Title page KING JOHN, A TRAGEDY, by SHAKESPEARE. AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY-LANE. Regulated from the PROMPT-BOOK, With PERMISSION of the MANAGERS, By Mr. HOPKINS, Prompter. An INTRODUCTION, and NOTES CRITICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE, ARE ADDED BY THE AUTHORS of the DRAMATIC CENSOR. LONDON: Printed for JOHN BELL, near Exeter-Exchange, in the Strand; and C. Etherington, at York. MDCCLXXIII.

INTRODUCTION. King John most certainly deserves to live on the stage, but they must be a very good set of performers who can sustain it; several scenes are highly interesting, others extremely prolix and flat: where the Author appears himself, he is thoroughly so; where he slumbers it is near sound sleep —the main incidents are well chosen, and the leading characters well written; but prolixity seems to have been Shakespeare's study, in many scenes and speeches of this play. Our concluding note explains our idea of this Historical Drama further. To admirers of the Author we may seem severe, but we flatter ourselves deliberate perusal will prove us right; in which case, we allow it is much easier to find faults, than avoid, or mend them!

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

[Executioner], [Messenger]

Drury-Lane.	Covent-Garden.
King John,	Mr. Powell.	Mr. Powell.
Prince Henry,	Master Burton.	Mr. R. Smith.
Prince Arthur [Arthur],	Miss Rogers.	Mr. Wignell
Pembroke,	Mr. Fawcett.	Mr. Perry.
Essex,	Mr. Strange.	Mr. Redman.
Salisbury,	Mr. Packer.	Mr. Gardner.
Hubert [Hubert de Burgh],	Mr. Havard.	Mr. Bensley.
Faulconbridge [Philip Faulconbridge],	Mr. Holland.	Mr. Holtom.
Robert Faulconbridge,	Mr. Castle.
Guerney [James Gurney],	Mr. Watkins.
English Herald,	Mr. Moody.
Philip King of France,	Mr. Bensley.	Mr. Clarke.
Lewis the Dauphin.	Mr. Aickin.	Mr. Dyer.
Austria,	Mr. Keen.	Mr. Morris.
Pandolph [Cardinal Pandulph],	Mr. Bransby.	Mr. Gibson.
Chatillion,	Mr. Vernon.	Mr. Davis.
Citizen,	Mr. Burton.
French Herald,	Mr. Ackman.
Elinor [Queen Elinor],	Mrs. Bennet.	Mrs. Vincent.
Constance,	Mrs. Yates.	Mrs. Yates.
Blanch,	Miss Plim.	Miss Pearce.
Lady Fulconbridge,	Mrs. Lee.	Mrs. Ferguson.

KING JOHN. ACT. I. Scene SCENE, The Court of England. [A Flourish. * ^noteKing John, discovered upon a Throne, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, and Salisbury, with Chatilion.

King John.
Now, say, Chatillion, what would France with us?

Chat.
Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France,
In my behaviour, to the Majesty,
The borrow'd Majesty of England here.

Eli.
A strange beginning; borrow'd Majesty!

K. John.
Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

Chat.
Philip of France, in right and true behalf
Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,
Arthur Plantagenet, lays lawful claim
To this fair island, and the territories:

To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine:
Desiring thee to lay aside the sword,
Which sways usurpingly these several titles:
And put the same into young Arthur's hand,
Thy nephew, and right-royal sovereign.

K. John.
What follows, if we disallow of this?

Chat.
The proud controul of fierce and bloody war,
T' inforce these rights so forcibly with-held.

K. John.
Here have we war for war, and blood for blood,
Controulment for controulment; so answer France.

Chat.
Then take my King's defiance from my mouth,
The farthest limit of my embassy.

K. John.
Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace* ^note.
Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France.
For ere thou canst report, I will be there,
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard.
So, hence! be thou the trumpet of our wrath,
And sullen presage of your own decay.
An honourable conduct let him have;
Pembroke, look to't; farewel, Chatilion. [Exeunt Chat. and Pem.

Eli.
What now, my son, have I not ever said,
How that ambitious Constance would not cease,
'Till she had kindled France and all the world,
Upon the right and party of her son?
This might have been prevented, and made whole,
With very easy arguments of love;
Which now the manage of two kingdoms must
With fearful, bloody issue arbitrate.

K. John.
Our strong possession, and our right for us.—

Eli.
Your strong possession much more than your right,
Or else it must go wrong with you and me;
So much my conscience whispers in your ear.

Essex.
My Liege, here is the strangest controversy,
Come from the country to be judg'd by you,
That e'er I heard: shall I produce the men?

K. John.
Let them approach.
Our abbies and our priories shall pay
This expedition's charge—What men are you? Enter Robert Faulconbridge, and Philip his brother* ^note.

Phil.
Your subject, I, a gentleman
Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son,
As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,
A soldier, by the honour-giving hand
Of Cœur-de-lion knighted in the field.

K. John.
What art thou?

Rob.
The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

K. John.
Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?
You came not of one mother then, it seems?

Phil.
Most certain of one mother, mighty King,
That is well known; and, as I think, one father:
But for the certain knowledge of that truth,
I put you o'er to heav'n, and to my mother;
Of that I doubt, as all men's children may.

Eli.
Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother,
And wound her honour with this diffidence.

Phil.
I, Madam? no, I have no reason for it;
That is my brother's plea, and none of mine,
The which if he can prove, he pops me out
At least from fair five hundred pound a year:
Heav'n guard my mother's honour, and my land!

K. John.
A good blunt fellow: why, being younger born,
Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

Phil.
I know not why, except to get the land;
But once, he slander'd me with bastardy:
But whether I be true begot or no,
That still I lay upon my mother's head;

But that I am as well begot, my Liege,
(Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!)
Compare our faces, and be judge yourself.
If old Sir Robert did beget us both,
And were our father, and this son like him;
O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee
I give heav'n thanks, I was not like to thee* ^note.

K. John.
Why, what a mad-cap hath heav'n lent us here!

Eli.
He hath a trick of Cœur-de-lion's face,
The accent of his tongue affecteth him:
Do you not read some tokens of my son,
In the large composition of this man?

K. John.
Mine eye hath well examined his parts,
And finds them perfect Richard: Sirrah, speak,
What doth move you to claim your brother's land?

Phil.
Because he hath a half-face like my father,
With that half-face would he have all my land?

Rob.
My gracious Liege, when that my father liv'd,
Your brother did imploy my father much;—

Phil.
Well, Sir, by this you cannot get my land:
Your tale must be, how he imploy'd my mother.

Rob.
And once dispatch'd him in an embassy,
To Germany; there with the Emperor
To treat on high affairs touching that time:
Th' advantage of his absence took the King.
And in the mean time sojourn'd at my father's;
Where, how he did prevail, I shame to speak:
But truth is truth; large lengths of seas and shores,
Between my father and my mother lay,
(As I have heard my father speak himself)
When this same lusty gentleman was got.
Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd
His lands to me; and took it on his death,
That this, my mother's son, was none of his;
And if he were, he came into the world,
Full fourteen weeks, before the course of time;

Then, good my Liege, let me have what is mine,
My father's land, as was my father's will.

K. John.
Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;
Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him:
And if she did play false, the fault was hers;
Which fault lies on the hazard of all husbands,
That marry wives.
Your father's heir must have your father's land.

Rob.
Shall then my father's will be of no force
To dispossess that child which is not his?

Phil.
Of no force to dispossess me, Sir,
Than was his will to get me, as I think.

Eli.
Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge,
And, like thy brother, to enjoy thy land:
Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-lion,
Lord of thy presence, and no land beside* ^note?

Phil.
Madam, and if my brother had my shape,
And I had his, Sir Robert his, like him;
And if my legs were two such riding rods;
My arms such eel-skins stuft; my face so thin,
And to his shape were heir to all this land;
Would I might never stir from off this place,
I'd give it every foot to have this face:
I would not be Sir Nobbe in any case.

Eli.
I like thee well; wilt thou forsake thy fortune,
Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me?
I am a soldier, and now bound to France.

Phil.
Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance;
Your face hath got five hundred pound a year,
Yet sell your face for five pence, and 'tis dear.
Madam, I'll follow you unto the death.

Eli.
Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

Phil.
Our country manners give our betters way.

K. John.
What is thy name?

Phil.
Philip, my Liege, so is my name begun;
Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's eldest son.

K. John.
From henceforth bear his name, whose form thou bear'st:
Kneel thou down Philip, but rise up more great;
Arise Sir Richard, and Plantagenet.

Phil.
Brother by th' mother's side, give me your hand;
My father gave me honour, yours gave land.
Now blessed be the hour, by night or day,
When I was got, Sir Robert was away!

Eli.
The very spirit of Plantagenet!
I am thy grandam; Richard, call me so.

Phil.
Madam, by chance, but not by truth; what though?
Something about, a little from the right,
  In at the window, or else o'er the hatch:
Who dares not stir by day, must walk by night,
  And have is have, however men do catch;
Near or far off, well won is still well shot;
And I am I, howe'er I was begot.

K. John.
Go, Faulconbridge, now hast thou thy desire;
A landless Knight makes thee a landed 'Squire:
Come, Madam; and come, Richard; we must speed
For France, for France; for it is more than need.

Phil.
Brother, adieu; good fortune come to thee,
For thou wast got i' th' way of honesty. [Exeunt all but Philip. A Flourish.
A foot of honour better than I was,
But many a many foot of land the worse!
Well, now can I make any Joan a lady.
Good den, Sir Richard,—Godamercy, fellow* ^note;
And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter;
For new-made honour doth forget mens names:
'Tis too respective and unsociable
For your conversion. Now your traveller,
He and his tooth-pick at my worship's mess;

And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd,
Why then I suck my teeth, and catechise
My picked man of countries;—My dear Sir,
(Thus leaning on mine elbow, I begin)
I shall beseech you—that is Question now;
And then comes Answer like an A. B. C. book:
O Sir, says Answer, at your best command,
At your employment, at your service, Sir;—
No, Sir, says Question, I, sweet Sir, at yours,—
And so, ere Answer knows what question would,
Saving in dialogue of compliment;
And talking of the Alps and Apennines,
The Pyrenean and the river Po;
It draws towards supper in conclusion, so.
But this is worshipful society,
And fits the mounting spirit like myself:
For he is but a bastard to the time,
That doth not smack of observation;
(And so am I, whether I smack or no:)
And not alone in habit and device,
Exterior form, outward accoutrement;
But from the inward motion to deliver
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison, for the age's tooth;
Which, tho' I will not practise to deceive,
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;
For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.
But who comes in such haste?
What woman-post is this? hath she no husband,
That will take pains to blow a horn before her?
O me! it is my mother; now, good lady,
What brings you here to court so hastily? Enter Lady Faulconbridge, and James Gurney* ^note.

Lady.
Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he,
That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

Phil.
My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son,
Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man.
Is it Sir Robert's son, that you seek so?

Lady.
Sir Robert's son? ay, thou unrev'rend boy,
Sir Robert's son: why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert?
He is Sir Robert's son; and so art thou.

Phil.
James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave, awhile?

Gur.
Good leave, good Philip.

Phil.
Philip!—spare me, James;
There's toys abroad; anon I'll tell thee more. [Exit James.
Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son.
Sir Robert might have eat his part in me,
Upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast:
Sir Robert could do well; marry, confess!
Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it;
We knew his handy-work; therefore, good mother
To whom am I beholden for these limbs?
Sir Robert never holpt to make this leg.

Lady.
Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,
That, for thine own gain, should'st defend mine honour?
What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

Phil.
Knight, Knight, good mother—Basilisco like.
What! I am dubb'd; I have it on my shoulder:
But, mother, I am not Sir Robert's son;
I have disclaim'd Sir Robert, and my land;
Legitimation, name, and all is gone:
Then, good my mother, let me know my father;
Some proper man, I hope; who was it, mother?

Lady.
Hast thou deny'd thyself a Faulconbridge?

Phil.
As faithfully, as I deny the devil.

Lady.
King Richard Cœur-de-lion was thy father;
By long and vehement suit was I seduc'd,
To make room for him in my husband's bed.
Heav'n lay not my transgression to my charge!
Thou art the issue of my dear offence,
Which was so strongly urg'd past my defence.

Phil.
Now, by this light, were I to get again,
Madam, I would not wish a better father.

Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,
And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly;
Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,
Subjected tribute to commanding love;
Against whose fury and unmatched force,
The awless lion could not wage the fight;
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hands.
He, that perforce robs lions of their hearts.
May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,
With all my heart I thank thee for my father.
Who lives and dares but say, thou didst not well,
When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.
Come, lady, I will shew thee to my kin,
  And they shall say, when Richard me begot,
If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin;
  Who says it was, he lyes; I say, 'twas not. [Exeunt* ^note. ACT II. Scene SCENE, before the Walls of Angiers in France. A Flourish. Enter Philip of France, Lewis the Dauphin, the Archduke of Austria, Constance, and Arthur.

Philip.
Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.
* ^noteArthur! that great fore-runner of thy blood
Richard, that robb'd the lion of his heart,
And fought the holy wars in Palestine,
By this brave Duke came early to his grave:

And for amends to his posterity,
At our importance hither is he come,
To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf;
And to rebuke the usurpation
Of thy unnatural uncle, English John.
Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

Arth.
God shall forgive you Cœur-de-lion's death,
The rather that you give his off-spring life;
Shadowing their right under your wings of war.
I give you welcome with a pow'rless hand,
But with a heart full of unstained love:
Welcome before the gates of Angiers, Duke.

Lewis.
A noble boy! who would not do thee right?

Aust.
Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss,
As seal to this indenture of my love;
That to my home I will no more return,
'Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France,
Together with that pale, that white-fac'd shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
Ev'n 'till that England, hedg'd in with the main,
Salute thee for her King. 'Till then, fair boy,
Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

Const.
* ^noteO, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks,
'Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength,
To make a more requital to your love.

Aust.
The peace of heav'n is theirs, who lift their swords
In such a just and charitable war.

K. Philip.
Well then, to work; our engines shall be bent
Against the brows of this resisting town;
Call for our chiefest men of discipline,
We'll lay before this town our royal bones,
Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood,
But we will make it subject to this boy.

Const.
Stay for an answer to your embassy,
Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood.

My lord Chatilion may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in war;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood,
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter Chatilion.

K. Philip.
A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish
Our messenger Chatilion is arriv'd!
What England says, say briefly, gentle lord,
We coldly pause for thee. Chatilion, speak.

Chat.
Then turn your forces from this paultry siege,
And stir them up against a mightier task.
England, impatient of your just demands,
Hath put himself in arms; the adverse winds,
Whose leisure I have staid, have giv'n him time
To land his legions all as soon as I.
With him along is come the mother Queen;
An Até, stirring him to blood and strife.
With her, her niece, the lady Blanch of Spain;
With them a Bastard of the King deceas'd,
And all th' unsettled humours of the land;
Rash, inconsid'rate, fiery voluntaries,
With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the swelling tide,
To do offence and scathe* ^note in christendom. [Drum beats.
The interruption of their churlish drums,
Cuts off more circumstance; they are at hand.
To parly, or to fight, therefore prepare.

K. Philip.
How much unlook'd for is this expedition! A March. Enter King of England, Faulconbridge, Elinor, Blanch, Pembroke, and others.

K. John.
Peace be to France, if France in peace permit
Our just and lineal entrance to our own:
If not, bleed France, and Peace ascend to heav'n.

Whilst we, God's wrathful agent, do correct
Their proud contempt that beats his Peace to heaven.

K. Philip.
Peace be to England, if that war return
From France to England, there to live in peace!
England we love; and for that England's sake,
With burthen of our armour here we sweat;
This toil of ours should be a work of thine.
But thou from loving England art so far,
That thou hast under-wrought its lawful King:
Cut off the sequence of posterity;
Out-faced infant state; and done a rape
Upon the maiden virtue of a crown.
Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face.
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his;
This little abstract doth contain that large,
Which dy'd in Geffrey; and the hand of time
Shall draw this brief into as large a volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,
And this his son; England was Geffrey's right,
And this is Geffrey's; in the name of Heav'n,
How comes it then, that thou art call'd a King,
When living blood doth in these temples beat,
Which own the crown that thou o'er-masterest?

K. John.
From whom hast thou this great commission, France,
To draw my answer to thy articles?

K. Philip.
From that supernal Judge, that stirs good thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
To look into the blots and stains of right.
That Judge hath made me guardian to this boy;
Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong,
And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

K. John.
Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

K. Philip.
Excuse it, 'tis to beat usurping down* ^note.

Eli.
Who is't, that thou dost call usurper, France?

Const.
Let me make answer: thy usurping son.—

Aust.
Peace.—

Faulc.
Hear the crier.

Aust.
What the devil art thou?

Faulc.
One that will play the devil, Sir, with you,
An a' may catch your hide and you alone.
You are the hare, of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead Lions by the beard;
I'll smoak your skin-coat, an I catch you right;
Sirrah, look to't; i'faith, I will, i'faith.

K. Philip.
King John, this is the very sum of all,
England, and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur, I do claim of thee
Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thy arms?

K. John.
My life as soon—I do defie thee, France.
Arthur of Britain, yield thee to my hand;
And out of my dear love I'll give thee more,
Than e'er the coward hand of France can win.

K. Philip.
Some trumpet summon hither to the walls
These men of Angiers; let us hear them speak,
Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's. [Trumpet sounds. A Call. Enter a Citizen upon the Walls.

Cit.
Who is it, that hath warn'd us to the walls?

K. Philip.
'Tis France, and England.

K. John.
England for itself;
You men of Angiers and my loving subjects—

K. Philip.
You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects,
Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle—

K. John.
For our advantage; therefore hear us first:
These flags of France, that are advanced here,
Before the eye and prospect of your town,
Have hither march'd to your endamagement
All preparations for a bloody siege,
And merciless proceeding, by these Franch,
Confront your city's eyes, your winking gates;
But on the sight of us your lawful King,

Behold the French, amaz'd, vouchsafe a parle;
And now, instead of bullets wrap'd in fire,
To make a shaking fever in your walls,
They shoot but calm words folded up in smoak,
Which trust accordingly, kind citizens;
And let in us, your King, whose labour'd spirits
Crave harbourage within your city walls.

