KING HENRY VI.

Duke of Gloucester, Uncle to the King, and Protector.

Duke of Bedford, Uncle to the King, and Regent of France.

Cardinal BEAUFORT, Bishop of Winchester, and great Uncle to the King.
Duke of Exeter, Brother to King HENRY IV.

CHARLES, Dauphin, and afterwards King of France.

REIGNIER, Duke of Anjou, and Titular King of Naples.

Duke of Burgundy.
Duke of Alanfon.
Baftard of Orleans.

An old Shepherd, Father to JOAN LA PUCELLE.

MARGARET, Daughter to REIGNIER, and afterwards Queen to K. HENRY. JOAN LA PUCELLE, a Maid pretending to be infpir'd from Heaven, and fetting up for the Championess of France.

Countess of Auvergne.

Lords, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and feveral Attendants both on the

English and French.

The SCENE is partly in England, and partly in France.

THE

THE FIRST PART OF

KING HENRY VI

ACT I. SCENE I.

Dead March. Enter the Funeral of King Henry the Fifth, attended on by the Duke of Bedford Regent of France, the Duke of Gloucefter Protector, the Duke of Exeter, and the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, and the Duke of Somerfet.

BEDFORD.

UNG be the heav'ns with black, yield day to night!

H

Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crisped treffes in the sky,

And with them fcourge the bad revolting stars

That have consented unto Henry's death!

Henry the fifth, too famous to live long!
England ne'er loft a king of fo much worth.

Glou. England ne'er had a king until his time:
Virtue he had, deferving to command.

His brandifh'd fword bid blind men with its beams;
His arms fpread wider than a dragon's wings;
His fparkling eyes, replete with awful fire,
More dazled and drove back his enemies,

Than mid-day fun fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:
He never lifted up his hand but conquer'd.

Exe.

Exe. We mourn in black, why mourn we not in blood?
Henry is dead, and never fhall revive:

Upon a wooden coffin we attend;
And death's dishonourable victory
We with our stately prefence glorify,
Like captives bound to a triumphant car.
What? fhall we curfe the planets of mishap,
The plotted thus our glory's overthrow ?
Or fhall we think the fubtle-witted French
Conj'rers and forc'rers, that, afraid of him,
By magick verse have thus contriv'd his end?
Win. He was a king, bleft of the king of kings.
Unto the French, the dreadful judgment-day
So dreadful will not be as was his fight.

The battles of the lord of hofts he fought;

The church's pray'rs made him fo profperous.

Glou. The church? where is it? had not churchmen pray'd, His thread of life had not fo foon decay'd.

None do you like but an effeminate prince,
Whom like a schoolboy you may over-awe.

Win. Glofter, whate'er we like, thou art protector;
And lookeft to command the prince, and realm:

Thy wife is proud, fhe holdeth thee in awe,

More than god, or religious churchmen, may.

Glou. 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. Ceafe, cease these jars, and reft your minds in peace: Let's to the altar. Heralds, wait on us:

Inftead of gold we'll offer up our arms,

Since arms avail not now that Henry's dead.
Pofterity await for wretched years,

When at their mothers' moift eyes babes fhall fuck,
Our ifle be made a marish of falt tears,

And none but women left to wail the dead!—
Henry the fifth! thy ghost I invocate;

Profper

Profper this realm, keep it from civil broils !
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens !
A far more glorious ftar thy foul will make
Than Julius Cæfar.

SCENE II.

Enter a Messenger.

Melf. My honourable lords, health to you all!
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,
Of lofs, of flaughter, and discomfiture;
Guienne, Champaign, and Rheims, and Orleans,
Paris, Guyfors, Poitiers, are all quite loft.

Bed. What fay'ft thou, man, before dead Henry's corse?
Speak foftly, or the lofs of those great towns

Will make him burst his lead, and rise from death.
Glou. Is Paris loft, and Orleans yielded up?

If Henry were recall'd to life again,

These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.
Exe. How were they loft? what treachery was us'd?
Meff. No treachery, but want of men and money.
Amongst the soldiers this is muttered,

That here you maintain fev'ral factions;

And, whilst a field should be despatch'd and fought,
You are difputing of your generals.

One would have ling'ring wars with little coft;
Another would fly fwift, but wanteth wings;
A third man thinks, without expence at all
By guileful fair words peace may be obtain❜d.
Awake, awake, English nobility!

Let not floth dim your honours, new begot:
Crop'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms;
Of England's coat one half is cut away.

Exe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral,
These tidings would call forth her flowing tides.

a

England's.

Bed.

Bed. Me they concern, regent I am of France: Give me my steeled coat, I'll fight for France. Away with these difgraceful, wailing robes! Wounds I will lend the French, instead of eyes, To weep their intermiffive miferies.

SCENE III.

Enter another Messenger.

2 Meff. Lords, view these letters, full of bad mifchance. France is revolted from the English quite,

Except fome petty towns of no import.

The dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims;
The baftard Orleans with him is join'd;
Reignier duke of Anjou takes his part;
The duke of Alanfon flies to his fide.

Exe. The dauphin crowned king! all fly to him!

O, whither fhall we fly from this reproach?

Glou. We will not fly but to our enemies' throats. Bedford, if thou be flack, I'll fight it out.

Bed. Glofter, why doubt'ft thou of my forwardness ? An army have I muster'd in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun.

SCENE IV.

Enter a Third Meffenger.

3 Meff. My gracious lords, to add to your laments Wherewith you now bedew king Henry's hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight

Betwixt the ftout lord Talbot and the French.

Win. What! wherein Talbot overcame? is't fo?

3. Meff. O, no; wherein lord Talbot was o'erthrown: The circumftance I'll tell you more at large. The tenth of auguft laft, this dreadful lord Retiring from the fiege of Orleans,