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Where is my other life? mine own is gone; O, where’s young Talbot? where is valiant John? Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity, Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee: When he perceived me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish’d over me, And, like a hungry lion, did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none, Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clustering battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His over-mounting spirit, and there died, My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.
Where is my other self? My own life is gone; Oh, where is young Talbot? Where is brave John? Triumphant death, covered in captivity, Young Talbot’s courage makes me smile at you: When he saw me shrink and kneel, He raised his bloody sword over me, And, like a hungry lion, he began Fierce deeds of rage and impatient fury; But when my angry guard stood alone, Leaving me to ruin, with no one attacking me, Dizzy-eyed anger and a heavy heart Suddenly made him leap away from my side Into the thick battle of the French; And in that sea of blood, my boy was soaked, His spirit overwhelmed, and there he died, My Icarus, my flower, in his prime.
O, my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne!
Oh, my dear lord, look, here’s your son being carried!
Thou antic death, which laugh’st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall ’scape mortality. O, thou, whose wounds become hard-favour’d death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had death been French, then death had died to-day. Come, come and lay him in his father’s arms: My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave.
You mock death, laughing at us here, Soon, from your cruel rule, Bound forever in chains of eternity, Two Talbots, soaring through the bright sky, In spite of you, will escape mortality. Oh, you, whose wounds bring on cruel death, Speak to your father before you take your last breath! Brave death, by speaking, whether you want to or not; Imagine him as a Frenchman, and your enemy. Poor boy! He smiles, it seems, as if to say, Had death been French, death would have died today. Come, come and place him in his father’s arms: I can no longer endure these pains. Soldiers, farewell! I have what I wanted, Now my old arms are the grave of young John Talbot.
Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this.
If York and Somerset had brought reinforcements, We would have seen a bloody battle today.
How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!
How the young whelp of Talbot, like a mad beast, Drenched his little sword in Frenchmen’s blood!
Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said: ’Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid:’ But, with a proud majestical high scorn, He answer’d thus: ’Young Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench:’ So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.
Once I met him, and said: ’You maiden youth, be defeated by a maid:’ But, with proud scorn and high majesty, He answered, ’Young Talbot was not born To be the prey of a silly wench:’ So, rushing into the thick of the French, He left me proudly, thinking I wasn’t worthy to fight.
Doubtless he would have made a noble knight; See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms!
Surely, he would have made a noble knight; See, where he lies, buried in the arms Of the one who caused the most harm to him!
Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.
Cut them to pieces, break their bones apart Who lived as England’s glory, France’s wonder.
O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead.
Oh, no, stop! For what we fled from while he lived, Let’s not dishonor it now that he’s dead.
Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent, To know who hath obtained the glory of the day.
Herald, take me to the Dauphin’s tent, To find out who won the glory of the day.
On what submissive message art thou sent?
What humble message are you carrying?
Submission, Dauphin! ’tis a mere French word; We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en And to survey the bodies of the dead.
Submission, Dauphin! It’s just a French word; We English soldiers don’t know what it means. I’ve come to find out what prisoners you’ve taken And to look over the bodies of the dead.
For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek’st.
You ask about prisoners? Hell is our prison. But tell me, whom are you looking for?
But where’s the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created, for his rare success in arms, Great Earl of Washford, Waterford and Valence; Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge; Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece; Great marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France?
But where’s the great Hercules of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Who was made, for his rare success in battle, Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence; Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The three-time victorious Lord of Falconbridge; Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy of Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece; Great marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France?
Here is a silly stately style indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet.
Here is a silly, grand way of talking indeed! The Turk, who rules fifty-two kingdoms, Doesn’t write in such a tiresome style as this. The man you praise with all these titles, Stinking and covered with flies, lies here at our feet.
Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge, Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis? O, were mine eyeballs into bullets turn’d, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O, that I could but call these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France: Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth.
Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge, Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis? Oh, if only my eyeballs could turn into bullets, That I could shoot them at your faces in rage! Oh, if only I could bring these dead back to life! It would be enough to terrify the entire realm of France: If just his image were left among you here, It would shock the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, so I can take them away And bury them with the honor they deserve.
I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost, He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God’s sake let him have ’em; to keep them here, They would but stink, and putrefy the air.
I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost, He speaks with such a proud, commanding spirit. For God’s sake, let him have them; if they stay here, They’ll just stink and rot, polluting the air.
Go, take their bodies hence.
Go, take their bodies away.
I’ll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear’d A phoenix that shall make all France afeard.
I’ll carry them away; but from their ashes will rise A phoenix that will scare all of France.
So we be rid of them, do with ’em what thou wilt. And now to Paris, in this conquering vein: All will be ours, now bloody Talbot’s slain.
As long as we’re rid of them, do whatever you want with them. And now let’s go to Paris, with this victorious spirit: Everything will be ours, now that bloody Talbot is dead.