K. Philip.
When I have said, make answer to us both.
Lo! in this right hand, whose protection
Is most divinely vow'd upon the right
Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet;
Son to the elder brother of this man,
And King o'er him, and all that he enjoys.
For this down-trodden equity, we tread
In warlike march these greens before your town:
Being no further enemy to you,
Then the constraint of hospitable zeal,
In the relief of this oppressed child,
Religiously provokes.
Then pay that duty, which you truly owe,
To him that owns it: namely, this young prince;
And then our arms hath all offence seal'd up:
Now tell us, shall your city call us lord,
In that behalf which we have challeng'd it?
Or shall we give the signal to our rage,
And stalk in blood to our possession?

Cit.
In brief, we are the King of England's subjects:
For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

K. John.
Acknowledge then the King, and let him in.

Cit.
That can we not; but he that proves the King,
To him will we prove loyal; till that time,
Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world.

K. John.
Doth not the crown of England prove the King?
And if not that, I bring you witnesses,
Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed—

Faulc.
(Bastards, and else.)

K. John.
To verify our title with their lives.

K. Philip.
As many, and as well-born bloods as those—

Faulc.
(Some Bastards too.)

K. Philip.
Stand in his face to contradict his claim.

Cit.
Till you compound, whose right is worthiest,
We for the worthiest hold the right for both.

K. John.
Then Heav'n forgive the sin of all those souls,
That to their everlasting residence,
Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,
In dreadful tryal of our kingdom's King!

K. Philip.
Amen, Amen.—Mount, chevaliers, to arms! Faulc.
Saint George, that swing'd the dragon, and e'er since,
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess' door,
Teach us some fence. Sirrah, were I at home
At your den, sirrah, with your Lioness,
I'd set an ox-head to your Lion's hide,
And make a monster of you— [To Austria.

Aust.
Peace, no more.

Faulc.
O, tremble; for you hear the Lion roar. [Exeunt. * ^noteA long Charge sounded: then, after excursions, a Call. Enter the Herald of France. F. Her.
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,
And let young Arthur Duke of Bretagne in;
Who by the hand of France this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lie scatter'd on the bleeding ground;
And many a widow's husband groveling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth;
While victory with little loss doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French;
Who are at hand triumphantly display'd,

To enter conquerors; and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne, England's King, and yours. [A Call. Enter English Herald. E. Her.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers; ring your bells;
King John, your King and England's, doth approach.
Commander of this hot malicious day.
Their armours, that march'd hence, so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt in Frenchmen's blood.
There stuck no plume in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France.
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands;
Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.
Open your gates, and give the victors way. Cit.
Heralds, from off our tow'rs we might behold,
From first to last, the Onset and Retire,
Of both your armies, whose equality
By our best eyes cannot be censured;
Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows;
Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power.
Both are alike, and both alike we like;
One must prove greatest. While they weigh so even,
We hold our town for neither; yet for both. [A March on both sides. Enter the two Kings with their Powers, at several Doors. K. John.
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?
Say, shall the current of our right run on?
Whose passage, vext with thy impediment,
Shall leave his native channel, and o'er-swell,
With course disturb'd, ev'n thy confining shores;
Unless thou let his silver water keep
A peaceful progress to the ocean. K. Philip.
England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood,
In this hot tryal, more than we of France;
Rather lost more. And by this hand I swear,

That sways the earth this climate overlooks,
Before we will lay by our just-born arms,
We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear:
Or add a royal number to the dead;
Gracing the scroul, that tells of this war's loss
With slaughter coupled to the name of Kings.

Faulc.
Ha! Majesty,—how high thy glory towers,
When the rich blood of Kings is set on fire!
Why stand those royal fronts amazed thus?
Cry havock, Kings; back to the stained field,
You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits!
Then let confusion of one part confirm
The other's peace; till then, blows, blood, and death.

K. John.
Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

K. Philip.
Speak, citizens, for England who's your King?

Cit.
The King of England, when we know the King.

K. Philip.
Know him in us, that here hold up his right

K. John.
In us, that are our own great deputy,
And bear possession of our person here;
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

Cit.
A greater Pow'r, than ye, denies all this;
And till it be undoubted, we do lock
Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates.
Kings of our fears—until our fears resolv'd,
Be by some certain King purg'd and depos'd.

Faulc.
By heav'n, the scroyles of Angiers flout you, Kings* ^note.
You royal presences, be rul'd by me;
Be friends a while, and both conjointly bend
Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town.
By east and west let France and England mount
Their batt'ring cannon charged to the mouths;
Till their soul-fearing clamours have braul'd down
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city.
That done, dissever your united strengths,
And part your mingled colours once again;
Turn face to face, and bloody point to point.
Then in a moment fortune shall cull forth,

Out of one side, her happy minion;
And kiss him with a glorious victory.
How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?
Smacks it not something of the policy?

K. John,
Now, by the sky, that hangs above our heads,
I like it well. France, shall we knit our pow'rs,
And lay this Angiers even with the ground,
Then, after, fight who shall be King of it?

K. Philip.
Let it be so: say, where will you assault?

K. John.
We from the west will send destruction
Into this city's bosom.

Aust.
I from the north.

K. Philip.
Our thunder from the south
Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

Faulc.
O prudent discipline! from North to South;
Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth.
I'll stir them to it; come, away, away!

Cit.
Hear us, great Kings; vouchsafe a while to stay,
And I shall shew you peace, and fair-fac'd league:
Win you this city without stroke or wound;
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,
That here come sacrifices for the field;
Persevere not, but hear me, mighty Kings.

K. John.
Speak on, with favour; we are bent to hear.

Cit.
That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,
Is near to England; look upon the years
Of Lewis the Dauphin, and that lovely maid.
Oh! two such silver currents, when they join,
Do glorify the banks that bound them in:
And two such shores, to two such streams made one,
Two such controlling bounds shall you be, Kings,
To these two Princes, if you marry them.
This union shall do more than battery can,
To our fast-closed gates: for at this match
With swifter spleen than powder can enforce,
The mouth of passage shall we fling wide open,
And give you entrance; but without this match,

The sea enraged is not half so deaf,
Lions so confident, mountains and rocks
So free from motion: no, not death himself,
In mortal fury half so peremptory,
As we to keep this city.

