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 over Orleans, or no?

PUCELLE.
Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants!