Char. Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon, 104
And fightest with the sword of Deborah.
Joan. Christ's mother helps me, else I were too weak.
Char. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me:
Impatiently I burn with thy desire; 108
My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu'd.
Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,
Let me thy servant and not sovereign be;
'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. 112
Joan. I must not yield to any rites of love,
For my profession's sacred from above:
When I have chased all thy foes from hence,
Then will I think upon a recompense. 116
Char. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.
Reig. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.
Alen. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;
Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech. 120
Reig. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?
Alen. He may mean more than we poor men do know:
These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.
Reig. My lord, where are you? what devise you on? 124
Shall we give over Orleans, or no?
Joan. Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants!
Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.
105 sword of Deborah; cf. n.
110 Pucelle; cf. n.
121 mean: moderation
