The First Part of Henry the Sixth. Уильям Шекспир

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        MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd

          head

          The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd,

          A holy prophetess new risen up,

          Is come with a great power to raise the siege.

                        [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans]

        TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan.

          It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd.

          Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you.

          Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,

          Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels

          And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.

          Convey me Salisbury into his tent,

          And then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.

        TALBOT. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?

          Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them;

          A woman clad in armour chaseth them.

          Here, here she comes. I'll have a bout with thee.

          Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee;

          Blood will I draw on thee-thou art a witch

          And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv'st.

        PUCELLE. Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee.

                                                     [Here they fight]

        TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?

          My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage.

          And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,

          But I will chastise this high minded strumpet.

                                                    [They fight again]

        PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come.

          I must go victual Orleans forthwith.

      [A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers]

          O'ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.

          Go, go, cheer up thy hungry starved men;

          Help Salisbury to make his testament.

          This day is ours, as many more shall be. Exit

        TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel;

          I know not where I am nor what I do.

          A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal,

          Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists.

          So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench

          Are from their hives and houses driven away.

          They call'd us, for our fierceness, English dogs;

          Now like to whelps we crying run away.

                                                      [A short alarum]

          Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight

          Or tear the lions out of England's coat;

          Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead:

          Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,

          Or horse or oxen from the leopard,

          As you fly from your oft subdued slaves.

                                       [Alarum. Here another skirmish]

          It will not be-retire into your trenches.

          You all consented unto Salisbury's death,

          For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

          Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans

          In spite of us or aught that we could do.

          O, would I were to die with Salisbury!

          The shame hereof will make me hide my head.

        PUCELLE. Advance our waving colours on the walls;

          Rescu'd is Orleans from the English.

          Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word.

        CHARLES. Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter,

          How shall I honour thee for this success?

          Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens,

          That one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next.

          France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess.

          Recover'd is the town of Orleans.

          More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state.

        REIGNIER. Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the

          town?

          Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

          And feast and banquet in the open streets

          To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

        ALENCON. All France will be replete with mirth and joy

          When they shall hear how we have play'd the men.

        CHARLES. 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;

          For which I will divide my crown with her;

          And all the priests and friars in my realm

          Shall in procession sing her endless praise.

          A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear

          Than Rhodope's of Memphis ever was.

          In memory of her, when СКАЧАТЬ