.

My tender youth was never yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell; but this I am assur’d, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, As I am sick with working of my thoughts.

Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman’s kindness overrul’d; And therefore tell her I return great thanks, And in submission will attend on her.

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, But Joan de Pucelle shall be France’s saint. Come in, and let us banquet royally, After this golden day of victory.

No more but plain and bluntly To the King? Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? Or doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good will?

No, gentle madam, I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam, are ye so content?

No, lord ambassador, I’ll rather keep That which I have than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. YORK

No, misconceived! Joan of Aire hath been A virgin from her tender infancy, Chaste, and immaculate in very thought, Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus’d, Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven

No, prelate, such is thy audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, As very infants prattle of thy pride.

Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, But issued from the progeny of kings; Virtuous and holy, chosen from above, By inspiration of celestial grace, To work exceeding miracles on earth.

Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight.

Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest And let her head fall into England’s lap.

Of all base passions, fear is most accurs’d. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,

Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms, Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this.

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.

Peace be amongst them if they turn to us, Else ruin combat with their palaces!

Plantagenet, I will, and like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn: Wretched shall France be only in my name.

Poor boy, he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had Death been French, then Death had died today.

Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so against your will.

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.

SUF. Lady, wherefore talk you so? MAR. I cry you mercy, ’tis but quid for quo.

Salisbury is a desperate homicide, He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.

Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.

She’s beautiful; and therefore to be wooed: She is a woman; therefore to be won.

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.

So should I give consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth’d Unto another lady of esteem. How shall we then dispense with that contract, And not deface your honor with reproach?

Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise; Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou com’st to kneel at Henry’s feet, Thou mayest bereave him of his wits with wonder.

Speak, Winchester, for boiling choler chokes The hollow passage of my poison’d voice, By sight of these our baleful enemies.

Suffolk, what remedy? I am a soldier, and unapt to weep, Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness.

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!

Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your Grace unto my suit?

The Lord protect him! So we answer him. We do no otherwise than we are will’d.

The day begins to break, and night is fled, Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth. Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit

The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates his enemies.

The quarrel toucheth none but us alone, Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then.

The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: What’s past and what’s to come she can descry.

The sword of Orleance hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart.

Think not, although in writing I preferr’d The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, That therefore I have forg’d, or am not able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen.

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day carous’d and banqueted: Embrace we then this opportunity As fitting best to quittance their deceit Contriv’d by art and baleful sorcery.

This is a riddling merchant for the nonce: He will be here, and yet he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree?

This late dissension grown betwixt the peers Burns under feigned ashes of forg’d love, And will at last break out into a flame: As fest’red members rot but by degree, Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed.

This seven years did not Talbot see his son, And now they meet where both their lives are done.

Thou antic Death, which laugh’st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall scape mortality.

Thou art a most pernicious usurer, Froward by nature, enemy to peace, Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of thy profession and degree;

Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d, and thus he goes, As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, With hope to find the like event in love, But prosper better than the Troyan did.

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,

Thy promises are like Adonis’ garden, That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next.

Tis much, when sceptres are in children’s hands; But more, when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.

To say the truth, it is your policy To save your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By our proceeding in hostility, And therefore take this compact of a truce, Although you break it when your pleasure serves.

To say the truth, this fact was infamous And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader.

Too late comes rescue, he is ta’en or slain; For fly he could not, if he would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might.

True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather; But yet be wary in thy studious care.

Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance. The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out.

Unto the French the dreadful Judgment Day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought; The Church’s prayers made him so prosperous.

Victorious Talbot, pardon my abuse. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gathered by thy shape

What is the trust or strength of foolish man? They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.

What you have done hath not offended me; Nor other satisfaction do I crave, But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well.

What? Shall we curse the planets of mishap That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow? Or shall we think the subtile-witted French Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv’d his end?

Why, no, I say. Distrustful recreants, Fight till the last gasp; I’ll be your guard.

With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts. In open market-place produc’d they me To be a public spectacle to all: Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so.

Words sweetly plac’d and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again, No loving token to his Majesty?

Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the King.

Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb (Unable to support this lump of clay), Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have.

Your honors shall perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end.

Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me.