Faulc.
Here's a stay,
That shakes the rotten carcass of old death,
Out of his rags. Here's a large mouth, indeed,
That spits forth death, and mountains, rocks and seas;
Talks as familiarly of roaring lions,
As maids of thirteen do of puppy dogs.
What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?
He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoak and bounce,
He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
Our ears are cudgel'd; not a word of his,
But buffets better than a fist of France;
Zounds! I was never so bethumpt with words,
Since I first call'd my brother's father dad.

Cit.
Why answer not the double Majesties
This friendly treaty of our threaten'd town?

K. Philip.
What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

Lewis.
I do, my Lord; and in her eye I find
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle;
The shadow of myself form'd in her eye;
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. [Whispering with Blanch.

Faulc.
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye!
    Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!
  And quarter'd in her heart! he doth espie
    Himself love's traitor: this is pity now,
That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there should be
In such a love, so vile a lout as he.

K. John.
What say these young ones? what say you, my niece?

Blanch.
That she is bound in honour still to do
What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

K. John.
Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal,
Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

K. Philip.
It likes us well; young Princes, close your hands.
Now, Citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,
Let in that amity which you have made;
For at Saint Mary's chapel, presently,
The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd.
Is not the lady Constance in this troop?
Where is she and her son, tell me, who knows?

Lewis.
She's sad and passionate, at your Highness' Tent.

K. Philip.
Brother of England, how may we content
This widow lady? in her right we came.

K. John.
We will heal up all,
For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Britain,
And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town
We make him lord of. Call the lady Constance;
Some speedy messenger bid her repair
To our solemnity.
Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,
To this unlook'd-for, unprepared, pomp. [A March. [Exeunt into the gates, all but Faulconbridge.

* ^noteFaulc.
Mad world, mad Kings, mad composition!
John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,
Hath willingly departed with a part:
And France, whose armour conscience buckled on
Whom zeal and charity brought to the field,
As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear
With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,
That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith,
That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,
Of Kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,
Who, having no external thing to lose,
But the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that;
That smooth-fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity—
Commodity, the bias of the world,
The world, which of itself is poised well,
Made to run even, upon even ground:

'Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,
This sway of motion, this commodity,
Makes it take head from all indifferency,
From all direction, purpose, course, intent.
And this same biass, this commodity,
This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,
Clapt on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid,
From a resolv'd and honourable war,
To a most base and vile concluded peace.—
And why rail I on this commodity?
But for because he hath not wooed me yet:
Not that I have the power to clutch my hand,
When his fair angel, would salute my palm:
But that my hand, as unattempted yet,
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, while I am a beggar, I will rail;
And say, there is no sin but to be rich:
And being rich, my virtue then shall be,
To say there is no vice, but beggary.
Since Kings break faith, upon commodity,
Gain, be my lord; for I will worship thee! [Exit in at the gates* ^note. ACT III. Scene SCENE, The French King's Pavilion. Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury.

Constance* ^note.
Gone to be marry'd! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends!
Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces!

It is not so: thou hast mis-spoke, mis-heard;
Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again,
It cannot be; thou dost but say, 'tis so.
I think, I may not trust thee; for thy word
Is but the vain breath of a common man:
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;
I have a King's oath to the contrary.
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears;
Opprest with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears,
A woman, naturally born to fears,
And, tho' thou now confess thou didst but jest,
With my vext spirits I cannot make a truce,
But they will quake and tremble, all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?
Be these sad sighs confirmers of thy words?
Then speak again, not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Sal.
As true, as, I believe, you think them false,
That give you cause to prove my saying true.

Const.
Oh, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
Lewis wed Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! what becomes of me
Fellow, be gone, I cannot brook thy sight:
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

Sal.
What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done?

Const.
Which harm within itself so heinous is,
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

Arth.
I do beseech you, mother, be content.

Const.
If thou, that bidst me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks,
I would not care, I then would be content:
For then I should not love thee: no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy!
Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great.
Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose. But fortune, oh!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee,
Adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluckt on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,
And made his Majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to fortune, and to John;
That strumpet fortune, that usurping John!
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,
And leave these woes alone, which I alone
And bound to under-bear.

Sal.
Pardon me, Madam:
I may not go without you to the Kings.

Const.
Thou may'st, thou shalt: I will not go with thee.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
Let Kings assemble: for my grief's so great,
That no supporter but the huge firm earth,
Can hold it up: here I and Sorrow sit;
Here is my throne, bid Kings come bow to it. [Sits down on the Floor. King John, King Philip, discovered on a Throne, Lewis, Blanch, Elinor, Faulconbridge, and Austria. A Flourish.

K. Philip.
'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day
Ever in France shall be kept festival:
To solemnize this day, the glorious sun

Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist;
Turning with splendor of his precious eye
The meagre cloddy earth to glitt'ring gold.
The yearly course that brings this day about,
Shall never see it but a holy-day.

Const.
A wicked day, and not an holy-day— [Rising.
What has this day deserv'd? what hath it done,
That it in golden letters should be set
Among the high tides in the kalendar?
Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,
This day of shame, oppression, perjury;
This day, all things begun come to ill end,
Yea, faith itself to hollow falshood change!

K. Philip.
By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the fair proceedings of this day:
Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty?

Const.
You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit,
Resembling Majesty, which, touch'd and try'd,
Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn.
You came in arms to spill my enemies blood,
But now in arms, you strengthen it with yours.
The grapling vigour, and rough frown of war,
Is cold in amity and painted peace,
And our oppression hath made up this league:
Arm, arm, ye heavens, against these perjur'd Kings;
A widow cries, be husband to me, heav'n!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day in peace; but ere sun-set,
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd Kings.
Hear me, oh hear me!

Aust.
Lady Constance, peace.

Const.
War, war, no peace; peace is to me a war.
O Lymoges, O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward,
Thou little valiant, great in villany!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side;
Thou fortune's champion, that durst never fight
But when her humourous ladyship is by,
To teach thee safety! thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?

Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it, for shame,
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs* ^note.

Aust.
O, that a man would speak those words to me!

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.
Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.
Methinks, that Richard's pride and Richard's fall
Should be a precedent to fright you, Sir.

Faulc.
What words are these! how do my sinews shake!
My father's foe clad in my father's spoil!
How doth Alecto whisper in my ears,
“Delay not, Richard; kill the villain strait;
“Disrobe him of the matchless monument,
“Thy father's triumph o'er the savages.”—
Now by his soul I swear, my father's soul,
Twice will I not review the morning's rise,
'Till I have torn that trophy from thy back,
And split thy heart, for wearing it so long.

K. John.
We like not this: thou dost forget thyself. Enter Pandulph.

K. Philip.
Here comes the holy Legate of the Pope.

† ^notePand.
Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!
To thee, King John, my holy errand is;
I Pandulph, of fair Milan Cardinal,
And from Pope Innocent the Legate here,
Do in his name religiously demand.

Why thou against the Church, our holy Mother,
So wilfully do spurn, and force perforce
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop
Of Canterbury, from that holy See?
This in our 'foresaid holy Father's name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

K. John.
What earthly name to interrogatories
Can task the free breath of a sacred King?
Thou canst not, Cardinal, devise a name,
So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous,
To charge me to an answer, as the Pope.
Tell him this tale, and from the mouth of England,
Add thus much more, that no Italian priest
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;
But as we under Heaven are supreme head,
So, under him, that great supremacy,
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,
Without th' assistance of a mortal hand.
So tell the Pope, all rev'rence set apart.
To him and his usurp'd authority.

K. Philip.
Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

K. John.
Tho' you, and all the Kings of Christendom,
Are led so grosly by this medling priest,
Dreading the curse that money may buy out;
And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,
Who in that sale sells pardon from himself:
Tho' you, and all the rest, so grosly led,
This juggling witch-craft with revenue cherish;
Yet I alone, alone, do me oppose
Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes.

Pand.
Then, by the lawful power that I have,
Thou shalt stand curst, and excommunicate;
And blessed shall he be that doth revolt
From his allegiance to an heretick;
And meritorious shall that hand be call'd,
Canonized and worship'd as a Saint,
That takes away, by any secret course,
Thy hateful life.

Const.
O, lawful let it be,

That I have leave with Rome to curse a while.
Good father Cardinal, cry thou, Amen,
To my keen curses; for without my wrong
There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

Pand.
Philip of France, on peril of a curse,
Let go the hand of that arch heretick;
And raise the pow'r of France upon his head,
Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Aust.
King Philip, listen to the Cardinal.

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on his recreant limbs.

Aust.
Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,
Because—

Faulc.
Your breeches best may carry them.

K. John.
Philip, what say'st thou to the Cardinal?

Const.
What should he say, but as the Cardinal?

K. Philip.
Good rev'rend father, make my person yours;
And tell me, how you would bestow yourself.
This royal hand and mine are newly knit:
And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood,
So newly join'd in love, so strong in both,
Unyoke this seisure, and this kind regreet?
Play fast and loose with faith? So jest with heav'n?
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
As now again to snatch our palm from palm?
Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed
Of smiling peace, to march a bloody host,
And make a riot on the gentle brow
Of true sincerity? O holy Sir,
My reverend father, let it not be so;
Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose
Some gentle order, and we shall be blest
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.

Pand.
All form is formless, order orderless,
Save what is opposite to England's love.
Therefore, to arms! be champion of our Church!
Or let the Church our mother breathe her curse,
A mother's curse on her revolting son.
France, thou may'st hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed lyon by the mortal paw,

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than keep in peace that hand, which thou dost hold.

Austr.
Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

Faulc.
Hang nothing but a calve's-skin, most sweet Lout.

K. Philip.
I may dis-join my hand, but not my faith.

Pand.
So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;
O, let thy vow
First made to heav'n, first be to heav'n perform'd;
That is, to be the champion of our Church.
But if not, then know,
The peril of our curses light on thee
So heavy, as thou shalt not shake them off;
But, in despair, die under their black weight.

Aust.
Rebellion, flat rebellion.

Faulc.
Will't not be?
Will not a calve's-skin stop that mouth of thine?

Lewis.
Father, to arms.

Blanch.
Upon thy wedding day?
Against the blood that thou hast married?
What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter'd men?
Shall braying trumpets, and loud churlish drums,
Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp?
O husband, hear me; ev'n for that name,
Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,
Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms
Against my uncle.

Const.
O, upon my knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom
Forethought by heav'n.

Blanch.
Now shall I see thy love; what motive may
Be stronger with thee, than the name of wife?

Const.
That which upholdeth him, that thee upholds,
His honour. Oh, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!—

Lewis.
I muse, your Majesty doth seem so cold,
When such profound respects do pull you on?

Pand.
I will denounce a curse upon his head.

K. Philip.
Thou shalt not need. England, I'll fall from thee.

Const.
O fair return of banish'd Majesty!

K. John.
France, thou shalt rue this hour, within this hour.

Faulc.
Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,
Is it, as he will? well then, France shall rue.

K. John.
Cousin, go draw our puissance together. [Exit Faulconbridge.
France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath,
A rage, whose heat hath this condition
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood and dearest valued blood of France.

K. Philip.
Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn
To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

K. John.
No more than he that threats. To arms, let's hie. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to a Field of Battle. * ^noteAlarms, Excursion: Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Now, by my life, this day grows wond'rous hot;
Some fiery devil hovers in the sky,
And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there—
Thus hath King Richard's son perform'd his vow,
And offer'd Austria's blood for sacrifice,
Unto his father's ever-living soul. [A Charge. Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert.

K. John.
There, Hubert, keep this boy. Richard, make up;
My mother is assailed in our tent,
And ta'en, I fear.

Faulc.
My lord, I rescu'd her:

Her highness is in safety, fear you not.
But on, my Liege; for very little pains
Will bring this labour to an happy end. [Exeunt. Alarms, Excursions, Retreat. Re-enter King John, Elinor, Arthur, Faulconbridge, Hubert, and Lords.

K. John.
So shall it be: your grace shall stay behind,
So strongly guarded: cousin, look not sad, [To Arthur.
Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will
As dear be to thee, as thy father was.

Arth.
O, this will make my mother die with grief.

K. John.
Cousin, away for England; haste before, [To Faulconbridge.
And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags
Of hoarding Abbots; their imprison'd angels
Set thou at liberty: the fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry war be fed upon.
Use our commission in its utmost force.

