Talbot's final speeches move from grief to philosophy to defiance. 'My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride' is pure loss, but then he shifts to 'Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky' — lifting the death into mythology. His final lines, 'Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave,' are both a death and a marriage, a surrender and an apotheosis.
Where is my other life? Mine own is gone.
O, where’s young Talbot? Where is valiant John?
Triumphant Death, smear’d with captivity,
Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee.
When he perceived me shrink and on my knee,
His bloody sword he brandish’d over me,
And like a hungry lion did commence
Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience;
But when my angry guardant stood alone,
Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none,
Dizzy-ey’d fury and great rage of heart
Suddenly made him from my side to start
Into the clustering battle of the French;
And in that sea of blood my boy did drench
His over-mounting spirit; and there died
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.
Where is my other life? My own life is gone. Oh, where is young Talbot? Where is brave John? Triumphant Death, stained with victory, young Talbot's courage makes me smile at you. When he saw me shrink back and kneel, he drew his bloody sword and raised it over me, and like a hungry lion began fierce acts of rage and severe impatience. But when my own protector stood alone, offering himself for ruin while no one attacked him, dizzy-eyed fury and great burning rage suddenly made him leave my side and rush into the thick fighting of the French, and in that sea of blood my boy drowned his burning spirit—and there died my Icarus, my blossom, in his glory.
Where is my other life? Mine is gone. Where is John? Death, you've beaten us, but young Talbot's bravery makes me smile at you. When he saw me fall to my knees, he pulled out his sword and raised it over me like a raging lion. But when I stood alone, waiting for death with no one attacking, he got so angry he couldn't stay still. He charged into the thick of the French fight, and there in all that blood my boy died—my young, glorious Icarus, my perfect blossom.
where is john he made me smile even in death he fought like a lion charged into battle died in his glory my icarus my blossom
O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne!
Oh my dear lord, look—they are carrying your son!
My lord, they're bringing your son here.
theyre bringing ur son
Thou antic Death, which laugh’st us here to scorn,
Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,
Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,
In thy despite shall scape mortality.
O thou whose wounds become hard-favour’d Death,
Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath!
Brave Death by speaking, whether he will or no;
Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe.
Poor boy, he smiles, methinks, as who should say,
Had Death been French, then Death had died today.
Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms;
My spirit can no longer bear these harms.
Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,
Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave.
You strange Death, who mock us here with scorn, soon from your insulting tyranny, joined together forever, two Talbots, flying through the lighter sky, will escape mortality in spite of you. Oh you whose wounds make Death ugly, speak to your father before you lose your breath! Make Death brave by speaking, whether he wants it or not. Imagine Death is a Frenchman and your enemy. Poor boy, he smiles, I think, as if to say, had Death been French, Death would have died today. Come, let me lay him in his father's arms. My spirit can bear no more of these harms. Soldiers, goodbye! I have what I wanted. Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave.
You strange Death who laughs at us, soon my boy and I will fly away together beyond your reach forever. Oh Death, whose ugliness is shown by his wounds—speak to your father before you die! Show Death how to be brave. Imagine Death is a Frenchman, your enemy. Look, he smiles—like he's saying if Death were French, he'd have killed it. Come, let me hold my boy in my arms. I can't bear this anymore. Soldiers, I say goodbye. I have everything I need now. My body will be my son's tomb.
we'll escape ur tyranny two talbots flying together he smiles like hed kill french death let me hold him im done my arms r his grave
Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,
We should have found a bloody day of this.
If York and Somerset had brought reinforcements, we would have had a difficult battle.
If York and Somerset had sent troops to help, this would've been a real fight.
if they sent help wud b harder battle
How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!
How the young whelp of Talbot, raging with fury, bloodied his small sword in Frenchmen's blood!
That young Talbot kid fought like a wild thing—he got his sword plenty bloody.
young talbot fought wild got his sword all bloody
Joan's dismissal of Talbot's titles ('The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, / Writes not so tedious a style as this') reveals her desperation. She and the French think the titles are excessive; actually, they're exactly adequate to the man being named. Her mockery is the sound of fear.
Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said:
“Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid.”
But with a proud majestical high scorn
He answer’d thus: “Young Talbot was not born
To be the pillage of a giglot wench.”
So, rushing in the bowels of the French,
He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.
Once I confronted him, and I said this: "You young man, be defeated by a girl." But with proud and lofty scorn he answered: "Young Talbot was not born to be the victim of a shameless woman." So, rushing into the thick of French fighting, he left me proudly, as if I were unworthy to fight him.
I fought him once and said, "Young man, let a girl defeat you." But he answered with total contempt: "Talbot wasn't born to be beaten by some loose woman." Then he rushed off into the fighting, like I wasn't even worth his time.
i fought him said i wud beat him he was so proud said talbots not beaten by girls ran off into battle
Doubtless he would have made a noble knight.
See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.
Without doubt he would have become a great knight. See where he lies cradled in the arms of the one who caused his greatest wounds.
He would have been a great knight for sure. There he is, dying in the arms of his father—the same man who brought him into battle.
wud b great knight lies in his dads arms the one who made his wounds
Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,
Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.
Cut them to pieces, break apart their bones—the one whose life was England's pride, France's marvel.
Chop them up, break their bones to bits—this man who made England great and France scared.
cut them to pieces englnds glory frances fear
O, no, forbear! For that which we have fled
During the life, let us not wrong it dead.
No, stop! What we avoided while he lived, we should not dishonor him for now that he is dead.
No, leave them alone. We fought against him his whole life—don't desecrate him now.
leave them alone we fought him alive don't disrespect him dead
Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,
To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day.
