The day begins to break, and night is fled,

Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth.

Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit.

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury,

And here advance it in the market-place,

The middle centre of this cursed town.

Dead March. Enter with the body of Salisbury.

Now have I paid my vow unto his soul;

For every drop of blood was drawn from him

There hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight.

And that hereafter ages may behold

What ruin happen’d in revenge of him,

Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect

A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d;

Upon the which, that everyone may read,

Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans,

The treacherous manner of his mournful death

And what a terror he had been to France.

But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,

I muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace,

His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,

Nor any of his false confederates.

’Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,

Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds,

They did amongst the troops of armed men

Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field.

Myself, as far as I could well discern

For smoke and dusky vapors of the night,

Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull,

When arm in arm they both came swiftly running,

Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves

That could not live asunder day or night.

After that things are set in order here,

We’ll follow them with all the power we have.

All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train

Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts

So much applauded through the realm of France?

Here is the Talbot. Who would speak with him?

The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,

With modesty admiring thy renown,

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe

To visit her poor castle where she lies,

That she may boast she hath beheld the man

Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars

Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport,

When ladies crave to be encounter’d with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men

Could not prevail with all their oratory,

Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-ruled.

And therefore tell her I return great thanks,

And in submission will attend on her.

Will not your honours bear me company?

No, truly, it is more than manners will;

And I have heard it said, unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone.

Well then, alone, since there’s no remedy,

I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy.

Come hither, Captain. [_Whispers_.] You perceive my mind?

I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.