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.
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.
RICHE. Pass on to Rheims! E'en through the heart of Bedford's army! What rashness!
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.
RICHE. Me!--'tis false as hell. 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 fête with your high presence.
RICHE. No: let them play the part of fools without me. His majesty of Bourges doth well to merge His title, erst bestowed on him, for one Still more absurd in folly.
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.