Advance our waving colours on the walls;

Rescued is Orleans from the English.

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.

Divinest creature, Astraea’s daughter,

How shall I honour thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens

That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next.

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!

Recover’d is the town of Orleans.

More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.

Why ring not bells aloud throughout the town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

All France will be replete with mirth and joy

When they shall hear how we have play’d the men.

’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.