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WAR. Sweet flatterer! Then thou art happy, Alice!
COUNT. Indeed I do not know what means unhappiness.
E'en from my infancy I have been blessed.
My eyes first opened on the laughing spring, And all of life, of hope, of fond affection Has been pa.s.sed in springtide. I never shed A tear till my great father died; and those First tears were wiped away by him whom first I loved.
WAR. But how! thou dost not even ask If Salisbury's sad death has been avenged!
COUNT. Contains revenge then ought that may impart Joy to felicity, or make repose More tranquil, which already was complete, That it should be desired?
WAR. Nor yet enquire How speeds the war?
COUNT. I love not war.
WAR. And yet Art Salisbury's child, art--
COUNT. Warwick's bride, thou'dst say.
Of him whose gallant heart of war makes pastime, And who a rival gives me in renown.
And yet I do repeat, I love not war, And rather in our native woods would stray, Listening the thrush's early note of love, Or plucking wild flowers from the bank to crown thee, Than hail thee, Warwick, conqueror of France.
Ha! there is blood upon thy arm!
WAR. For shame!
Turn pale--a very coward thou.
COUNT. Not I: But nature is to blame, who doth abhor The sight of blood: but if I must, as fits A soldier's wife, enquire of war, then tell me, Not how many thousands perished, but what New honours thou hast gained; and better still, Say, how much nearer is the end of strife.
WAR. My honours gained is not to feel disgraced.
A strange reverse has visited our arms.
Not alone has Orleans been relieved, And other strong posts fall'n, but at the name Of Joan of Arc our stoutest cheeks turn pale.
Myself beheld the maid, banner in hand, March by our troops, with Suffolk at their head, Not only unmolested, but with dread,-- Such awe hath filled all hearts.
COUNT. Tell me no more.
Unbend that brow, and think alone of me, And in these smiles forget--
WAR. Aye! all forget But this--that thou art mine--my own for ever.
Forget that with the dawn I must depart.
COUNT. Oh, no! thou must not go.
WAR. I dare not tarry.
Exasperated by our late reverse, And fearing that success to bolder deeds May tempt the foe, the regent hath desired Lord Scales and Talbot to unite with us-- We wait at Patay for their promised force.
COUNT. No more. Now let love's rosy fingers Press the swift foot of time and stay his flight.
SCENE II.
RICHEMONT. VALANCOUR.
RICHE. Pa.s.s on to Rheims!
E'en through the heart of Bedford's army!
What rashness!
VAL. 'Tis by order of the maid.
RICHE. What folly next, is son as father mad?
Thou canst not mean it.
VAL. 'Tis fact, my lord.
She must behold the crown plac'd on his head.
RICHE. Eternal curses light upon her own.
Thwarted in all my views, fortune but mocks, Instead of crowning me. These rival states Should from my fiat take their destiny.
Nor care I whether Charles or Bedford win, So either make a step for my ascent.
VAL. Yet both have slighted--
RICHE. Me!--'tis false as h.e.l.l.
They may appear to show me some neglect, And why? Both fear me, both are jealous of me.
What else could instigate the wary Bedford To waive my offer to command his host?
What too but envy influences Charles?
VAL. The dauphin's heart is warm--he may feel sore.
RICHE. At what? That I should cause his myrmidons To shed their forfeit blood! his fav'rites banish?
Yet little have I gained--his present minion Provokes my stronger hate, and worse contempt.
VAL. But you will grace the fete with your high presence.
RICHE. No: let them play the part of fools without me.
His majesty of Bourges doth well to merge His t.i.tle, erst bestowed on him, for one Still more absurd in folly.
VAL. Think, my lord-- With reverence--
RICHE. Peace! I see the issue.
My own name tarnished by severe defeat On Beuvron's plains, my promises proved empty, While hers, though most extravagant, fulfilled, The fools will honour her, o'erlook myself; Or worse, most odious contrast may be made Betwixt successful rashness on her part, And baffled skill on mine. Not Heaven itself Shall force me to such chance.
VAL. If fortune's tide Have met a turn, no matter by what means, Would it be well to stand aloof, and miss The way to honour? Will not thy absence Rather awake impertinent remark,-- Be deemed his will?
RICHE. There's reason in thy words; And more, so prodigal is he, so reckless, New honours he may heap on her, and plead Omission on my part as his excuse.
I'll spare him that pretence.--Prepare for Baugenci.
SCENE III.--_Camp._
DU NOIS. XAINTRAILLES.
DU N. There is a magic In the full sweet tones of her impressive voice, Which heard but once, dwells long upon the ear, Charmed with the sound; then sinks into the heart, No more to be forgotten, pleading still When she herself is mute. How goes the hour?
