JOAN. The bitter cup is full! Believed a reprobate and leagued with hell, My name, my memory held in destestation! Die as accursed of Heaven! (_to_ BEAU.) 'Tis false! most false! And on thy head a deeper crime shall rest, Than this so foul thou lay'st to me--the weight Of guiltless blood. Thou mays't condemn me here; But think, once more before the judgment-seat Of Him who all shall judge, we must again Each other meet. How wilt thou meet me there? This charge unjust shall scathe thy shudd'ring soul, And sight of me shall blast thy hopes of heaven. Prince, thou'rt of gallant race.
JOAN. Oh! there are those who on this hour will think With bitterness, when princely honour goads, And noblest blood proves no defence.
BEAU. (_to Bed._) She threatens! Beware lest some malign, some fatal influence--
JOAN. Blind Man! the dumb e'en now have found a voice To curb injustice. The poor worm itself Will, by its very writhings, plead its wrongs, And show the cruelty of him that crushed it. Oh! not for life I plead--death hath no terror, Existence scarce one charm to cheat my eyes. Grant me the doom thou threat'st--nor passing sigh, Nor murmur shall escape me; but to die On this most monstrous charge! I kneel to thee And thus would stir the soldier in thy breast, The patriot, the upright man, if not the judge. [_Kneels to BEDFORD._
BED. We owe the act in justice to ourselves And to our veterans' arms.
JOAN. Welcome that thought. [_Rises._ I have no more to ask: rightly thou sayst. A woman's hand hath dimmed thy splendid name, And writ upon thy soldier's brow--defeat, And in a woman's blood wash out the stain. But oh! injurious prince, of this be sure-- Thou never wilt regain what thou hast lost. The land is free, her chain for ever broken; Nor force of arms nor policy shall wrest The sceptre from the hand that wields it now. But hark! what means that agonizing shout, That wail of lamentation, noise confused, The braying of the battle? A frantic matricide The mother is become, and drunk with blood Of sons of France, now slakes unnat'ral thirst In the red fountain of her children's veins-- Showing in all her cruelty and rage, From whom she took the cup of retribution. (_To Bedford._) And thou, thou art disgraced--this unjust deed Shall sully thy fair name to latest time-- Shall wrest from England's son a blush for thee-- A proud acquittal for myself.