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.
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.
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 ent’red into Orleance
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.