joan

My lord , my lord , the French have gathered head .
The Dauphin , with one Joan la Pucelle joined ,
A holy prophetess new risen up ,
Is come with a great power to raise the siege .

Advance our waving colors on the walls .
Rescued is Orleance from the English .
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath performed her word .

’Tis Joan , not we , by whom the day is won ;
For which I will divide my crown with her ,
And all the priests and friars in my realm
Shall in procession sing her endless praise .
A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear
Than Rhodophe’s of Memphis ever was .
In memory of her , when she is dead ,
Her ashes , in an urn more precious
Than the rich-jeweled coffer of Darius ,
Transported shall be at high festivals
Before the kings and queens of France .
No longer on Saint Dennis will we cry ,
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint .
Come in , and let us banquet royally
After this golden day of victory .

Tut , holy Joan was his defensive guard .

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury ,
And here advance it in the marketplace ,
The middle center of this cursèd town .



Now have I paid my vow unto his soul :
For every drop of blood was drawn from him
There hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight .
And , that hereafter ages may behold
What ruin happened in revenge of him ,
Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect
A tomb wherein his corpse shall be interred ,
Upon the which , that everyone may read ,
Shall be engraved the sack of Orleance ,
The treacherous manner of his mournful death ,
And what a terror he had been to France .

But , lords , in all our bloody massacre ,
I muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace ,
His new-come champion , virtuous Joan of Arc ,
Nor any of his false confederates .

Then thus it must be ; this doth Joan devise :
By fair persuasions mixed with sugared words
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy
To leave the Talbot and to follow us .

Ah , Joan , this kills thy father’s heart outright .
Have I sought every country far and near ,
And , now it is my chance to find thee out ,
Must I behold thy timeless cruel death ?
Ah , Joan , sweet daughter Joan , I’ll die with thee .

Fie , Joan , that thou wilt be so obstacle !
God knows thou art a collop of my flesh ,
And for thy sake have I shed many a tear .
Deny me not , I prithee , gentle Joan .

First , let me tell you whom you have condemned :
Not one begotten of a shepherd swain ,
But issued from the progeny of kings ,
Virtuous and holy , chosen from above
By inspiration of celestial grace
To work exceeding miracles on earth .
I never had to do with wicked spirits .
But you , that are polluted with your lusts ,
Stained with the guiltless blood of innocents ,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices ,
Because you want the grace that others have ,
You judge it straight a thing impossible
To compass wonders but by help of devils .
No , misconceivèd ! Joan of Arc hath been
A virgin from her tender infancy ,
Chaste and immaculate in very thought ,
Whose maiden blood , thus rigorously effused ,
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven .

Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts ?
Then , Joan , discover thine infirmity ,
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege :
I am with child , you bloody homicides .
Murder not then the fruit within my womb ,
Although you hale me to a violent death .

Believe me , lords , for flying at the brook
I saw not better sport these seven years’ day .
Yet , by your leave , the wind was very high ,
And , ten to one , old Joan had not gone out .

Brother , adieu , good fortune come to thee ,
For thou wast got i’ th’ way of honesty .

A foot of honor better than I was ,
But many a many foot of land the worse .
Well , now can I make any Joan a lady .
Good den , Sir Richard ! God-a-mercy , fellow !
An if his name be George , I’ll call him Peter ,
For new-made honor doth forget men’s names ;
’Tis too respective and too sociable
For your conversion . Now your traveler ,
He and his toothpick at my Worship’s mess ,
And when my knightly stomach is sufficed ,
Why then I suck my teeth and catechize
My pickèd man of countries : My dear sir ,
Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin ,
I shall beseech you — that is Question now ,
And then comes Answer like an absey-book :
O , sir , says Answer , at your best command ,
At your employment , at your service , sir .
No , sir , says Question , I , sweet sir , at yours .
And so , ere Answer knows what Question would ,
Saving in dialogue of compliment
And talking of the Alps and Apennines ,
The Pyrenean and the river Po ,
It draws toward supper in conclusion so .
But this is worshipful society
And fits the mounting spirit like myself ;
For he is but a bastard to the time
That doth not smack of observation ,
And so am I whether I smack or no ;
And not alone in habit and device ,
Exterior form , outward accouterment ,
But from the inward motion to deliver
Sweet , sweet , sweet poison for the age’s tooth ,
Which though I will not practice to deceive ,
Yet to avoid deceit I mean to learn ,
For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising .



But who comes in such haste in riding robes ?
What woman post is this ? Hath she no husband
That will take pains to blow a horn before her ?
O me , ’tis my mother . — How now , good lady ?
What brings you here to court so hastily ?

And I forsooth in love ! I that have been love’s whip ,
A very beadle to a humorous sigh ,
A critic , nay , a nightwatch constable ,
A domineering pedant o’er the boy ,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent .
This wimpled , whining , purblind , wayward boy ,
This Signior Junior , giant dwarf , Dan Cupid ,
Regent of love rhymes , lord of folded arms ,
Th’ anointed sovereign of sighs and groans ,
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents ,
Dread prince of plackets , king of codpieces ,
Sole imperator and great general
Of trotting paritors — O my little heart !
And I to be a corporal of his field
And wear his colors like a tumbler’s hoop !
What ? I love , I sue , I seek a wife ?
A woman , that is like a German clock ,
Still a-repairing , ever out of frame ,
And never going aright , being a watch ,
But being watched that it may still go right .
Nay , to be perjured , which is worst of all .
And , among three , to love the worst of all ,
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow ,
With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes .
Ay , and by heaven , one that will do the deed
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard .
And I to sigh for her , to watch for her ,
To pray for her ! Go to . It is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might .
Well , I will love , write , sigh , pray , sue , groan .
Some men must love my lady , and some Joan .

Not you to me , but I betrayed by you .
I , that am honest , I , that hold it sin
To break the vow I am engagèd in .
I am betrayed by keeping company
With men like you , men of inconstancy .
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme ?
Or groan for Joan ? or spend a minute’s time
In pruning me ? When shall you hear that I
Will praise a hand , a foot , a face , an eye ,
A gait , a state , a brow , a breast , a waist ,
A leg , a limb —

When icicles hang by the wall ,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail ,
And Tom bears logs into the hall ,
And milk comes frozen home in pail ;
When blood is nipped , and ways be foul ,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit to-who . A merry note ,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot .

When all aloud the wind doth blow ,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw ,
And birds sit brooding in the snow ,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw ;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl ,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit to-who . A merry note ,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot .

Alice Madam , or Joan Madam ?