Are not the speedy scouts return’d again

That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin?

They are return’d, my lord, and give it out

That he is march’d to Bordeaux with his power,

To fight with Talbot. As he march’d along,

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,

Which join’d with him and made their march for Bordeaux.

A plague upon that villain Somerset

That thus delays my promised supply

Of horsemen that were levied for this siege!

Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,

And I am louted by a traitor villain

And cannot help the noble chevalier.

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.

Thou princely leader of our English strength,

Never so needful on the earth of France,

Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,

Who now is girdled with a waist of iron,

And hemm’d about with grim destruction.

To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! To Bordeaux, York!

Else farewell, Talbot, France, and England’s honour.

O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place!

So should we save a valiant gentleman

By forfeiting a traitor and a coward.

Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep

That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep.

O, send some succour to the distress’d lord!

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.

Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul,

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.

Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have

To bid his young son welcome to his grave?

Away! Vexation almost stops my breath,

That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death.

Lucy, farewell. No more my fortune can

But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.

Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,

Long all of Somerset and his delay.

Thus, while the vulture of sedition

Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,

Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss

The conquest of our scarce-cold conqueror,

That ever-living man of memory,

Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross,

Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss.