King HENRY the Sixth. Duke of GLOSTER, Uncle to the King, and Protector. HENRY BEAUFORT, great Uncle to the King, Bishop of JOHN BEAUFORT, Earl of SOMERSET; afterwards, Duke. EDMUND MORTIMER, Earl of MARCH. Sir JOHN FASTOLFE. Sir WILLIAM LUCY. Sir WILLIAM GLANSDALE. Sir THOMAS GARGRAVE. CHARLES, Dauphin, and afterwards King of FRANCE. Governor of Paris. Bastard of Orleans. Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son. General of the French Forces in Bourdeaux. A French Sergeant. A Porter. An old Shepherd, Father to JOAN LA PUCELLE. MARGARET, Daughter to REIGNIER; afterwards married to King HENRY. Countess of AUVERGNE. JOAN LA PUCELLE, commonly called JOAN of ARC. Fiends appearing to LA PUCELLE, Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and several Attendants both on the English and French. SCENE, partly in England, and partly in France. POF KISS HENRY VY ACT I. SCENE I.-Westminster Abbey. Dead march. Corpse of King HENRY the Fifth discover- Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to Comets, importing change of times and states, VOL. VIII. A 2 MYPL Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky; And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. Glo. England ne'er had a king, until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command: His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; Than mid-day sun, fierce bent against their faces. Exe. We mourn in black; Why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead, and never shall revive: Upon a wooden coffin we attend; Win. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings. Glo. The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd, His thread of life had not so soon decay'd: None do you like but an effeminate prince, Win. Gloster, whate'er we like, thou art protector; Glo. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against thy foes. Bed. Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in peace! Let's to the altar-Heralds, wait on us : Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms; Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck; Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. Henry the fifth! thy ghost I invocate; Enter a Messenger. Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: |