LIONEL. My lord, But for a few brief moments can you live-- Think of your Maker! TALBOT. Had we, like brave men, Been vanquished by the brave, we might, indeed, Console ourselves that 'twas the common lot; For fickle fortune aye revolves her wheel. But to be baffled by such juggling arts! Deserved our earnest and laborious life Not a more earnest issue? LIONEL (extends his hand to him). Fare you well! The debt of honest tears I will discharge After the battle--if I then survive. Now Fate doth call me hence, where on the field Her web she waveth, and dispenseth doom. We in another world shall meet again; For our long friendship, this a brief farewell. [Exit. TALBOT. Soon is the struggle past, and to the earth, To the eternal sun, I render back These atoms, joined in me for pain and pleasure. And of the mighty Talbot, who the world Filled with his martial glory, there remains Naught save a modicum of senseless dust. Such is the end of man--the only spoil We carry with us from life's battle-field, Is but an insight into nothingness, And utter scorn of all which once appeared To us exalted and desirable. SCENE VII. CHARLES, BURGUNDY, DUNOIS, DUCHATEL, and Soldiers. BURGUNDY. The trench is stormed! DUNOIS. The victory is ours! CHARLES (perceiving TALBOT.) Look! Who is he, who yonder of the sun Taketh reluctant, sorrowful farewell? His armor indicates no common man; Go, succor him, if aid may yet avail. [Soldiers of the KING'S retinue step forward. FASTOLFE. Back! Stand apart! Respect the mighty dead, Whom ye in life ne'er ventured to approach! BURGUNDY. What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood! [He approaches him. TALBOT gazes fixedly at him, and dies. FASTOLFE. Traitor, avaunt! Let not the sight of thee Poison the dying hero's parting glance. DUNOIS. Resistless hero! Dread-inspiring Talbot! Does such a narrow space suffice thee now, And this vast kingdom could not satisfy The large ambition of thy giant soul! Now first I can salute you, sire, as king: The diadem but tottered on your brow, While yet a spirit tenanted this clay. CHARLES (after contemplating the body in silence). A higher power hath vanquished him, not we! He lies upon the soil of France, as lies The hero on the shield he would not quit. Well, peace be with his ashes! Bear him hence! [Soldiers take up the body and carry it away. Here in the heart of France, where his career Of conquest ended, let his relics lie! So far no hostile sword attained before. A fitting tomb shall memorize his name; His epitaph the spot whereon he fell. FASTOLFE (yielding his sword). I am your prisoner, sir. CHARLES (returning his sword). Not so! Rude war Respects each pious office; you are free To render the last honors to the dead, Go now, Duchatel--still my Agnes trembles-- Hasten to snatch her from anxiety-- Bring her the tidings of our victory, And usher her in triumph into Rheims!