Lucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge,
Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?
O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d,
80 That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!
O, that I could but call these dead to life!
It were enough to fright the realm of France:
[♦] Were but his picture left amongst you here,
It would amaze the proudest of you all.
[85] Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence
And give them burial as beseems their worth.