What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us?
Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst, speak.
How far’st thou, mirror of all martial men?
One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off!
Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand
That hath contriv’d this woeful tragedy!
In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame;
Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars;
Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up,
His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field.
Yet liv’st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail,
One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace;
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive,
If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!
Bear hence his body, I will help to bury it.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?
Speak unto Talbot, nay, look up to him.
Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort,
Thou shalt not die whiles—
He beckons with his hand and smiles on me,
As who should say, “When I am dead and gone,
Remember to avenge me on the French.”
Plantagenet, I will, and like thee, Nero,
Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn:
Wretched shall France be only in my name.
What stir is this? what tumult’s in the heavens?
Whence cometh this alarum, and the noise?