These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits:
'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt
And turn again unto the warlike French.
Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,
And keep not back your powers in dalliance.
Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;
Else, ruin combat with their palaces!
Success unto our valiant general,
And happiness to his accomplices!
What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, speak.
The English army, that divided was
Into two parties, is now conjoined in one,
And means to give you battle presently.
Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;
But we will presently provide for them.
I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there:
Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.
Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.
Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,
Let Henry fret and all the world repine.
Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!