Puc. Decrepit miser!1 base, ignoble wretch!

I am descended of a gentler blood;

Thou art no father, nor no friend of mine.

Shep. Out, out! - My lords, an please you, it is

not so;

I did beget her, all the parish knows.

Her mother liveth yet, can testify,

She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.

War. Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage? York. This argues what her kind of life hath been;

Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.

Shep. Fie, Joan! that thou wilt be so obstacle! 2

God knows, thou art a collop of my flesh;
And for thy sake have I shed many a tear.

Deny me not, I pr'ythee, gentle Joan.

Puc. Peasant, avaunt! - You have suborned this

man,

Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.

Shep. 'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest, The morn that I was wedded to her mother.Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity! I would the milk

Thy mother gave thee, when thou suck'dst her breast,

Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake!

Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field,

I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!

Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab?

O, burn her, burn her; hanging is too good.

[Exit.

York. Take her away, for she hath lived too long,

To fill the world with vicious qualities.

Puc. First, let me tell you whom you have con

demned.

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.
I never had to do with wicked spirits;
But you, that are polluted with your lusts,
Stained with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, -
Because you want the grace that others have,
You judge it straight a thing impossible
To compass wonders, but by help of devils.
No, misconceived !1 Joan of Arc hath been
A virgin from her tender infancy,
Chaste and immaculate in very thought;
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused,
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.
York. Ay, ay;-away with her to execution.
War. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,
Spare for no fagots; let there be enough.
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,
That so her torture may be shortened.

Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?—
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity;
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.-
I am with child, ye bloody homicides;
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although ye hale me to a violent death.

York. Now Heaven forefend! the holy maid with

child!

War. The greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought. Is all your strict preciseness come to this?

York. She and the dauphin have been juggling; I did imagine what would be her refuge.

War. Well, go to; we will have no bastards live; Especially, since Charles must father it.

Puc. You are deceived; my child is none of his. It was Alençon, that enjoyed my love.

York. Alençon! that notorious Machiavel!2 It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.