Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Yorke. Mad ire, and wrathfull fury makes me weepe,
Yorke. That thus we dye, while remisse Traitors sleepe.
Mes. Mes.
Mes. O send some succour to the distrest Lord.
Yorke. Yorke.
Yorke. He dies, we loose: I breake my warlike word:
Yorke. We mourne, France smiles: We loose, they dayly get,
Yorke. All long of this vile Traitor Somerset.
Mes. Then God take mercy on braue Talbots soule,
Mes. And on his Sonne yong Iohn, who two houres since,
Mes. I met in trauaile toward his warlike Father;
Mes. This seuen yeeres did not Talbot see his sonne,
Mes. And now they meete where both their liues are done.
Yorke. Alas, what ioy shall noble Talbot haue,
Yorke. To bid his yong sonne welcome to his Graue:
Yorke. Away, vexation almost stoppes my breath,
Yorke. That sundred friends greete in the houre of death.
Yorke. Lucie farewell, no more my fortune can,