King Henry the Sixth. Duke of Gloster, uncle to the king, and protector. Duke of Bedford, uncle to the king, and regent of France. Thomas Beaufort, duke of Exeter, great uncle to the king. Henry Beaufort, great uncle to the king, bishop of Winchester, and afterwards cardinal. John Beaufort, earl of Somerset; afterwards duke. Earl of Warwick. Earl of Salisbury. Earl of Suffolk. Edmund Mortimer, earl of March. Mortimer's Keeper, and a Lawyer. Sir John Fastoffe. Sir William Lucy. Sir William Glansdale. Sir Thomas Gargrave. Mayor of London. Woodville, lieutenant of the Tower. Vernon, of the White Rose, or York faction. Charles, dauphin and afterwards king of France. Duke of Alencon. Governor of Paris. Bastard of Orleans. Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his son. A Porter. An old Shepherd, father to Joan la Pucelle. Margaret, daughter to Reignier; afterwards married to king Henry. Countess of Auvergne. Joan la Pucelle, commonly called Joan of Arc. Fiends appearing to La Pucelle, Lords, Warders of the Tover, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and several Attendants both on the English and French. SCENE-partly in England, and partly in France. SCENE I.-Westminster Abbey. Dead March. Corpse of King Henry the Fifth discovered, lying in State; attended on by the Dukes of Bedford, Gloster, and Exeter; the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, &c. HUNG Bedford. LUNG be the heavens with black, yield day to- Comets, importing change of times and states, His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; Exe. We mourn in black; Why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead, and never shall revive: Upon a wooden coffin we attend; Win. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings. The church's prayers made him so prosperous. Glo. The church! where is it? had not church-men pray'd, His thread of life had not so soon decay'd: Win. Gloster, whate'er we like, thou art protector; Bed. Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in peace! Let's to the altar-Heralds, wait on us: Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms; Since arins avail not, now that Henry's dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mother's moist eyes babes shall suck; Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, |