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Search out thy wit for secret policies

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, turn thy edgèd sword another way;
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.
One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosom
Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore.

Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:
By fair persuasions mixed with sugared wordsTransferred Epithets
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy
To leave the Talbot and to follow us.
Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,
France were no place for Henry’s warriors,
Nor should that nation boast it so with us,
But be extirpèd from our provinces.Metonomy/Personification

Forever should they be expulsed from France,
And not have title of an earldom here.Hyperbaton

Your honors shall perceive how I will work
To bring this matter to the wishèd end.Transferred Epithet
 Drum sounds afar off.
Hark! By the sound of drum you may perceive
Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.
 Here sound an English march.
There goes the Talbot with his colors spread,
And all the troops of English after him.
 French march.
Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his.Ellipsis
Fortune in favor]/tooltip] makes him lag behind.
Summon a parley; we will talk with him.
 Trumpets sound a parley.
AnapodotonA parley with the Duke of Burgundy!Alliteration

 Enter Burgundy.

Who craves a parley with the Burgundy?
The princely Charles of France, Appostionthy countryman.Anapodoton
What say’st thou, Charles?—for I am marching hence.
Charles, aside to Pucelle
Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.
Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France,Appostion
Stay; let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.Alliteration
Speak on, but be not over-tedious.
Look on thy country, look on fertile France,Anaphora & Alliteration
And see the cities and the towns defaced
By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.
As looks the mother on her lowly babe
When death doth close his Synecdoctetender-dying eyes,Simile

See, see the Transferred Epithetpining malady of France:Epizeuxis
Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,Epistrophe
Which thou thyself hast given her woeful breast.Synecdocte
O, turn thy edgèd sword another way;Metonomy
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.Anadiplosis & Alliteration
One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosomSynecdocte
Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore.
Return thee therefore with a flood of tears,Adynaton
And wash away thy country’s stainèd spots.Metaphor
Burgundy, aside
Either she hath bewitched me with her words,
Or nature makes me suddenly relent.Alliosis & Personification

Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee,Alliteration, Personification & Hendiadys
Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.
Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation
That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake?
When Talbot hath set Alliterationfooting once in France
And fashioned thee that instrument of ill,
Who then but English Henry will be lord,
And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?
Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof:
Was not the Duke of Orleance thy foe?
And was he not in England prisoner?Pysma

But when they heard he was thine enemy,
They set him free, without his ransom paid,
In spite of Burgundy and all his friends.
See then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen,
And join’st with them will be thy slaughtermen.Epistrophe

Come, come, return; return,Epizeuxis thou wandering lord.
Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.Synecdocte
Burgundy, aside
I am vanquishèd. These haughty words of hers
Have battered me like roaring cannon-shot,Simile
And made me almost yield upon my knees.—
Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen;Personification & Hendiadys
And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace.
 He embraces Charles, Bastard, and Alanson.
My forces and my power of men are yours.Hendiadys
So, farewell, Talbot. I’ll no longer trust thee.
Pucelle, aside
Done like a Frenchman: turn and turn again.Diacope