Now in the Rereward comes the Duke and his:
Fortune in fauor makes him lagge behinde.
Summon a Parley, we will talke with him.
Trumpets sound a Parley.
Charles. A Parley with the Duke of Burgonie
Burg. Who craues a Parley with the Burgonie?
Pucell. The Princely Charles of France, thy Countreyman
Burg. What say'st thou Charles? for I am marching
hence
Charles. Speake Pucell, and enchaunt him with thy
words
Pucell. Braue Burgonie, vndoubted hope of France,
Stay, let thy humble Hand-maid speake to thee
Burg. Speake on, but be not ouer-tedious
Pucell. Looke on thy Country, look on fertile France,
And see the Cities and the Townes defac't,
By wasting Ruine of the cruell Foe,
As lookes the Mother on her lowly Babe,
When Death doth close his tender-dying Eyes.
See, see the pining Maladie of France:
Behold the Wounds, the most vnnaturall Wounds,
Which thou thy selfe hast giuen her wofull Brest.
Oh turne thy edged Sword another way,
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that helpe:
One drop of Blood drawne from thy Countries Bosome,
Should grieue thee more then streames of forraine gore.
Returne thee therefore with a floud of Teares,
And wash away thy Countries stayned Spots
Burg. Either she hath bewitcht me with her words,
Or Nature makes me suddenly relent