CHARLES.
’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;
For which I will divide my crown with her,
And all the priests and friars in my realm
Shall in procession sing her endless praise.
A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear
Than Rhodope’s of Memphis ever was;
In memory of her when she is dead,
Her ashes, in an urn more precious
Than the rich-jewel’d coffer of Darius,
Transported shall be at high festivals
Before the kings and queens of France.
No longer on Saint Denis will we cry,
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint.
Come in, and let us banquet royally
After this golden day of victory.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
ACT II
SCENE I. Before Orleans.
Enter a Sergeant of a band, with two Sentinels.
SERGEANT.
Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.
If any noise or soldier you perceive
Near to the walls, by some apparent sign
Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.
FIRST SENTINEL.
Sergeant, you shall.
[Exit Sergeant.]
Thus are poor servitors,
When others sleep upon their quiet beds,
Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.
Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and forces, with scaling-ladders.