Herald, take me to the Dauphin's tent so I can learn who has won the glory of this day.
Herald, take me to the Dauphin. I want to know who won.
take me to dauphin wanna know who won
On what submissive message art thou sent?
What surrendering message are you bringing?
Are you here to surrender?
u here to surrender
Submission, Dauphin! ’Tis a mere French word.
We English warriors wot not what it means.
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en,
And to survey the bodies of the dead.
Surrender, Dauphin! That is merely a French word. We English soldiers do not know what it means. I come to learn what prisoners you have taken and to look at the bodies of the dead.
Surrender? That's just a French word. We English fighters don't know what it means. I'm here to see what prisoners you took and to look at the dead.
surrender thats french we english dont know that word what prisoners u got show us the dead
For prisoners ask’st thou? Hell our prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek’st.
Prisoners? Hell is our prison. But tell me—who is it you seek?
Prisoners? We sent them straight to hell. But who exactly are you looking for?
prisoners theyre in hell who u looking for
But where’s the great Alcides of the field,
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,
Created for his rare success in arms
Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence,
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,
Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,
Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,
The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge,
Knight of the noble Order of Saint George,
Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece,
Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth
Of all his wars within the realm of France?
But where is the great Hercules of the battlefield, brave Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, created for his remarkable military success as Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, the three times victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble Order of Saint George, worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshal to King Henry the Sixth of all his wars within the realm of France?
Where is the great Hercules of this battlefield—brave Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury? He earned his titles through incredible victories: Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, three-times victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of Saint George, worthy of Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece—King Henry's Great Marshal of all his French wars?
where is talbot europe knows his name all his titles all his victories kings great general
Here’s a silly stately style indeed!
The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath,
Writes not so tedious a style as this.
Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles
Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet.
Here is a silly formal style indeed! The Turkish Sultan, who rules over fifty-two kingdoms, does not write in such a tedious manner as this. The one you glorify with all these titles lies stinking and rotting here at our feet.
What a ridiculous, fancy way of speaking! Even the Turkish Sultan with fifty-two kingdoms doesn't talk this fancy. The guy you just spent all those titles on? He's lying right here, dead and rotting at our feet.
thats so fancy even sultans dont talk like that theyre all dead rotting here
Is Talbot slain, the Frenchman’s only scourge,
Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?
O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d,
That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!
O, that I could but call these dead to life!
It were enough to fright the realm of France.
Were but his picture left amongst you here,
It would amaze the proudest of you all.
Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence
And give them burial as beseems their worth.
Is Talbot slain, France's only scourge, your kingdom's terror and instrument of dark fate? Oh, if only my eyes could turn to bullets so I could shoot them at your faces! Oh, that I could bring these dead back to life! It would be enough to terrify all of France. If only his portrait remained among you, it would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies so I can bear them away and give them burial worthy of their honor.
Talbot is dead? He was France's worst nightmare, your kingdom's greatest terror, like divine punishment itself. I wish I could turn my eyes into bullets and shoot you all. I wish I could bring the dead back—just the sight of him would scare France to death. Even his portrait would terrify your proudest lords. Let me take their bodies and give them a proper burial.
talbot is dead france's greatest enemy id kill you all if i could i wish he could come back he terrified you let me bury them
I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost,
He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit.
For God’s sake, let him have them; to keep them here,
They would but stink and putrify the air.
I think this newcomer is old Talbot's ghost—he speaks with such proud and commanding force. For goodness sake, let him have them. If we keep them here, they would only rot and poison the air.
This guy talks like Talbot's ghost—so proud and commanding. Let him have them, honestly. If we keep the bodies here, they'll just stink up the place.
hes like talbots ghost let him have them theyyd just stink here
Go, take their bodies hence.
Go, take the bodies away.
Take the bodies and go.
take them go
I’ll bear them hence;
But from their ashes shall be rear’d
A phoenix that shall make all France afeard.
I will take them away, but from their ashes a phoenix will rise that will make all France afraid.
I'll take them home. But from their ashes, a phoenix will rise that will terrify France.
ill take them from ashes phoenix will rise frances gonna fear it
So we be rid of them, do with them what thou wilt.
And now to Paris in this conquering vein.
All will be ours, now bloody Talbot’s slain.
As long as we are rid of them, do with them what you wish. And now to Paris in this victorious mood. All will be ours now that bloody Talbot is dead.
As long as they're gone, you can do whatever you want. Now let's go to Paris, celebrating our victory. Everything is ours now that Talbot is dead.
get them out of here to paris now talbots dead everythings ours
The Reckoning
This is the play's greatest scene — the apotheosis of Talbot and the moment when England's tragedy becomes visible to everyone. The first half is purely emotional: Talbot holding his dead son, his language shifting from grief to defiance. The second half transforms that grief into public ceremony and rhetoric. Lucy's recitation of Talbot's titles is not pompous; it's a kind of resurrection — the names are incantations that restore Talbot's authority even in death. The French think they've won; in fact, they've created a legend. The scene shows that Talbot's true victory is in his fame — 'His fame lives in the world, his shame in you' — and that fame cannot be burned or desecrated.
If this happened today…
A soldier's father, after hearing his son died in battle, holds the body and says: 'This isn't the end — this is immortality. You'll be remembered forever.' Then the enemy comes to drag away the body as a prize of war. A government representative arrives and, in the presence of all, reads the soldier's entire service record — every rank, every decoration, every place he fought. The repetition transforms humiliation into ceremony. The body is buried with honor because the words forced honor onto it.