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.
[They depart.]
See, they forsake me. Now the time is come
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest
And let her head fall into England’s lap.
My ancient incantations are too weak,
And hell too strong for me to buckle with.
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.
[Exit.]
Excursions. Burgundy and York fight hand to hand. The French fly. La Pucelle is taken.
YORK.
Damsel of France, I think I have you fast.
Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,
And try if they can gain your liberty.
A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace!
See, how the ugly witch doth bend her brows,
As if with Circe she would change my shape!
PUCELLE.
Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst not be.
YORK.
O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man;
No shape but his can please your dainty eye.
PUCELLE.
A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!
And may ye both be suddenly surprised
By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!
YORK.
Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue!