 | Francis the First |  |
SCENE IV.
—ANOTHER PART OF THE BATTLE-FIELD.Alarums.—Enter Francis, supported by D'Albret and Triboulet; his sword broken, and his whole dress very much disordered.
FRANCIS.
Oh, coward traitors, to forsake me thus!
Thrice did I lead them on, and thrice again
That fiend incarnate, Bourbon, routed them.
D'Albret, leave me, and get thee to the brow
Of yonder hill, and look upon the field,
And come and tell me how the battle fares.
[Exit D'Albret. Francis seats himself on the ground.
FRANCIS.
So thou didst break thy prison, Triboulet?
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Ay, and I would have broken my neck to have got to
you; but, master mine, you bleed—you are sore wounded.
FRANCIS.
A score of scratches, nothing more, kind friend.
Take off my helmet—so—I thirst, good fool:
I pray thee fetch me, from yon spring, some water,
To lay this fever in my throat.
[Triboulet takes the King's helmet, and goes for water.
Oh, mother!
Ill shall it fare with thee if the day's lost,
As I do fear it will be.
Re-enter Triboulet.
Thank thee, friend.
Pah! there is blood! blood! in the curdled stream!
I cannot, for my life, dip e'en my lip
Into it.
LAUTREC
(without).
Where, where is the tyrant?
(Enters.)
Ha!
Take this, thou ravisher! Laval doth send it thee!
[He rushes on the King; Triboulet throws himself before him, but is felled by Lautrec—Francis starts up, and, with his broken sword, defends himself. Enter Pescara and Spanish troops—Henri D'Albret is brought in prisoner—Pescara strikes down Lautrec's sword.
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Down with thy sword for very shame, Lautrec!
Wouldst strike an unarm'd and a wounded man?
FRANCIS.
Pescara! thou hast sav'd a worthless life;
Worthless to all but him unto whose vengeance
It was most rightly due. Alas, poor fool!
Wounded, I fear, to death!
TRIBOULET.
For thee, master—dear master, 'tis for thee!
FRANCIS.
My crown!—I had forgot—but my heart's thanks,
And all my fallen fortunes may have spar'd me,
To him that shall restore thee!
TRIBOULET.
Oh master mine! thou canst not buy me a new heart;
mine is unseam'd, and life hath play'd the truant—forgive
poor Clèment, master, for my sake;—and hark thee
—hark thee in thine ear,—thou hast been called a wise
King hitherto, and I now ratify the sentence;—henceforth
thou shalt be wise—
FRANCIS.
Why so?
TRIBOULET.
Because thy folly is departing, master!—alack, poor
cap and bells!
[Dies.
FRANCIS.
Curse on these smarting wounds, whose pain doth bring
Unmanly tears!—Pescara, I beseech thee,
Let this kind fellow sleep in honor'd grave!
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Of evil thought,—but for his faithful heart,
Oh! how it sham'd all sense and intellect,
That was so passing excellent without them!
PESCARA.
It shall be look'd to, sir, right heedfully.—
But, sir, you bleed; there is a convent near
If you can mount—
FRANCIS.
Faith—I feel somewhat faint,—
Lead on, sir, so our haven be not far.—
D'Albret, thine arm; thou'rt something of a prophet—
Fortune has cheated us of all save patience.
[Exeunt—Soldiers follow them, bearing the body of Triboulet.
| Francis the First | |