sack this country with a mutiny.
These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits:
'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt
And turn again unto the warlike French.
Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,
And keep not back your powers in dalliance.
Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;
Else, ruin combat with their palaces!
Success unto our valiant general,
And happiness to his accomplices!
What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, speak.
The English army, that divided was
Into two parties, is now conjoined in one,
And means to give you battle presently.
Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;
But we will presently provide for them.
I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there:
Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.
Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.
Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,
Let Henry fret and all the world repine.
Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!
The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen fly.
Now help, ye charming spells and periapts;
And ye choice spirits that admonish me
And give me signs of future accidents.
You speedy helpers, that are substitutes
Under the lordly monarch of the north,
Appear and aid me in this enterprise.
This speedy and quick appearance argues proof
Of your accustom'd diligence to me.
Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull'd
Out of the powerful regions under earth,
Help me this once, that France may get the field.
O, hold me not with silence over-long!
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,
I'll lop a member off and give it you
In earnest of further benefit,
So you do condescend to help me now.
No hope to have redress? My body shall
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.
Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?
Then take my soul, my body, soul and all,
Before that England give the French the foil.
See, they forsake me! Now the time is come
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest
And let her head fall into England's lap.
My ancient incantations are too weak,
And hell too strong for me to buckle with:
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.
Damsel of France, I think I have you fast:
Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms
And try if they can gain your liberty.
A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace!
See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows,
As if with Circe she would change my shape!