Joan la Pucelle

Joan la Pucelle
Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter,
My wit untrained in any kind of art.
Heaven and Our Lady gracious hath it pleased
To shine on my contemptible estate.
Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs,
And to sun’s parching heat displayed my cheeks,
God’s Mother deignèd to appear to me,
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Joan la Pucelle
Assigned am I to be the English scourge.
This night the siege assuredly I’ll raise.
Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyons’ days,
Since I have enterèd into these wars.

Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself
Till by broad spreading it disperse to naught

Glory is like a circle in the water,
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Pucelle
These are the city gates, the gates of Roan,
Through which our policy must make a breach.
Take heed. Be wary how you place your words;
Talk like the vulgar sort of market men
That come to gather money for their corn.
If we have entrance, as I hope we shall,
And that we find the slothful watch but weak,
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Bastard
Search out thy wit for secret policies,
And we will make thee famous through the world.
Alanson, to Pucelle
We’ll set thy statue in some holy place
And have thee reverenced like a blessèd saint.Simile
Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.

O,
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Lucy
Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,
To know who hath obtained the glory of the day.
Charles
On what submissive message art thou sent?
Lucy
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,
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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.

Because you want the grace that others have,
You judge it straight a thing impossible
To compass wonders but by help of devils

I never had to do with wicked spirits.
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Pucelle
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.
York
Now heaven forfend, the holy maid with child?

May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode,
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