Mess. Madam, it is.
Countess. Is this the scourge of France?
Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad
That with his name the mothers still their babes?
I see report is fabulous and false.
I thought I should have seen some Hercules,
A second Hector, for his grim aspect,
And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.
Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!
It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp
Should strike such terror to his enemies.
Tal. 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. (Going.)
Countess. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes.
Mess. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves
To know the cause of your abrupt departure.
Tal. Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief,
I go to certify her Talbot’s here.
Reënter Porter with keys
Countess. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.
Tal. Prisoner! To whom!