Count. No more. Now let love's rosy fingers
Press the swift foot of time and stay his flight.
Scene II.
Richemont. Valancour.
Riche. Pass on to Rheims!
E'en through the heart of Bedford's army!
What rashness!
Val. 'Tis by order of the maid.
Riche. What folly next, is son as father mad?
Thou canst not mean it.
Val. 'Tis fact, my lord.
She must behold the crown plac'd on his head.
Riche. Eternal curses light upon her own.
Thwarted in all my views, fortune but mocks,
Instead of crowning me. These rival states
Should from my fiat take their destiny.
Nor care I whether Charles or Bedford win,
So either make a step for my ascent.
Val. Yet both have slighted—