Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,
And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest.
Puc. Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace thee. [Here they fight.
[♦] Tal. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?
10My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage
And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. [They fight again.
Puc. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:
[♦] I must go victual Orleans forthwith. [A short alarum: then enter the town with soldiers.
15 O’ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.