Bed. We owe the act in justice to ourselves
And to our veterans' arms.
Joan. Welcome that thought. [Rises.
I have no more to ask: rightly thou sayst.
A woman's hand hath dimmed thy splendid name,
And writ upon thy soldier's brow—defeat,
And in a woman's blood wash out the stain.
But oh! injurious prince, of this be sure—
Thou never wilt regain what thou hast lost.
The land is free, her chain for ever broken;
Nor force of arms nor policy shall wrest
The sceptre from the hand that wields it now.
But hark! what means that agonizing shout,
That wail of lamentation, noise confused,
The braying of the battle? A frantic matricide
The mother is become, and drunk with blood
Of sons of France, now slakes unnat'ral thirst
In the red fountain of her children's veins—
Showing in all her cruelty and rage,
From whom she took the cup of retribution.
(To Bedford.) And thou, thou art disgraced—this unjust deed
Shall sully thy fair name to latest time—
Shall wrest from England's son a blush for thee—
A proud acquittal for myself.
Scene V.
Warwick. Countess.
Count. Hail, lovely May!
Thou month of flowers, sweet hopes and rapt'rous song;
Young zephyrs kiss thy steps and scatter bliss.
But how! thou dost not answer, dost not heed me.
War. This cheerful sky ill suits this day's proceedings.
The maid this morning is condemned to die.
Count. Canst thou not save her? If my Warwick plead,
None may resist him.
War. Bedford, Burgundy,
Have not, my gentle Alice, hearts like thine.
As well might I essay to win, by words,
The ravening tiger to relax his hold,
When the first taste of blood is on his tongue,
As these to mitigate the maiden's doom.
Count. She must not die—so young, and, I could say,
Although it scents of war, so brave; and, ah!
Perhaps some gallant knight has won her heart.
It must be so! woman was born to love—
The mean, some mean companion to divide
Her joys; the noble, one than self more noble—
That heavy sigh!