Original
Modern English
Where is my strength, my valour, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them: A woman clad in armour chaseth them.
Where is my strength, my courage, and my power? Our English troops are retreating, I can’t stop them: A woman in armor is chasing 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 servest.
Here, here she comes. I’ll fight with you; Devil or devil’s mother, I’ll summon you: I’ll draw blood from you, you’re a witch, And immediately send your soul to the one you serve.
Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace thee.
Come, come, it’s only I who will disgrace you.
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.
Heavens, can you let hell win like this? I’ll break my chest with the strain of my courage And tear my arms off at the shoulders. But I will punish this proud woman.
Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come: I must go victual Orleans forthwith.
Talbot, farewell; your time has not yet come: I must go feed the troops at Orleans right away.
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.
Catch me if you can; I laugh at your strength. Go, go, cheer up your hungry, starving men; Help Salisbury make his will: This day is ours, and many more will be.
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.
My thoughts are spinning like a potter’s wheel; I don’t know where I am, or what I’m doing; A witch, using fear, not force, like Hannibal, Pushes our troops back and wins as she pleases: Just like bees are driven out of their hives by smoke, Or doves by foul smells. They called us English dogs for our fierceness; Now, like pups, we run away, crying.
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.
Listen, countrymen! either start the fight again, Or rip the lions off of England’s coat of arms; Reject your land, and replace the lions with sheep: Sheep don’t run away from the wolf half as treacherously, Or horses or oxen from the leopard, As you run from your repeatedly conquered enemies.
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 enter’d 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.
It won’t work: fall back to your trenches: You all agreed to Salisbury’s death, Because no one would lift a finger for revenge. Pucelle has entered Orleans, In spite of us, or anything we could do. Oh, how I wish I had died with Salisbury! The shame of this will make me hide my face.