[30] Lucy. O, send some succour to the distress’d lord!
York. He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word;
We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;
[♦] All ’long of this vile traitor Somerset.
Lucy. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul;
35 And on his son young John, who two hours since
[♦] I met in travel toward his warlike father!
This seven years did not Talbot see his son;
And now they meet where both their lives are done.
York. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have