BURGUNDY.
Doubtless he would have made a noble knight.
See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.
BASTARD.
Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,
Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.
CHARLES.
O, no, forbear! For that which we have fled
During the life, let us not wrong it dead.
Enter Sir William Lucy and a French Herald.
LUCY.
Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,
To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day.
CHARLES.
On what submissive message art thou sent?
LUCY.
Submission, Dauphin! ’Tis a mere French word.
We English warriors wot not what it means.
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en,
And to survey the bodies of the dead.
CHARLES.
For prisoners ask’st thou? Hell our prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek’st.
LUCY.
But where’s the great Alcides of the field,
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,
Created for his rare success in arms
Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence,
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,
Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,
Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,
The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge,
Knight of the noble Order of Saint George,
Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece,
Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth
Of all his wars within the realm of France?
PUCELLE.
Here’s a silly stately style indeed!
The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath,
Writes not so tedious a style as this.
Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles
Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet.