prompt:
Chapter: SCENE 2.

                       France. Plains in Anjou

              Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD,
                   REIGNIER, LA PUCELLE, and forces

  CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping
    spirits:
    'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt
    And turn again unto the warlike French.
  ALENCON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,
    And keep not back your powers in dalliance.
  PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;
    Else ruin combat with their palaces!

                            Enter a SCOUT

  SCOUT. Success unto our valiant general,
    And happiness to his accomplices!
  CHARLES. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak.
  SCOUT. The English army, that divided was
    Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one,
    And means to give you battle presently.
  CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;
    But we will presently provide for them.
  BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there.
    Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.
  PUCELLE. Of all base passions fear is most accurs'd.
    Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,
    Let Henry fret and all the world repine.
  CHARLES. Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!
                                                          Exeunt

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The French don't seem to have gotten the memo about the peace. At least, Charles and his lords still seem keen to fight. They're happy that the Parisians are in revolt against the English, and they're just planning to go to Paris when a scout comes and says the two parts of the English army are rejoined. The English are also about to start battle with the French again. Charles thinks this is short notice, but he's willing to fight, and Joan predicts success, then the battle begins. Joan sees the battle is going badly, and she calls on spirits or demons to help her. This is a surprising moment in the play, because up till now the play hasn't offered a lot of clear evidence as to whether Joan talks to demons or not. The English think she's a witch; the French think she's a saint; so far, the language of the play hasn't offered a clear answer. But here, when she calls on fiends, it sounds pretty likely that she's a witch. And it only seems more likely when fiends turn up. But then it gets a bit less clear. Joan asks them, "Help me this once, that France may get the field" . Does this mean they haven't helped her before? The demons walk around but don't say anything. You'd think summoning powerful evil beings to your aid would get some more dramatic action going, so maybe Joan isn't a witch, or maybe she's not as experienced with demons as you'd think from the fact they turn up. She does go on to say that she used to feed them with her blood and that she'd be willing to lop off a body part and give it to them if they help her. Pretty creepy stuff. The demons just hang their heads. Joan offers to repay them with her body, but they still shake their heads no. She even offers her soul, a bigger offer than the body in the time period, but the demons leave. Joan laments that she is not strong enough in these things, and that France's glory will droop into the dust. Fighting continues onstage, which must look awesome--too bad we're just getting the stage direction version. The French are fleeing, and York captures Joan. York definitely thinks Joan is a witch, and says so in no uncertain terms. He compares her to Circe, a witch who turned a bunch of Odysseus's crew into pigs in the Odyssey. He thinks Joan will fail where Circe succeeded, hinting that she might want to change his shape but can't. Joan still has some pluck about her, though, and she says that York couldn't possibly be changed into a worse shape. York taunts her by suggesting she's infatuated with Charles and can't be pleased by any other man's looks. Joan curses them both, so York calls her a hag and enchantress and says that she'll be burned at the stake. Meanwhile, Suffolk has captured a very different kind of woman named Margaret. But he seems in danger of falling in love with his prisoner--he starts throwing around courtly language like "O fairest beauty" and asking to know who she is so he can honor her. She says her name is Margaret and she's the daughter of the King of Naples. Suffolk introduces himself and keeps up the courtly language, comparing her to cygnets , sun on glassy streams--all the Hallmark greetings you can think of. He also plunges himself into contradictions: He wants to let Margaret go, but he says he can't because his heart says no; he really wants to woo her, but he's afraid to speak; and when he finally decides that maybe he can write down how he feels, he says it would be better to just speak. Actually, he says, her beauty confuses his tongue. Aside: Suffolk may not be the best relationship model. Margaret has more practical things on her mind. She doesn't want to be a prisoner, and she asks what ransom she has to give to get away. The next part is sadly funny, with Suffolk talking to himself about Margaret and Margaret just trying to get a straight answer about the ransom. As Suffolk is talking to himself--does she or doesn't she like him?--we find out that he already has a wife. Aside 2: Suffolk really may not be the best relationship model. Finally, Suffolk decides he can have it both ways: He'll woo Margaret, but for the King. Aside 3: Suffolk really may not be the best relationship model. As Suffolk is talking himself into it, he comes up with another objection. The King of Naples is poor, as kings go, and the English nobility won't like that. The King is supposed to marry someone who will add to the wealth, not decrease it. He figures he can solve this. Henry's young, and can be talked into pretty much anything. Poor Margaret has been trying to get Suffolk's attention all this time, and he finally tells her he has a secret to reveal. But now it's Margaret's turn. She keeps talking to herself while Suffolk tries to get her to listen, now that he's finally worked out what he wants to say. Margaret, trying to make the best of a bad situation, tells herself that he seems a knight , and won't dishonor her. She keeps talking to herself, wondering if the French will rescue her, and recognizing that she's not the only woman to be captured. Suffolk asks her why she's talking this way , and she quite reasonably points out that she's just returning the favor. Finally Suffolk gets to the subject of Margaret and the king. He might have chosen better wording, though--he asks Margaret if she wouldn't think her bondage happy if she were made a queen. Suffolk may not be so great with women... Margaret responds that being a queen in bondage would be even worse than being a regular slave; queens should be free. Yeah, Suffolk's wooing isn't going so well. He sort of saves the situation, or at least keeps it from getting worse, by saying she would be free if the king of England was free. He explains his plan. He does slip up, though. He says he'll plan to make Margaret Henry's queen and then adds, "If thou wilt condescend to be my--" . Margaret is quick to pick up on this. Before he can finish the sentence, she says "What?" Suffolk catches himself and says "his love", meaning the King's . Margaret says she's not worthy of being Henry's wife, Suffolk says he's not worthy to woo her to be Henry's wife, and courtly language turns up all round. Margaret does eventually agree to marry Henry, so long as it pleases her father. Suffolk parleys with her father, Reignier. Like Margaret earlier, Reignier is pretty businesslike, a contrast to the lovelorn Suffolk. When he finds out that Suffolk has captured his daughter, he basically says, "Let's solve the problem. I'm a soldier. I don't sit around and cry or complain about fortune's fickleness." He's probably hoping Suffolk will just tell him the ransom amount, but Suffolk suggests marrying her to King Henry. Reignier decides to come down from his walls and talk it over. He now seems a lot more interested in talking to Suffolk. He agrees to let the King marry his daughter if Reignier can peacefully enjoy two sections of land he sees as his own, Maine and Anjou. That's Maine in France, not Maine like the American state with moose, snow, and blueberries. Suffolk agrees to this deal and returns Margaret to her father for the present. They fix it up and Suffolk heads home to England. But there are lots of hints that he still wants a relationship with Margaret for himself. He leaves a diamond for her, tries to get her to send romantic words or tokens to the king , and kisses her. All in all, maybe not the best way to keep it all focused on business. Margaret says that the kiss will have to be for Suffolk, since she wouldn't send such peevish tokens to a king. This sounds like a rebuke, but is Margaret secretly wishing she could kiss Suffolk legitimately? It's hard to tell. But Suffolk leaves us in no doubt of his feelings: He exclaims that he wishes Margaret was his own. Then he stops himself, saying that ugly things lurk in his desire to have Margaret as his own instead of give her to the king. He then sets to work figuring out how to praise her in such a way that Henry will be amazed.


prompt:
Chapter: SCENE 3.

                         Before Angiers

              Alarum, excursions. Enter LA PUCELLE

  PUCELLE. The Regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly.
    Now help, ye charming spells and periapts;
    And ye choice spirits that admonish me
    And give me signs of future accidents;             [Thunder]
    You speedy helpers that are substitutes
    Under the lordly monarch of the north,
    Appear and aid me in this enterprise!

                          Enter FIENDS

    This speedy and quick appearance argues proof
    Of your accustom'd diligence to me.
    Now, ye familiar spirits that are cull'd
    Out of the powerful regions under earth,
    Help me this once, that France may get the field.
                                       [They walk and speak not]

    O, hold me not with silence over-long!
    Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,
    I'll lop a member off and give it you
    In earnest of a further benefit,
    So you do condescend to help me now.
                                         [They hang their heads]
    No hope to have redress? My body shall
    Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.
                                        [They shake their heads]
    Cannot my body nor blood sacrifice
    Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?
    Then take my soul-my body, soul, and all,
    Before that England give the French the foil.
                                                   [They depart]
    See! they forsake me. Now the time is come
    That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest
    And let her head fall into England's lap.
    My ancient incantations are too weak,
    And hell too strong for me to buckle with.
    Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.            Exit

          Excursions. Enter French and English, fighting.
         LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand; LA PUCELLE
                    is taken. The French fly

  YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast.
    Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,
    And try if they can gain your liberty.
    A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace!
    See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows
    As if, with Circe, she would change my shape!
  PUCELLE. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be.
  YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man:
    No shape but his can please your dainty eye.
  PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief fight on Charles and thee!
    And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd
    By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!
  YORK. Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy tongue.
  PUCELLE. I prithee give me leave to curse awhile.
  YORK. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.
                                                          Exeunt

          Alarum. Enter SUFFOLK, with MARGARET in his hand

  SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.
                                                  [Gazes on her]
    O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly!
    For I will touch thee but with reverent hands;
    I kiss these fingers for eternal peace,
    And lay them gently on thy tender side.
    Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee.
  MARGARET. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,
    The King of Naples--whosoe'er thou art.
  SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd.
    Be not offended, nature's miracle,
    Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me.
    So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,
    Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings.
    Yet, if this servile usage once offend,
    Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend.     [She is going]

    O, stay!  [Aside]  I have no power to let her pass;
    My hand would free her, but my heart says no.
    As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,
    Twinkling another counterfeited beam,
    So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.
    Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak.
    I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.
    Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself;
    Hast not a tongue? Is she not here thy prisoner?
    Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight?
    Ay, beauty's princely majesty is such
    Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
  MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so,
    What ransom must I pay before I pass?
    For I perceive I am thy prisoner.
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  How canst thou tell she will deny thy
    suit,
    Before thou make a trial of her love?
  MARGARET. Why speak'st thou not? What ransom must I
    pay?
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd;
    She is a woman, therefore to be won.
  MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom--yea or no?
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  Fond man, remember that thou hast a
    wife;
    Then how can Margaret be thy paramour?
  MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear.
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  There all is marr'd; there lies a cooling
    card.
  MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  And yet a dispensation may be had.
  MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me.
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom?
    Why, for my King! Tush, that's a wooden thing!
  MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter.
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,
    And peace established between these realms.
    But there remains a scruple in that too;
    For though her father be the King of Naples,
    Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,
    And our nobility will scorn the match.
  MARGARET. Hear ye, Captain--are you not at leisure?
  SUFFOLK.  [Aside]  It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much.
    Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield.
    Madam, I have a secret to reveal.
  MARGARET.  [Aside]  What though I be enthrall'd? He seems
    a knight,
    And will not any way dishonour me.
  SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.
  MARGARET.  [Aside]  Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French;
    And then I need not crave his courtesy.
  SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause--
  MARGARET.  [Aside]  Tush! women have been captivate ere
    now.
  SUFFOLK. Lady, wherefore talk you so?
  MARGARET. I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo.
  SUFFOLK. Say, gentle Princess, would you not suppose
    Your bondage happy, to be made a queen?
  MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile
    Than is a slave in base servility;
    For princes should be free.
  SUFFOLK. And so shall you,
    If happy England's royal king be free.
  MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?
  SUFFOLK. I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen,
    To put a golden sceptre in thy hand
    And set a precious crown upon thy head,
    If thou wilt condescend to be my--
  MARGARET. What?
  SUFFOLK. His love.
  MARGARET. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife.
  SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am
    To woo so fair a dame to be his wife
    And have no portion in the choice myself.
    How say you, madam? Are ye so content?
  MARGARET. An if my father please, I am content.
  SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth!
    And, madam, at your father's castle walls
    We'll crave a parley to confer with him.

           Sound a parley. Enter REIGNIER on the walls

    See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!
  REIGNIER. To whom?
  SUFFOLK. To me.
  REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy?
    I am a soldier and unapt to weep
    Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness.
  SUFFOLK. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord.
    Consent, and for thy honour give consent,
    Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king,
    Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto;
    And this her easy-held imprisonment
    Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty.
  REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?
  SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows
    That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.
  REIGNIER. Upon thy princely warrant I descend
    To give thee answer of thy just demand.
                                    Exit REIGNIER from the walls

  SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming.

                Trumpets sound. Enter REIGNIER below

  REIGNIER. Welcome, brave Earl, into our territories;
    Command in Anjou what your Honour pleases.
  SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,
    Fit to be made companion with a king.
    What answer makes your Grace unto my suit?
  REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth
    To be the princely bride of such a lord,
    Upon condition I may quietly
    Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou,
    Free from oppression or the stroke of war,
    My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please.
  SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I deliver her.
    And those two counties I will undertake
    Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy.
  REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry's royal name,
    As deputy unto that gracious king,
    Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith.
  SUFFOLK. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,
    Because this is in traffic of a king.
    [Aside]  And yet, methinks, I could be well content
    To be mine own attorney in this case.
    I'll over then to England with this news,
    And make this marriage to be solemniz'd.
    So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe
    In golden palaces, as it becomes.
  REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace
    The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.
  MARGARET. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and
    prayers,
    Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.          [She is going]
  SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam. But hark you, Margaret
    No princely commendations to my king?
  MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid,
    A virgin, and his servant, say to him.
  SUFFOLK. Words sweetly plac'd and modestly directed.
    But, madam, I must trouble you again
    No loving token to his Majesty?
  MARGARET. Yes, my good lord: a pure unspotted heart,
    Never yet taint with love, I send the King.
  SUFFOLK. And this withal.                         [Kisses her]
  MARGARET. That for thyself, I will not so presume
    To send such peevish tokens to a king.
                                    Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET
  SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay;
    Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth:
    There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.
    Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise.
    Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount,
    And natural graces that extinguish art;
    Repeat their semblance often on the seas,
    That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet,
    Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.         Exit

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: York starts this scene by calling "Bring forth that sorceress condemned to burn" . Things do not look good for Joan. This scene is an odd combination of family drama and courtroom scene, with a shepherd who claims to be Joan's father trying to talk to her, Joan trying to convince York not to kill her, and York arguing that the English are right to burn her at the stake. It's pretty intense. The shepherd says he's been looking everywhere for Joan, and is brokenhearted that he's found her about to die. He offers to die with her, much as Talbot and his son agreed to fight and die together. This could be a moving, if sad, family scene--but Joan says he isn't her father, or even her friend. She calls him "Decrepit miser, base ignoble wretch" , and insists she's descended from someone noble, not a lowly shepherd. The shepherd insists that he is her father, and everyone in their hometown knows it. Warwick and York are angry with Joan for denying her father, and say her life must have been wicked if she can turn away her parent. The shepherd pleads for Joan to listen to him, but she refuses . Then she accuses York of hiring the man to pretend to be Joan's father, so that people won't know she's of noble birth. The shepherd tries to give Joan his blessing, but when she refuses, he curses her instead. He gets really angry and finally says, "O burn her, burn her, hanging is too good" . So yeah... so much for the touching family reunion. York says to take Joan away and kill her, but Joan says, "First, let me tell you whom you have condemned" . She gives an impressive speech in which she describes how she is descended from kings, virtuous and holy, and chosen by heaven to work miracles on earth. She insists that she never worked with demons, but that the English are so evil they can't imagine miracles coming from a good source. Joan ends with beautiful language insisting on her innocence and the guilt that the English will bear if they burn her. She says that she is a virgin, chaste and pure even in her thoughts, and that her spilled out blood will call for vengeance "at the gates of heaven" . York is completely unmoved by this speech. He just says, "Ay, ay: away with her to execution" . Warwick goes further and actually makes fun of her, saying that since she's a maiden and so innocent, they should make sure the fire is fiercer so she dies faster and doesn't suffer so long. This seems pretty brutal, given the circumstances. Joan truly seems desperate. She says, "Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?" . She then says she's pregnant, and they can't kill her or they'll kill the child along with her. York and Warwick make fun of her, saying if she's a virgin she must have done quite a miracle to get pregnant. Then they accuse her of sleeping with Charles and also say basically that they'd like to kill the child of the Dauphin. Joan keeps changing the name of the father, trying to find someone whose child they'd spare, and they keep giving reasons why they will burn her anyway. York and Warwick almost sound as though they are teasing, which makes the scene even more brutal, since they seriously do plan to kill Joan. It's unclear if they actually think she's pregnant, or if they think she's lying. They keep making fun of her and finally tell her not to bother pleading with them, since it will be pointless. She gives up and says they might as well lead her away . She curses them as she goes, wishing that the sun itself will not shine over their country, and that darkness will drive them to break their necks or hang themselves. It's a pretty terrifying part of the scene, all round. There's so little human kindness and so much violence and cursing. After Joan is taken away, the Cardinal of Winchester comes in and tells York that the King is trying to negotiate a peace deal and the Dauphin is coming to talk. York isn't so excited about peace. He gives a speech saying basically "Did we work so hard for this? Did we lose so many of our best men just to end up with peace? Haven't we lost almost everything our ancestors conquered?" He ends by saying "O Warwick, Warwick, I foresee with grief/The utter loss of all the realm of France" . Warwick tells him to be patient and says they can come up with a peace treaty that won't give the French much advantage. Charles comes in to discuss the peace terms, and York tells Winchester he'll have to do the talking, since York is too furious to say anything. Winchester explains the deal: If Charles will proclaim Henry to be his lord, Charles can still run France under Henry's authority. Alencon and Charles don't think this is such a good deal, given that Charles already runs a bunch of the French territory on his own. York threatens to keep plaguing the French with unending wars unless they agree to the deal. Reignier doesn't think they're likely to do better, and Alencon seems to be coming around to the idea, too. Charles agrees, making one condition , and the peace is made.


prompt:
Chapter: SCENE 4.

                  Camp of the DUKE OF YORK in Anjou

                   Enter YORK, WARWICK, and others

  YORK. Bring forth that sorceress, condemn'd to burn.

              Enter LA PUCELLE, guarded, and a SHEPHERD

  SHEPHERD. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright!
    Have I sought every country far and near,
    And, now it is my chance to find thee out,
    Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?
    Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I'll die with thee!
  PUCELLE. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!
    I am descended of a gentler blood;
    Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.
  SHEPHERD. Out, out! My lords, an please you, 'tis not so;
    I did beget her, all the parish knows.
    Her mother liveth yet, can testify
    She was the first fruit of my bach'lorship.
  WARWICK. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage?
  YORK. This argues what her kind of life hath been--
    Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.
  SHEPHERD. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!
    God knows thou art a collop of my flesh;
    And for thy sake have I shed many a tear.
    Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan.
  PUCELLE. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn'd this man
    Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.
  SHEPHERD. '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 afield,
    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 liv'd too long,
    To fill the world with vicious qualities.
  PUCELLE. First let me tell you whom you have condemn'd:
    Not me 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,
    Stain'd 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! Joan of Arc hath been
    A virgin from her tender infancy,
    Chaste and immaculate in very thought;
    Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus'd,
    Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.
  YORK. Ay, ay. Away with her to execution!
  WARWICK. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,
    Spare for no fagots, let there be enow.
    Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,
    That so her torture may be shortened.
  PUCELLE. 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 forfend! The holy maid with child!
  WARWICK. 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.
  WARWICK. Well, go to; we'll have no bastards live;
    Especially since Charles must father it.
  PUCELLE. You are deceiv'd; my child is none of his:
    It was Alencon that enjoy'd my love.
  YORK. Alencon, that notorious Machiavel!
    It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.
  PUCELLE. O, give me leave, I have deluded you.
    'Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I nam'd,
    But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail'd.
  WARWICK. A married man! That's most intolerable.
  YORK. Why, here's a girl! I think she knows not well
    There were so many--whom she may accuse.
  WARWICK. It's sign she hath been liberal and free.
  YORK. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.
    Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee.
    Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.
  PUCELLE. Then lead me hence--with whom I leave my
    curse:
    May never glorious sun reflex his beams
    Upon the country where you make abode;
    But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
    Environ you, till mischief and despair
    Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!
                                                   Exit, guarded
  YORK. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes,
    Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

               Enter CARDINAL BEAUFORT, attended

  CARDINAL. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence
    With letters of commission from the King.
    For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,
    Mov'd with remorse of these outrageous broils,
    Have earnestly implor'd a general peace
    Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;
    And here at hand the Dauphin and his train
    Approacheth, to confer about some matter.
  YORK. Is all our travail turn'd to this effect?
    After the slaughter of so many peers,
    So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers,
    That in this quarrel have been overthrown
    And sold their bodies for their country's benefit,
    Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?
    Have we not lost most part of all the towns,
    By treason, falsehood, and by treachery,
    Our great progenitors had conquered?
    O Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief
    The utter loss of all the realm of France.
  WARWICK. Be patient, York. If we conclude a peace,
    It shall be with such strict and severe covenants
    As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.

        Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, and others

  CHARLES. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed
    That peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France,
    We come to be informed by yourselves
    What the conditions of that league must be.
  YORK. Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes
    The hollow passage of my poison'd voice,
    By sight of these our baleful enemies.
  CARDINAL. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:
    That, in regard King Henry gives consent,
    Of mere compassion and of lenity,
    To ease your country of distressful war,
    An suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace,
    You shall become true liegemen to his crown;
    And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear
    To pay him tribute and submit thyself,
    Thou shalt be plac'd as viceroy under him,
    And still enjoy thy regal dignity.
  ALENCON. Must he be then as shadow of himself?
    Adorn his temples with a coronet
    And yet, in substance and authority,
    Retain but privilege of a private man?
    This proffer is absurd and reasonless.
  CHARLES. 'Tis known already that I am possess'd
    With more than half the Gallian territories,
    And therein reverenc'd for their lawful king.
    Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish'd,
    Detract so much from that prerogative
    As to be call'd but viceroy of the whole?
    No, Lord Ambassador; I'll rather keep
    That which I have than, coveting for more,
    Be cast from possibility of all.
  YORK. Insulting Charles! Hast thou by secret means
    Us'd intercession to obtain a league,
    And now the matter grows to compromise
    Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison?
    Either accept the title thou usurp'st,
    Of benefit proceeding from our king
    And not of any challenge of desert,
    Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.
  REIGNIER.  [To CHARLES]  My lord, you do not well in
    obstinacy
    To cavil in the course of this contract.
    If once it be neglected, ten to one
    We shall not find like opportunity.
  ALENCON.  [To CHARLES]  To say the truth, it is your policy
    To save your subjects from such massacre
    And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen
    By our proceeding in hostility;
    And therefore take this compact of a truce,
    Although you break it when your pleasure serves.
  WARWICK. How say'st thou, Charles? Shall our condition
    stand?
  CHARLES. It shall;
    Only reserv'd, you claim no interest
    In any of our towns of garrison.
  YORK. Then swear allegiance to his Majesty:
    As thou art knight, never to disobey
    Nor be rebellious to the crown of England
    Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England.
                    [CHARLES and the rest give tokens of fealty]
    So, now dismiss your army when ye please;
    Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still,
    For here we entertain a solemn peace.                 Exeunt

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Where was the King during that peace negotiation? Not there. He's not there a lot, Henry VI. Now we see him having a conference with Suffolk, who's trying to convince him to marry Margaret. It seems to be going well. Possibly forgetting that he's already agreed to marry a noblewoman with a big dowry, Henry VI seems pretty convinced by Suffolk's speeches about Margaret. Suffolk says there's lots more to tell about how great she is, and on top of that she's happy to obey Henry and be his wife. The King asks Gloucester to give consent to the marriage, but Gloucester points out, inconveniently, that the King is already engaged. Suffolk says that's no problem--the other girl is only an earl's daughter, so it's fine to break a promise to her. But Gloucester says that Margaret's father might have more impressive titles, but he's really no higher up than an earl. Suffolk and Gloucester then debate whether Margaret's father or the father of Henry's current fiancee is likely to do them more good as an ally. Exeter points out that the father of the current fiancee, Armagnac, is wealthy and likely to give a great dowry, which is not so likely with Margaret's father. Sounds like he might be poor and stingy, which is not so good from the perspective of the English nobles looking to fill the crown's pockets. Suffolk says the king doesn't need a dowry, and can marry whomever he likes for love. He gives a really long speech arguing that Margaret is a better match for the King, the King is really in love with her, and so on. This is pretty ludicrous, because the King hasn't even met either woman, so he's not actually in love with either of them. It's kind of like saying, "I read two profiles on Match.com, and I'm sure I'm in love with this one." All the same, the King seems convinced. He's not sure whether it's Suffolk's praise or the fact that he's never been in love before, but he's sick with hope and fear until he can marry Margaret. He even tells Suffolk he can levy a special extra tax for expenses. You know how much people like extra taxes. Henry asks his uncle to remember what young love was like and not be offended. Gloucester mutters that this will likely cause grief, and we can just see how unconvinced he is. Suffolk ends the play with a little speech where he describes himself as being like Paris, the Trojan prince who married the most beautiful woman in the world. He also hopes that he will be able to influence the king by influencing Margaret, thus ruling the realm behind the scenes. There are so many ominous things about this six line speech it's hard to know where to start. For one, Paris didn't really have great success. Yes, he did marry the most beautiful woman in the world, but only after stealing her from her husband, who came and besieged Paris's city of Troy for ten years. And that's just the beginning. Paris was also widely scorned by his countrymen for causing so much trouble, and he was eventually killed in the fighting over Troy. Not to mention that Troy fell completely to the Greeks and was obliterated. Suffolk sort of recognizes this--he says he hopes to prosper more than Paris--but it's still a really bad comparison. He's saying, "Sure this character steals someone else's wife, is hated by most of his friends, causes the downfall of his entire homeland, and dies in the process. But I think I can emulate him and have better luck." And that's the end of the play. This play begins with the funeral of one of England's greatest heroes and ends with a rash nobleman hoping he can run the kingdom by having an affair with the queen and influencing the king through her. Not so good. It's all looming, kind of the way the threat of Darth Vader is looming when you see that cute kid Anakin.


prompt:
Chapter: ACT I. SCENE 1.

Westminster Abbey

Dead March. Enter the funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH,
attended on by the DUKE OF BEDFORD, Regent of France,
the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Protector, the DUKE OF EXETER,
the EARL OF WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER

  BEDFORD. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to
    night! Comets, importing change of times and states,
    Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky
    And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
    That have consented unto Henry's death!
    King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!
    England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.
  GLOUCESTER. England ne'er had a king until his time.
    Virtue he had, deserving to command;
    His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams;
    His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;
    His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,
    More dazzled and drove back his enemies
    Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.
    What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech:
    He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered.
  EXETER. We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood?
    Henry is dead and never shall revive.
    Upon a wooden coffin we attend;
    And death's dishonourable victory
    We with our stately presence glorify,
    Like captives bound to a triumphant car.
    What! shall we curse the planets of mishap
    That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?
    Or shall we think the subtle-witted French
    Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,
    By magic verses have contriv'd his end?
  WINCHESTER. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings;
    Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day
    So dreadful will not be as was his sight.
    The battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought;
    The Church's prayers made him so prosperous.
  GLOUCESTER. The Church! Where is it? Had not churchmen
    pray'd,
    His thread of life had not so soon decay'd.
    None do you like but an effeminate prince,
    Whom like a school-boy you may overawe.
  WINCHESTER. Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art
    Protector
    And lookest to command the Prince and realm.
    Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe
    More than God or religious churchmen may.
  GLOUCESTER. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh;
    And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st,
    Except it be to pray against thy foes.
  BEDFORD. 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 arms avail not, now that Henry's dead.
    Posterity, await for wretched years,
    When at their mothers' moist'ned eyes babes shall suck,
    Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,
    And none but women left to wail the dead.
    Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:
    Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils,
    Combat with adverse planets in the heavens.
    A far more glorious star thy soul will make
    Than Julius Caesar or bright

                          Enter a MESSENGER

  MESSENGER. My honourable lords, health to you all!
    Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,
    Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:
    Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans,
    Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.
  BEDFORD. What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse?
    Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns
    Will make him burst his lead and rise from death.
  GLOUCESTER. Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up?
    If Henry were recall'd to life again,
    These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.
  EXETER. How were they lost? What treachery was us'd?
  MESSENGER. No treachery, but want of men and money.
    Amongst the soldiers this is muttered
    That here you maintain several factions;
    And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought,
    You are disputing of your generals:
    One would have ling'ring wars, with little cost;
    Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;
    A third thinks, without expense at all,
    By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd.
    Awake, awake, English nobility!
    Let not sloth dim your honours, new-begot.
    Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms;
    Of England's coat one half is cut away.
  EXETER. Were our tears wanting to this funeral,
    These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.
  BEDFORD. Me they concern; Regent I am of France.
    Give me my steeled coat; I'll fight for France.
    Away with these disgraceful wailing robes!
    Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,
    To weep their intermissive miseries.

                   Enter a second MESSENGER

  SECOND MESSENGER. Lords, view these letters full of bad
    mischance.
    France is revolted from the English quite,
    Except some petty towns of no import.
    The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims;
    The Bastard of Orleans with him is join'd;
    Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;
    The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side.
  EXETER. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him!
    O, whither shall we fly from this reproach?
  GLOUCESTER. We will not fly but to our enemies' throats.
    Bedford, if thou be slack I'll fight it out.
  BEDFORD. Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness?
    An army have I muster'd in my thoughts,
    Wherewith already France is overrun.

                   Enter a third MESSENGER

  THIRD MESSENGER. My gracious lords, to add to your
    laments,
    Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse,
    I must inform you of a dismal fight
    Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.
  WINCHESTER. What! Wherein Talbot overcame? Is't so?
  THIRD MESSENGER. O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was
    o'erthrown.
    The circumstance I'll tell you more at large.
    The tenth of August last this dreadful lord,
    Retiring from the siege of Orleans,
    Having full scarce six thousand in his troop,
    By three and twenty thousand of the French
    Was round encompassed and set upon.
    No leisure had he to enrank his men;
    He wanted pikes to set before his archers;
    Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges
    They pitched in the ground confusedly
    To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.
    More than three hours the fight continued;
    Where valiant Talbot, above human thought,
    Enacted wonders with his sword and lance:
    Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him;
    Here, there, and everywhere, enrag'd he slew
    The French exclaim'd the devil was in arms;
    All the whole army stood agaz'd on him.
    His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit,
    'A Talbot! a Talbot!' cried out amain,
    And rush'd into the bowels of the battle.
    Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up
    If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward.
    He, being in the vaward plac'd behind
    With purpose to relieve and follow them-
    Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke;
    Hence grew the general wreck and massacre.
    Enclosed were they with their enemies.
    A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace,
    Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back;
    Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength,
    Durst not presume to look once in the face.
  BEDFORD. Is Talbot slain? Then I will slay myself,
    For living idly here in pomp and ease,
    Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,
    Unto his dastard foemen is betray'd.
  THIRD MESSENGER. O no, he lives, but is took prisoner,
    And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford;
    Most of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise.
  BEDFORD. His ransom there is none but I shall pay.
    I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne;
    His crown shall be the ransom of my friend;
    Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours.
    Farewell, my masters; to my task will I;
    Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make
    To keep our great Saint George's feast withal.
    Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take,
    Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake.
  THIRD MESSENGER. So you had need; for Orleans is besieg'd;
    The English army is grown weak and faint;
    The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply
    And hardly keeps his men from mutiny,
    Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.
  EXETER. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,
    Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,
    Or bring him in obedience to your yoke.
  BEDFORD. I do remember it, and here take my leave
    To go about my preparation.                             Exit
  GLOUCESTER. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can
    To view th' artillery and munition;
    And then I will proclaim young Henry king.              Exit
  EXETER. To Eltham will I, where the young King is,
    Being ordain'd his special governor;
    And for his safety there I'll best devise.              Exit
  WINCHESTER.  [Aside]  Each hath his place and function to
    attend:
    I am left out; for me nothing remains.
    But long I will not be Jack out of office.
    The King from Eltham I intend to steal,
    And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.             Exeunt

SCENE 2.

                  France. Before Orleans

      Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES THE DAUPHIN, ALENCON,
           and REIGNIER, marching with drum and soldiers

  CHARLES. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens
    So in the earth, to this day is not known.
    Late did he shine upon the English side;
    Now we are victors, upon us he smiles.
    What towns of any moment but we have?
    At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;
    Otherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts,
    Faintly besiege us one hour in a month.
  ALENCON. They want their porridge and their fat bull
    beeves.
    Either they must be dieted like mules
    And have their provender tied to their mouths,
    Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice.
  REIGNIER. Let's raise the siege. Why live we idly here?
    Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear;
    Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury,
    And he may well in fretting spend his gall
    Nor men nor money hath he to make war.
  CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum; we will rush on them.
    Now for the honour of the forlorn French!
    Him I forgive my death that killeth me,
    When he sees me go back one foot or flee.             Exeunt

       Here alarum. They are beaten back by the English, with
         great loss. Re-enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER

  CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have I!
    Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled
    But that they left me midst my enemies.
  REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide;
    He fighteth as one weary of his life.
    The other lords, like lions wanting food,
    Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.
  ALENCON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records
    England all Olivers and Rowlands bred
    During the time Edward the Third did reign.
    More truly now may this be verified;
    For none but Samsons and Goliases
    It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!
    Lean raw-bon'd rascals! Who would e'er suppose
    They had such courage and audacity?
  CHARLES. Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd
    slaves,
    And hunger will enforce them to be more eager.
    Of old I know them; rather with their teeth
    The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege.
  REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device
    Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on;
    Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do.
    By my consent, we'll even let them alone.
  ALENCON. Be it so.

                   Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS

  BASTARD. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him.
  CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.
  BASTARD. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd.
    Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?
    Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand.
    A holy maid hither with me I bring,
    Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven,
    Ordained is to raise this tedious siege
    And drive the English forth the bounds of France.
    The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,
    Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome:
    What's past and what's to come she can descry.
    Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,
    For they are certain and unfallible.
  CHARLES. Go, call her in.                       [Exit BASTARD]
    But first, to try her skill,
    Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place;
    Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern;
    By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.

                  Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS with
                          JOAN LA PUCELLE

  REIGNIER. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats?
  PUCELLE. Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me?
    Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind;
    I know thee well, though never seen before.
    Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me.
    In private will I talk with thee apart.
    Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile.
  REIGNIER. She takes upon her bravely at first dash.
  PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter,
    My wit untrain'd in any kind of art.
    Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd
    To shine on my contemptible estate.
    Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs
    And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks,
    God's Mother deigned to appear to me,
    And in a vision full of majesty
    Will'd me to leave my base vocation
    And free my country from calamity
    Her aid she promis'd and assur'd success.
    In complete glory she reveal'd herself;
    And whereas I was black and swart before,
    With those clear rays which she infus'd on me
    That beauty am I bless'd with which you may see.
    Ask me what question thou canst possible,
    And I will answer unpremeditated.
    My courage try by combat if thou dar'st,
    And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.
    Resolve on this: thou shalt be fortunate
    If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.
  CHARLES. Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms.
    Only this proof I'll of thy valour make
    In single combat thou shalt buckle with me;
    And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;
    Otherwise I renounce all confidence.
  PUCELLE. I am prepar'd; here is my keen-edg'd sword,
    Deck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side,
    The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard,
    Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.
  CHARLES. Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman.
  PUCELLE. And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man.
                 [Here they fight and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes]
  CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon,
    And fightest with the sword of Deborah.
  PUCELLE. Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak.
  CHARLES. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me.
    Impatiently I burn with thy desire;
    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.
  PUCELLE. 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.
  CHARLES. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.
  REIGNIER. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.
  ALENCON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;
    Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech.
  REIGNIER. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?
  ALENCON. He may mean more than we poor men do know;
    These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.
  REIGNIER. My lord, where are you? What devise you on?
    Shall we give o'er Orleans, or no?
  PUCELLE. Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants!
    Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.
  CHARLES. What she says I'll confirm; we'll fight it out.
  PUCELLE. Assign'd am I to be the English scourge.
    This night the siege assuredly I'll raise.
    Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days,
    Since I have entered into these wars.
    Glory is like a circle in the water,
    Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself
    Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.
    With Henry's death the English circle ends;
    Dispersed are the glories it included.
    Now am I like that proud insulting ship
    Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once.
  CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?
    Thou with an eagle art inspired then.
    Helen, the mother of great Constantine,
    Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters were like thee.
    Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth,
    How may I reverently worship thee enough?
  ALENCON. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege.
  REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours;
    Drive them from Orleans, and be immortaliz'd.
  CHARLES. Presently we'll try. Come, let's away about it.
    No prophet will I trust if she prove false.           Exeunt

SCENE 3.

                London. Before the Tower gates

       Enter the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, with his serving-men
                       in blue coats

  GLOUCESTER. I am come to survey the Tower this day;
    Since Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance.
    Where be these warders that they wait not here?
    Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls.
  FIRST WARDER.  [Within]  Who's there that knocks so
    imperiously?
  FIRST SERVING-MAN. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.
  SECOND WARDER.  [Within]  Whoe'er he be, you may not be
    let in.
  FIRST SERVING-MAN. Villains, answer you so the Lord
    Protector?
  FIRST WARDER.  [Within]  The Lord protect him! so we
    answer him.
    We do no otherwise than we are will'd.
  GLOUCESTER. Who willed you, or whose will stands but
    mine?
    There's none Protector of the realm but I.
    Break up the gates, I'll be your warrantize.
    Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?
                  [GLOUCESTER'S men rush at the Tower gates, and
                         WOODVILLE the Lieutenant speaks within]
  WOODVILLE.  [Within]  What noise is this? What traitors
    have we here?
  GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?
    Open the gates; here's Gloucester that would enter.
  WOODVILLE.  [Within]  Have patience, noble Duke, I may
    not open;
    The Cardinal of Winchester forbids.
    From him I have express commandment
    That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.
  GLOUCESTER. Faint-hearted Woodville, prizest him fore me?
    Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate
    Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook!
    Thou art no friend to God or to the King.
    Open the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly.
  SERVING-MEN. Open the gates unto the Lord Protector,
    Or we'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly.

       Enter to the PROTECTOR at the Tower gates WINCHESTER
                   and his men in tawny coats

  WINCHESTER. How now, ambitious Humphry! What means
    this?
  GLOUCESTER. Peel'd priest, dost thou command me to be
    shut out?
  WINCHESTER. I do, thou most usurping proditor,
    And not Protector of the King or realm.
  GLOUCESTER. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,
    Thou that contrived'st to murder our dead lord;
    Thou that giv'st whores indulgences to sin.
    I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat,
    If thou proceed in this thy insolence.
  WINCHESTER. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot.
    This be Damascus; be thou cursed Cain,
    To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.
  GLOUCESTER. I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back.
    Thy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth
    I'll use to carry thee out of this place.
  WINCHESTER. Do what thou dar'st; I beard thee to thy face.
  GLOUCESTER. What! am I dar'd and bearded to my face?
    Draw, men, for all this privileged place
    Blue-coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard;
    I mean to tug it, and to cuff you soundly;
    Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat;
    In spite of Pope or dignities of church,
    Here by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down.
  WINCHESTER. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the
    Pope.
  GLOUCESTER. Winchester goose! I cry 'A rope, a rope!'
    Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay?
    Thee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array.
    Out, tawny-coats! Out, scarlet hypocrite!

         Here GLOUCESTER'S men beat out the CARDINAL'S
        men; and enter in the hurly burly the MAYOR OF
                  LONDON and his OFFICERS

  MAYOR. Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates,
    Thus contumeliously should break the peace!
  GLOUCESTER. Peace, Mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs:
    Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King,
    Hath here distrain'd the Tower to his use.
  WINCHESTER. Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens;
    One that still motions war and never peace,
    O'ercharging your free purses with large fines;
    That seeks to overthrow religion,
    Because he is Protector of the realm,
    And would have armour here out of the Tower,
    To crown himself King and suppress the Prince.
  GLOUCESTER. I will not answer thee with words, but blows.
                                      [Here they skirmish again]
  MAYOR. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife
    But to make open proclamation.
    Come, officer, as loud as e'er thou canst,
    Cry.
  OFFICER.  [Cries]  All manner of men assembled here in arms
    this day against God's peace and the King's, we charge
    and command you, in his Highness' name, to repair to
    your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or
    use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon
    pain of death.
  GLOUCESTER. Cardinal, I'll be no breaker of the law;
    But we shall meet and break our minds at large.
  WINCHESTER. Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure;
    Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work.
  MAYOR. I'll call for clubs if you will not away.
    This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil.
  GLOUCESTER. Mayor, farewell; thou dost but what thou
    mayst.
  WINCHESTER. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head,
    For I intend to have it ere long.
                    Exeunt, severally, GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER
                                             with their servants
  MAYOR. See the coast clear'd, and then we will depart.
    Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear!
    I myself fight not once in forty year.                Exeunt

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The funeral for King Henry V is attended by Bedford, Gloucester, Exeter, Warwick, Winchester, and Somerset. The lords mourn the dead king, who had ruled England so well and conquered his enemies so bravely. The new king, Henry VI, is still too young to rule in his father's stead, and Gloucester has been named Protector of the kingdom. Gloucester accuses Winchester, a bishop, of not praying enough for their dead king; perhaps if he had tried harder, he could have saved him. But Bedford urges them to stop their quarreling. As the coffin is carried out, Bedford asks the ghost of Henry V to help England prosper. A messenger enters with bad news from France; the French have recaptured eight towns that Henry V took for England during his reign. The effect of the news is all the more bitter in that it is spoken over the grave of the man who won the lands now lost. Exeter asks what treachery has led to this event, but the messenger attributes it merely to a lack of men and money. The lords now express concern that at this time when solidarity is most needed, the leaders in England are dividing into factions. The messenger calls to the nobility to wake up and to not rest on their laurels, particularly as regards their French holdings. Bedford, the Regent of the French lands, declares he will leave for France to right the situation. A second messenger enters, announcing that the French are revolting and have crowned the Dauphin Charles king in one of the towns, where several lords have joined up with him. Bedford is again preparing to depart when a third messenger enters to tell of a terrible battle between Talbot, the English general, and the French forces. Talbot, when retreating from the siege of Orleans, was surrounded by French troops and fought a hard fight. All the French soldiers were directed to take on Talbot, but none could defeat him, until the cowardly Englishman Sir John Fastolf fled, leaving Talbot open to be captured by the French. Bedford is shocked by this tale and makes plans to pay the ransom to free Talbot. Bedford leaves finally for France, and the other noblemen go about preparing for the imminent war: Gloucester heads to the Tower to check on the weapons stored there, and Exeter goes to attend to the young king's safety. Winchester intends to get close to the king as soon as he can, so that he can emerge as the most powerful man in the war. In Orleans, the French Dauphin Charles and his nobles Alencon and Rene express their pleasure at having captured Talbot, while the English troops lie leaderless outside the city walls. The Frenchmen agree that the English look pitifully weak; perhaps they may be able to break their siege and travel outside the city again. The English nevertheless continue their siege on the French, killing many. Charles and his lords gather again, astonished that the English can hold out. They think the English will never abandon the siege, even as they draw their last breath. Then, the Bastard of Orleans enters with news for Charles. He announces that he may have found the key to their salvation: "A holy maid hither with me I bring / Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, / Ordained is to raise this tedious siege / And drive the English forth the bounds of France" . Charles calls for her to be brought in, but wants to test her ostensible clairvoyance: he changes places with Rene before Joan enters; if she knows that the king is not the man sitting on the throne, her powers will be proved. She indeed recognizes immediately which man is the king and asks the other lords to leave her to speak to Charles alone for a moment. Joan explains that she is just a shepherd's daughter, but one day when she was tending her sheep, a vision of God's mother appeared to her and told her to leave her sheep and help free her country. This figure showed itself in all its glory to Joan, the shine of the divine rays brought her her current beauty. She tells Charles to ask her whatever he wants, or even to challenge her to combat, if he dares; she is endowed with the power to succeed in any undertaking. Charles, astonished at her audacity, agrees to a trial of single combat, saying he fears no woman. Responding that she fears no man, she soundly beats him. He declares she is an Amazon  and that she fights with the sword of Deborah, an Old Testament prophet; he suggests she become his lover. But Joan declares she cannot yield to love, for her sacred task requires her to remain a virgin. The other lords return and ask if they should abandon Orleans to the English or not. Joan replies that they will fight for Orleans, and Charles agrees. Joan announces that she will raise the siege that very day. Glory, she says, is like a circle in the water, expanding infinitely until something stops it. With the death of Henry V, the English circle has ceased to spread; the situation can only improve from here. Charles and his lords urge Joan to do what she can to end the siege.


prompt:
Chapter: ACT II. SCENE 1.

Before Orleans

Enter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS

  SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.
    If any noise or soldier you perceive
    Near to the walls, by some apparent sign
    Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.
  FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall.           [Exit SERGEANT]
    Thus are poor servitors,
    When others sleep upon their quiet beds,
    Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.

             Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces,
          with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead
                              march

  TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,
    By whose approach the regions of Artois,
    Wallon, and Picardy, are friends to us,
    This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,
    Having all day carous'd and banqueted;
    Embrace we then this opportunity,
    As fitting best to quittance their deceit,
    Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery.
  BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame,
    Despairing of his own arm's fortitude,
    To join with witches and the help of hell!
  BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company.
    But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure?
  TALBOT. A maid, they say.
  BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial!
  BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,
    If underneath the standard of the French
    She carry armour as she hath begun.
  TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits:
    God is our fortress, in whose conquering name
    Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
  BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.
  TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess,
    That we do make our entrance several ways;
    That if it chance the one of us do fail
    The other yet may rise against their force.
  BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner.
  BURGUNDY. And I to this.
  TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave.
    Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right
    Of English Henry, shall this night appear
    How much in duty I am bound to both.
             [The English scale the walls and cry 'Saint George!
                                                     a Talbot!']
    SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make assault.

           The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts.
           Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER,
                     half ready and half unready

  ALENCON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so?
  BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so well.
  REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,
    Hearing alarums at our chamber doors.
  ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms
    Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise
    More venturous or desperate than this.
  BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.
  REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him
  ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how he sped.

                    Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE

  BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard.
  CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?
    Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,
    Make us partakers of a little gain
    That now our loss might be ten times so much?
  PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?
    At all times will you have my power alike?
    Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail
    Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?
    Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good
    This sudden mischief never could have fall'n.
  CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default
    That, being captain of the watch to-night,
    Did look no better to that weighty charge.
  ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept
    As that whereof I had the government,
    We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd.
  BASTARD. Mine was secure.
  REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord.
  CHARLES. And, for myself, most part of all this night,
    Within her quarter and mine own precinct
    I was employ'd in passing to and fro
    About relieving of the sentinels.
    Then how or which way should they first break in?
  PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case,
    How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place
    But weakly guarded, where the breach was made.
    And now there rests no other shift but this
    To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd,
    And lay new platforms to endamage them.

               Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying
            'A Talbot! A Talbot!' They fly, leaving their
                           clothes behind

  SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what they have left.
    The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword;
    For I have loaden me with many spoils,
    Using no other weapon but his name.                     Exit

SCENE 2.

                      ORLEANS. Within the town

            Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a CAPTAIN,
                           and others

  BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled
    Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth.
    Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit.
                                               [Retreat sounded]
  TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury
    And here advance it in the market-place,
    The middle centre of this cursed town.
    Now have I paid my vow unto his soul;
    For every drop of blood was drawn from him
    There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night.
    And that hereafter ages may behold
    What ruin happened in revenge of him,
    Within their chiefest temple I'll erect
    A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd;
    Upon the which, that every one may read,
    Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans,
    The treacherous manner of his mournful death,
    And what a terror he had been to France.
    But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,
    I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace,
    His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,
    Nor any of his false confederates.
  BEDFORD. 'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,
    Rous'd on the sudden from their drowsy beds,
    They did amongst the troops of armed men
    Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field.
  BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well discern
    For smoke and dusky vapours of the night,
    Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin and his trull,
    When arm in arm they both came swiftly running,
    Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves
    That could not live asunder day or night.
    After that things are set in order here,
    We'll follow them with all the power we have.

                          Enter a MESSENGER

  MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train
    Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts
    So much applauded through the realm of France?
  TALBOT. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him?
  MESSENGER. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,
    With modesty admiring thy renown,
    By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe
    To visit her poor castle where she lies,
    That she may boast she hath beheld the man
    Whose glory fills the world with loud report.
  BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars
    Will turn into a peaceful comic sport,
    When ladies crave to be encount'red with.
    You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.
  TALBOT. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men
    Could not prevail with all their oratory,
    Yet hath a woman's kindness overrul'd;
    And therefore tell her I return great thanks
    And in submission will attend on her.
    Will not your honours bear me company?
  BEDFORD. No, truly; 'tis more than manners will;
    And I have heard it said unbidden guests
    Are often welcomest when they are gone.
  TALBOT. Well then, alone, since there's no remedy,
    I mean to prove this lady's courtesy.
    Come hither, Captain.  [Whispers]   You perceive my mind?
  CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.           Exeunt

SCENE 3.

                      AUVERGNE. The Castle

               Enter the COUNTESS and her PORTER

  COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge;
    And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.
  PORTER. Madam, I will.
  COUNTESS. The plot is laid; if all things fall out right,
    I shall as famous be by this exploit.
    As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death.
    Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,
    And his achievements of no less account.
    Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears
    To give their censure of these rare reports.

    Enter MESSENGER and TALBOT.

  MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd,
    By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come.
  COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the man?
  MESSENGER. Madam, it is.
  COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France?
    Is this Talbot, so much fear'd abroad
    That with his name the mothers still their babes?
    I see report is fabulous and false.
    I thought I should have seen some Hercules,
    A second Hector, for his grim aspect
    And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.
    Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!
    It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp
    Should strike such terror to his enemies.
  TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;
    But since your ladyship is not at leisure,
    I'll sort some other time to visit you.              [Going]
  COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he
    goes.
  MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves
    To know the cause of your abrupt departure.
  TALBOT. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief,
    I go to certify her Talbot's here.

                      Re-enter PORTER With keys

  COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.
  TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom?
  COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord
    And for that cause I train'd thee to my house.
    Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,
    For in my gallery thy picture hangs;
    But now the substance shall endure the like
    And I will chain these legs and arms of thine
    That hast by tyranny these many years
    Wasted our country, slain our citizens,
    And sent our sons and husbands captivate.
  TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha!
  COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to
    moan.
  TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond
    To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow
    Whereon to practise your severity.
  COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man?
  TALBOT. I am indeed.
  COUNTESS. Then have I substance too.
  TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself.
    You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here;
    For what you see is but the smallest part
    And least proportion of humanity.
    I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,
    It is of such a spacious lofty pitch
    Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't.
  COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;
    He will be here, and yet he is not here.
    How can these contrarieties agree?
  TALBOT. That will I show you presently.

                   Winds his horn; drums strike up;
                  a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers

    How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded
    That Talbot is but shadow of himself?
    These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,
    With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,
    Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,
    And in a moment makes them desolate.
  COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse.
    I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,
    And more than may be gathered by thy shape.
    Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath,
    For I am sorry that with reverence
    I did not entertain thee as thou art.
  TALBOT. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconster
    The mind of Talbot as you did mistake
    The outward composition of his body.
    What you have done hath not offended me.
    Nor other satisfaction do I crave
    But only, with your patience, that we may
    Taste of your wine and see what cates you have,
    For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well.
  COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured
    To feast so great a warrior in my house.              Exeunt

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: A French soldier instructs several sentinels to keep watch on the walls. Talbot enters with Bedford and Burgundy and other soldiers, equipped with ladders. Talbot says that they have chosen the best time to launch a surprise attack, for the French have tired themselves out in celebrations. Bedford and Burgundy criticize Charles for thinking so little of the strength of his troops that he would turn to a witch for aid. The English lords split up and enter the city from three different directions. Talbot and his men scale the wall and the sentinels call the alarm. Alencon and Rene emerge, half equipped for battle, followed by Charles and Joan. Charles asks Joan if she has been treacherous and helped the British mount this surprise attack. But she tells him he is just being impatient with her, unfairly expecting her to prevail both while awake and while sleeping. She says the blame is not hers but that of Charles's bad watchmen. Charles condemns Alencon, as it was his men who were on the watch that night. Now the lords fall to accusing each other of forming the weak link in the fortifications, but Joan tells them to stop disagreeing and repair the damage. The next morning Bedford and Talbot hear the French sounding the retreat. Talbot calls for the body of Salisbury to be brought into the city. Talbot intends to bury him in the center of Orleans so that everyone may know of his death and the sack of Orleans. A messenger arrives and asks for Talbot: the Countess of Auvergne summons him to her castle so she may behold the man who has achieved such fame. Burgundy thinks her request trivializes war and tells Talbot to ignore it. Talbot, however, decides to visit her and sends the messenger back to the Countess to announce his acceptance. The Countess prepares for Talbot's visit, remarking that if her plans come off, she will be famous. The messenger announces the arrival of Talbot. Seeing him, the Countess wonders aloud if Talbot can be the same man so feared throughout France; she thinks reports of him must be false, for he seems to be neither a Hercules nor a Hector , and doesn't strike an imposing image. Hearing her expressions of doubt, he turns to leave. She calls him back, however, and when he confirms his identity, she replies that he is then a prisoner. "Prisoner! To whom?" he asks; "To me," the Countess replies; she explains that she lured Talbot to her home in order to imprison him and make him pay for the death he reaped among her countrymen. Talbot laughs at the idea that she could try to contain him. At his laughter she asks, "Art thou not he ?" He says that he is the man known as Talbot, but what she sees of him is not all he is. Rather, what she sees is the smallest part of him, and her castle could never contain the sum of his parts. The Countess thinks he speaks in riddles, so he shows her what he means by blowing on his trumpet. Instantly, English soldiers arrive, and Talbot explains that they are the substance and arms of the greater Talbot, who still holds power over the towns of France. The Countess asks Talbot to forgive her actions, since she misunderstood his power. Talbot says he is not offended and asks that his soldiers may dine at her home.


prompt:
Chapter: SCENE 4.

                   London. The Temple garden

         Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK;
           RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another LAWYER

  PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this
    silence?
    Dare no man answer in a case of truth?
  SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud;
    The garden here is more convenient.
  PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth;
    Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error?
  SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law
    And never yet could frame my will to it;
    And therefore frame the law unto my will.
  SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.
  WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;
    Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;
    Between two blades, which bears the better temper;
    Between two horses, which doth bear him best;
    Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye
    I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment;
    But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,
    Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.
  PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:
    The truth appears so naked on my side
    That any purblind eye may find it out.
  SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd,
    So clear, so shining, and so evident,
    That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye.
  PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,
    In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts.
    Let him that is a true-born gentleman
    And stands upon the honour of his birth,
    If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
    From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.
  SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,
    But dare maintain the party of the truth,
    Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.
  WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all colour
    Of base insinuating flattery,
    I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.
  SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset,
    And say withal I think he held the right.
  VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more
    Till you conclude that he upon whose side
    The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree
    Shall yield the other in the right opinion.
  SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected;
    If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence.
  PLANTAGENET. And I.
  VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case,
    I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,
    Giving my verdict on the white rose side.
  SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,
    Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red,
    And fall on my side so, against your will.
  VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed,
    Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt
    And keep me on the side where still I am.
  SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else?
  LAWYER.  [To Somerset]  Unless my study and my books be
    false,
    The argument you held was wrong in you;
    In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.
  PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument?
  SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that
    Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.
  PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our
    roses;
    For pale they look with fear, as witnessing
    The truth on our side.
  SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet,
    'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks
    Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,
    And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.
  PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?
  SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?
  PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;
    Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.
  SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,
    That shall maintain what I have said is true,
    Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.
  PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
    I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.
  SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.
  PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and
    thee.
  SUFFOLK. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat.
  SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole!
    We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.
  WARWICK. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset;
    His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence,
    Third son to the third Edward, King of England.
    Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?
  PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege,
    Or durst not for his craven heart say thus.
  SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words
    On any plot of ground in Christendom.
    Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge,
    For treason executed in our late king's days?
    And by his treason stand'st not thou attainted,
    Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?
    His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood;
    And till thou be restor'd thou art a yeoman.
  PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted;
    Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor;
    And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset,
    Were growing time once ripened to my will.
    For your partaker Pole, and you yourself,
    I'll note you in my book of memory
    To scourge you for this apprehension.
    Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd.
  SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still;
    And know us by these colours for thy foes
    For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.
  PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,
    As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,
    Will I for ever, and my faction, wear,
    Until it wither with me to my grave,
    Or flourish to the height of my degree.
  SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition!
    And so farewell until I meet thee next.                 Exit
  SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious
    Richard.                                                Exit
  PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure
    it!
  WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house
    Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament,
    Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;
    And if thou be not then created York,
    I will not live to be accounted Warwick.
    Meantime, in signal of my love to thee,
    Against proud Somerset and William Pole,
    Will I upon thy party wear this rose;
    And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,
    Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden,
    Shall send between the Red Rose and the White
    A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
  PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you
    That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.
  VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same.
  LAWYER. And so will I.
  PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentle sir.
    Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say
    This quarrel will drink blood another day.            Exeunt

SCENE 5.

                       The Tower of London

         Enter MORTIMER, brought in a chair, and GAOLERS

  MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,
    Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.
    Even like a man new haled from the rack,
    So fare my limbs with long imprisonment;
    And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death,
    Nestor-like aged in an age of care,
    Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.
    These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,
    Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;
    Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief,
    And pithless arms, like to a withered vine
    That droops his sapless branches to the ground.
    Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb,
    Unable to support this lump of clay,
    Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,
    As witting I no other comfort have.
    But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?
  FIRST KEEPER. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come.
    We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber;
    And answer was return'd that he will come.
  MORTIMER. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied.
    Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine.
    Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign,
    Before whose glory I was great in arms,
    This loathsome sequestration have I had;
    And even since then hath Richard been obscur'd,
    Depriv'd of honour and inheritance.
    But now the arbitrator of despairs,
    Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries,
    With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence.
    I would his troubles likewise were expir'd,
    That so he might recover what was lost.

                     Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET

  FIRST KEEPER. My lord, your loving nephew now is come.
  MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?
  PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd,
    Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes.
  MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck
    And in his bosom spend my latter gasp.
    O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks,
    That I may kindly give one fainting kiss.
    And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock,
    Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd?
  PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;
    And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease.
    This day, in argument upon a case,
    Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me;
    Among which terms he us'd his lavish tongue
    And did upbraid me with my father's death;
    Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,
    Else with the like I had requited him.
    Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake,
    In honour of a true Plantagenet,
    And for alliance sake, declare the cause
    My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.
  MORTIMER. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me
    And hath detain'd me all my flow'ring youth
    Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,
    Was cursed instrument of his decease.
  PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was,
    For I am ignorant and cannot guess.
  MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit
    And death approach not ere my tale be done.
    Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,
    Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son,
    The first-begotten and the lawful heir
    Of Edward king, the third of that descent;
    During whose reign the Percies of the north,
    Finding his usurpation most unjust,
    Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne.
    The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this
    Was, for that-young Richard thus remov'd,
    Leaving no heir begotten of his body--
    I was the next by birth and parentage;
    For by my mother I derived am
    From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son
    To King Edward the Third; whereas he
    From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,
    Being but fourth of that heroic line.
    But mark: as in this haughty great attempt
    They laboured to plant the rightful heir,
    I lost my liberty, and they their lives.
    Long after this, when Henry the Fifth,
    Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign,
    Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv'd
    From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York,
    Marrying my sister, that thy mother was,
    Again, in pity of my hard distress,
    Levied an army, weening to redeem
    And have install'd me in the diadem;
    But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl,
    And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,
    In whom the title rested, were suppress'd.
  PLANTAGENET. Of Which, my lord, your honour is the last.
  MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have,
    And that my fainting words do warrant death.
    Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather;
    But yet be wary in thy studious care.
  PLANTAGENET. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me.
    But yet methinks my father's execution
    Was nothing less than bloody tyranny.
  MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou politic;
    Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster
    And like a mountain not to be remov'd.
    But now thy uncle is removing hence,
    As princes do their courts when they are cloy'd
    With long continuance in a settled place.
  PLANTAGENET. O uncle, would some part of my young years
    Might but redeem the passage of your age!
  MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer
    doth
    Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.
    Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;
    Only give order for my funeral.
    And so, farewell; and fair be all thy hopes,
    And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!          [Dies]
  PLANTAGENET. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!
    In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage,
    And like a hermit overpass'd thy days.
    Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast;
    And what I do imagine, let that rest.
    Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself
    Will see his burial better than his life.
                Exeunt GAOLERS, hearing out the body of MORTIMER
    Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,
    Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort;
    And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,
    Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house,
    I doubt not but with honour to redress;
    And therefore haste I to the Parliament,
    Either to be restored to my blood,
    Or make my ill th' advantage of my good.                Exit

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Several lords, including Richard Plantagenet, Warwick, Somerset, Suffolk, and Vernon, enter the Temple Garden near the law courts in London. Suffolk says it is better to decide matters in the garden because the lords were too noisy inside the law court where they were just disputing. Somerset asks Warwick to decide between him and Plantagenet, but Warwick says that, while he can arbitrate many situations, he cannot decide between these two lords. Both Plantagenet and Somerset declare that the right choice seems shockingly clear to them. Plantagenet has presented a case for his noble birth; he now says that those who believe he has pleaded the truth should pluck a white rose off the briar to show their allegiance to him. Somerset says those who support him in his dispute of Plantagenet's claim should pluck a red rose. Warwick says he doesn't like colors and he plucks a white rose with Plantagenet. Suffolk says he believes Somerset and picks a red rose. Vernon urges them to stop plucking until they discover which side has more people on it, and both Somerset and Plantagenet agree to yield if they have fewer supporters. And with that, Vernon picks a white rose. Then, a lawyer picks a white rose, too, saying that he believes Plantagenet's case is more correct in the law. Plantagenet and Somerset trade insults about their flowers and scorn each other. Somerset criticizes Plantagenet's father, who was put to death as a traitor by Henry V. Plantagenet says his father was accused and put to death, but his treason was never proven. He says he will remember this slight for a long time, and Somerset should expect to see results from his insults in future dealings with Plantagenet. Somerset welcomes such a future and says his allies will wear a red rose to remind him of this disagreement. Plantagenet, too, says he will wear the white rose with his faction as a marker of his continued hatred for Somerset. Somerset departs. Plantagenet and Warwick talk; Warwick says he believes that the next Parliament will restore Plantagenet to the title he lost when his father was put to death. Meanwhile, he will continue to wear Plantagenet's rose, though he foresees that this small brawl in the garden will send thousands of people to their deaths, all in the name of the white and the red rose. The two nobles exit. In a cell in the Tower of London, Mortimer awaits his death, speaking of his declining strength and wondering when his nephew Plantagenet will come. Mortimer comments on the misfortune he has suffered since Henry V first came to power, and he says that Plantagenet has suffered under the same fate. Plantagenet arrives at the cell, and Mortimer asks him to relate how he came to be in his recent argument. Plantagenet says he has had a disagreement with Somerset, who criticized his dead father. Plantagenet asks Mortimer to explain how his father came to be executed. Mortimer says the same deed that caused him to be in the tower all these years was the reason for Plantagenet's father's demise. Mortimer explains that his family was next in line to the throne after Richard II, but because Henry IV deposed Richard, Henry's line came to power instead. When he attempted to reassert himself as the rightful heir, Mortimer was thrown in jail. Later Plantagenet's father raised an army to try to install Mortimer on the throne, but he was captured and executed, and the Mortimers were suppressed. Mortimer names Plantagenet as his heir, since he has had no children. Plantagenet says his father's death was undeserved, that he was simply the victim of the whims of bloody tyranny, but Mortimer urges him to understand that the house of Lancaster holds the throne firmly by now. Mortimer tells Plantagenet not to mourn his passing, and he dies. Plantagenet promises to keep Mortimer's advice to himself. But he is determined to right the wrongs Somerset has done to his family, and he hurries off to the Parliament, seeking to gain power in some way, if not restore his inherited rights entirely.