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| BEDFORD.: |
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| Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! |
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| Comets, importing change of times and states, |
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| Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, |
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| And with them scourge the bad revolting stars |
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| That have consented unto Henry's death! |
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| King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! |
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| England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. |
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| GLOUCESTER.: |
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| England ne'er had a king until his time. |
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| Virtue he had, deserving to command: |
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| His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams: |
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| His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings; |
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| His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, |
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| More dazzled and drove back his enemies |
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| Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. |
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| What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech: |
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| He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered. |
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| EXETER.: |
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| We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood? |
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| Henry is dead and never shall revive: |
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| Upon a wooden coffin we attend, |
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| And death's dishonourable victory |
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| We with our stately presence glorify, |
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| Like captives bound to a triumphant car. |
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| What! shall we curse the planets of mishap |
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| That plotted thus our glory's overthrow? |
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| Or shall we think the subtle-witted French |
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| Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him |
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| By magic verses have contriv'd his end? |
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| BEDFORD.: |
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| Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace: |
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| Let's to the altar: heralds, wait on us: |
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| Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms; |
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| Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. |
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| Posterity, await for wretched years, |
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| When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck, |
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| Our isle be made a marish of salt tears, |
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| And none but women left to wail the dead. |
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| Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate: |
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| Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, |
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| Combat with adverse planets in the heavens! |
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| A far more glorious star thy soul will make |
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| Than Julius Caesar or bright— |
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| MESSENGER.: |
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| My honourable lords, health to you all! |
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| Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, |
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| Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: |
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| Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, |
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| Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. |
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| MESSENGER.: |
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| No treachery; but want of men and money. |
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| Amongst the soldiers this is muttered, |
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| That here you maintain several factions, |
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| And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought, |
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| You are disputing of your generals: |
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| One would have lingering wars with little cost; |
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| Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; |
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| A third thinks, without expense at all, |
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| By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd. |
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| Awake, awake, English nobility! |
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| Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot: |
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| Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms; |
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| Of England's coat one half is cut away. |
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| MESSENGER.: |
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| O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown: |
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| The circumstance I'll tell you more at large. |
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| The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, |
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| Retiring from the siege of Orleans, |
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| Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, |
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| By three and twenty thousand of the French |
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| Was round encompassed and set upon. |
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| No leisure had he to enrank his men; |
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| He wanted pikes to set before his archers; |
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| Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges |
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| They pitched in the ground confusedly, |
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| To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. |
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| More than three hours the fight continued; |
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| Where valiant Talbot above human thought |
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| Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: |
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| Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; |
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| Here, there, and every where, enrag'd he slew: |
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| The French exclaim'd, the devil was in arms; |
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| All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. |
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| His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit |
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| A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain, |
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| And rush'd into the bowels of the battle. |
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| Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up, |
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| If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. |
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| He, being in the vaward, plac'd behind |
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| With purpose to relieve and follow them, |
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| Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke. |
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| Hence grew the general wreck and massacre; |
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| Enclosed were they with their enemies: |
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| A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace, |
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| Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; |
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| Whom all France with their chief assembled strength |
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| Durst not presume to look once in the face. |
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| BEDFORD.: |
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| His ransom there is none but I shall pay: |
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| I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne: |
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| His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; |
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| Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. |
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| Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; |
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| Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make |
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| To keep our great Saint George's feast withal: |
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| Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, |
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| Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake. |
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