[Exeunt all but Exeter.]
EXETER.
Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;
For, had the passions of thy heart burst out,
I fear we should have seen decipher’d there
More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,
Than yet can be imagined or supposed.
But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees
This jarring discord of nobility,
This shouldering of each other in the court,
This factious bandying of their favourites,
But sees it doth presage some ill event.
’Tis much when scepters are in children’s hands;
But more when envy breeds unkind division:
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. Before Bordeaux.
Enter Talbot with trump and drum.
TALBOT.
Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter.
Summon their general unto the wall.
Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others aloft.
English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,
Servant in arms to Harry King of England;
And thus he would: Open your city gates,
Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours,
And do him homage as obedient subjects,
And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power.
But if you frown upon this proffer’d peace,
You tempt the fury of my three attendants,
Lean Famine, quartering Steel, and climbing Fire,
Who in a moment even with the earth
Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,
If you forsake the offer of their love.
GENERAL.
Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,
Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge!
The period of thy tyranny approacheth.
On us thou canst not enter but by death;
For, I protest, we are well fortified
And strong enough to issue out and fight.
If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,
Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee.
On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d
To wall thee from the liberty of flight;
And no way canst thou turn thee for redress
But Death doth front thee with apparent spoil,
And pale Destruction meets thee in the face.
Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament
To rive their dangerous artillery
Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.
Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man
Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit.
This is the latest glory of thy praise
That I, thy enemy, due thee withal;
For ere the glass, that now begins to run,
Finish the process of his sandy hour,
These eyes, that see thee now well coloured,
Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale, and dead.
[Drum afar off.]