Faulc.
Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back,
When gold and silver beck me to come on.
I leave your highness: grandam, I will pray
(If ever I remember to be holy)
For your fair safety; so I kiss your hand.

Eli.
Farewel, my gentle cousin.

K. John.
Coz, farewel.

Faulc.
My Liege, farewel. [Exit Faulconbridge.

Eli.
Come hither, little kinsman;—hark, a word. [Taking him to one side of the stage.

K. John. [to Hubert on the other side.]
Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh,
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say—
But I will fit it with some better time.
By heav'n, Hubert, I'm almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.

Hub.
I am much bounden to your Majesty.

K. John.
Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so, yet* ^note—
But thou shalt have—and, creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say—but let it go:
The sun is in the heav'n, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience. If the midnight bell
Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed of a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, Melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick,
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot laughter keep mens' eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment;
(A passion hateful to my purposes:)
Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despight of broad-ey'd watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But ah, I will not—yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.

Hub.
So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Tho' that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heav'n, I'd do't.

K. John.
Do not I know, thou would'st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend;
He is a very serpent in my way,
And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.

Hub.
And I'll keep him so,
That he shall not offend your Majesty.

K. John.
Death.

Hub.
My lord?

K. John.
A grave.

Hub.
He shall not live.

K. John.
Enough.
I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember:—Madam, fare you well. [Returning to the Queen.
I'll send those pow'rs o'er to your Majesty.

Eli.
My blessing go with thee!

K. John.
For England, cousin, go.
Hubert shall be your man, t'attend on you,
With all true duty; on, towards Calais, hoa!
—Hubert, remember— [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to the French Court. Enter King Philip, Lewis, and Pandulph.

K. Philip.
So by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole Armada of collected sail,
Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.

Pand.
Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well.

K. Philip.
What can go well, when we have run so ill?
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?
Arthur ta'en pris'ner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'er-bearing interruption, spite of France?

Lewis.
What he hath won, that hath he fortify'd:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temp'rate order in so fierce a cause,

Doth want example; who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this?

K. Philip.
Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Constance.
Look, who comes here? a grave unto a soul,
Holding th' eternal spirit 'gainst her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath;
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

Const.
Lo, now, now see the issue of your peace.

K. Philip.
Patience, good lady; comfort, gentle Constance.

Const.
No, I defy all counsel, and redress,
But, that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death; oh, amiable, lovely death!
Arise forth from thy couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy detestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsom dust,
And be a carrion monster, like thyself;
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st,
And kiss thee as thy wife; misery's love,
O come to me!

K. Philip.
O fair affliction! peace.

Const.
No, no, I will not, having breath to cry;
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth,
Then with my passion I would shake the world,
And rouze from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
And scorns a modern invocation.

Pand.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Const.
Thou art not holy to belie me so;
I am not mad; this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance, I was Geffrey's wife:
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost!
I am not mad; I would to heaven, I were!
For then, 'tis like, I should forget myself.

Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The diff'rent plague of each calamity.

K. Philip.
Bind up those tresses.
In the fair multitude of those her hairs,
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fall'n,
Ev'n to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const.
To England, if you will.—

K. Philip.
Bind up your hairs.

* ^noteConst.
Oh! father Cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heav'n;
If that be, I shall see my boy again.
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male-child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker Sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek;
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die: and rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heav'n,
I shall not know him; therefore, never, never,
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Const.
He talks to me that never had a son.—

K. Philip.
You are as fond of grief, as of your child.

Const.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lyes in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well; had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head, [Tearing off her head-cloaths.
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow comfort, and my sorrow's cure! [Exit.

K. Philip.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit.

Lewis.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy;
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
A bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak with a prophetick spirit;
For ev'n the breath of what I mean to speak,
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne; and therefore, mark.
John hath seiz'd Arthur, and it cannot be
That whilst warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
A minute, nay, one quiet breath, of rest.
That John may stand, then, Arthur needs must fall.

Lewis.
May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand.
O Sir, when he shall hear of your approach,
If that young Arthur be not gone already,
Ev'n at this news he dies: and then the hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him.
Go with me to the king: 'tis wonderful
What may be wrought out of their discontent.
Now that their souls are top-full of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the King.

Lewis.
Strong reason makes strong actions: let us go;
If you say ay, the King will not say no. [Exeunt.* ^note ACT IV. Scene SCENE changes to England. A Prison. Enter Hubert, with a Paper; and Executioners.

Hubert.
Heat me these irons hot, and, look, thou stand
Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth;
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful; hence, and watch.

Exec.
I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hub.
Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't.
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur* ^note.

Arth.
Good morrow, Hubert.

Hub.
Good morrow, little prince.

Arth.
As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. You are sad.

Hub.
Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth.
Mercy on me!
Methinks, nobody should be sad, but I;
Yet I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,

Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.
And so I would be here, but that, I doubt,
My uncle practises more harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
Indeed, it is not; and would to heav'n,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert!

Hub.
If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. [Aside.

Arth.
Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale, to day;
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night and watch with you.
Alas, I love you more than you do me!

Hub.
His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur— [Shewing a Paper.
How now, foolish rheum, [Aside.
Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.—
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth.
Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with irons burn out both mine eyes?

Hub.
Young boy, I must.

Arth.
And will you?

Hub.
And I will.

Arth.
Have you the heart? When your head did but ake,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon chear'd up the heavy time,
Saying, What lack you? and where lies your grief?
Or what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoken a loving word to you;

But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, an if you will.
If heav'n be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why then, you must—Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?

Hub.
I've sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth.
Oh! if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd him; no tongue, but Hubert's.

Hub.
Come forth; do as I bid you. [Stamps, and the men enter.

Arth.
O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out,
Ev'n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub.
Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth.
Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heav'n's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound.
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away;
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb.
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word.
Nor look upon the iron angrily:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub.
Go, stand within; leave me alone with him.

Exec.
I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. [Exeunt.

Arth.
Alas, I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

Hub.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth.
Is there no remedy?

Hub.
None, but to lose your eyes.

Arth.
O heav'n! that there were but a moth in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense:
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub.
Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue—

Arth.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues,
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue: let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!
Though to no use, but still to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub.
I can heat it, boy.

Arth.
No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief;
See else yourself,
The breath of heav'n hath blown its spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on its head.

Hub.
But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

Arth.
And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert.

Hub.
Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye,
For all the treasure that thine uncle owns;
Yet am I sworn; and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth.
O, now you look like Hubert. All this while
You were disguised.

Hub.
Peace: no more. Adieu!
Your uncle must not know but you are dead.
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

Arth.
O heav'n! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub.
Silence, no more; go closely in with me.
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to the Court of England. A Flourish. Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords.

K. John.
Here once again we sit, once again crown'd,
And look'd upon, I hope, with chearful eyes.

Pemb.
This once again, but that your highness pleas'd,
Was once superfluous; you were crown'd before,
And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off:
The faith of men ne'er stained with revolt:
Fresh expectation troubled not the land,
With any long'd-for change, or better state.

Sal.
Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

K. John.
Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possest you with, and think them strong.
Mean time, but ask
What you would have reform'd, that is not well,
And well shall you perceive how willingly,
I will both hear and grant you your requests.

Pemb.
Then I, as one that am the tongue of these,
Do heartily request
Th' infranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint
Doth move the murm'ring lips of discontent,
To break into this dangerous argument;
If what in rest you have, in right you hold,
Why should your fears (which, as they say, attend
The steps of wrong) then move you to mew up
Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days
With barb'rous ignorance, and deny his youth
The rich advantage of good exercise?
That the time's enemies may not have this,
To grace occasions, let it be our suit,
That you have bid us ask his liberty. Enter Hubert.

K. John.
Let it be so; I do commit his youth
To your direction. Hubert, what news with you? [They confer, apart.

Pemb.
This is the man should do the bloody deed:
He shew'd his warrant to a friend of mine.
The image of a wicked heinous fault,
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Does shew the mood of a much troubled breast.

And I do fearfully believe 'tis done,
What we so fear'd he had a charge to do.

Sal.
The colour of the king doth come and go,
Between his purpose and his conscience;
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles sent:
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.

Pemb.
And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence
The foul corruption of a sweet child's death.

K. John.
We cannot hold mortality's strong hand.
Good lords, although my will to give is living,
The suit which you demand is gone, and dead.
He tells us Arthur is deceas'd, to-night.

Sal.
Indeed we fear'd his sickness was past cure.

Pemb.
Indeed, we heard how near his death he was,
Before the child himself felt he was sick.
This must be answer'd, either here, or hence.

K. John.
Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?
Think you I bear the shears of destiny?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

Sal.
It is apparent foul play, and 'tis shame
That greatness should so grosly offer it:
So thrive it in your game, and so farewel!

Pemb.
Stay yet, lord Salisbury; I'll go with thee,
And find th' inheritance of this poor child,
His little kingdom of a forced grave. [Exeunt. Enter a Messenger.

K. John.
They burn in indignation. I repent.
There is no sure foundation set on blood: [Aside.
A fearful eye thou hast; where is that blood, [To the Mes.
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?
So foul a sky clears not without a storm:
Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

Mes.
From France to England never such a power,
For any foreign preparation,
Was levy'd in the body of a land.

K. John.
O where hath our intelligence been drunk?
Where hath it slept? where is my mother's care?
That such an army should be drawn in France,

And she not hear of it?

Mes.
My Liege, her ear
Is stopt with dust: the first of April, dy'd
Your noble mother; and, as I hear, my lord,
The lady Constance in a frenzy dy'd,
Three days before.

K. John.
What, my mother dead?
How wildly then walks my estate in France!
Under whose conduct came those powers of France,
That thou for truth giv'st out are landed here?

Mes.
Under the Dauphin. Enter Faulconbridge.

K. John.
Thou hast made me giddy,
With these ill tidings. Now, what says the world,
To your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff
My head with more ill news, for it is full.

Faulc.
But if you be afraid to hear the worst,
Then let the worst unheard fall on your head.

K. John.
Bear with me, Cousin; for I was amaz'd
Under the tide; but now I breathe again
Aloft the flood, and can give audience
Of any tongue, speak it of what it will.

Faulc.
How I have sped among the clergymen,
The sums I have collected shall express.
But as I travell'd hither thro' the land,
I find the people strangely fantasied;
Possest with rumours, full of idle dreams;
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.

K. John.
O, my gentle cousin,
Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arriv'd?

Faulc.
The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it.
Besides, I met lord Essex and lord Salisbury,
With eyes as red as new enkindled fire,
And others more, going to seek the grave
Of Arthur, who they say is kill'd, to-night,
On your suggestion.

K. John.
Gentle kinsman, go
And thrust thyself into their company:

I have a way to win their loves again:
Bring them before me.

Faulc.
I will seek them out.

K. John.
Nay, but make haste:
Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels;
And fly, like thought, from them to me again.

Faulc.
The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. [Exit. Enter Hubert.

Hub.
My lord, they say, five moons were seen, to-night:
Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about
The other four, in wond'rous motions:

K. John.
Five moons!

* ^note













Hub.
Old men, and beldams, in the streets,
Do prophesy upon it dangerously:
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths;
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist,
While he that hears makes fearful action
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a taylor's news,

Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embatteled and rank'd in Kent.
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cut off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.

K. John.
Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?
Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had a cause
To wish him dead, but thou had'st none to kill him.

Hub.
Had none, my Lord? why, did you not provoke me?

K. John.
It is the curse of Kings, to be attended
By slaves that take their humours for a warrant
To break into the bloody house of life,
And, on the winking of authority,
To understand a law, to know the meaning
Of dang'rous Majesty; when, perchance, it frowns,
More upon humour, than advis'd respect.

Hub.
Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

K. John.
Oh, when the last account 'twixt heav'n and earth,
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal
Witness against us to damnation.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes deeds ill done? for, hadst not thou been by,
A fellow, by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind.
But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death.
And thou, to be endeared to a King,
Mad'st it no conscience to destroy a Prince.

Hub.
My Lord—

K. John.
Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause* ^note,

When I spake darkly what I purposed:
Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,
Or bid me tell my tale in express words;
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again parley with sin;
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,
And consequently thy rude hand to act
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name.—
Out of my sight, and never see me more!
My nobles leave me, and my state is brav'd,
Ev'n at my gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs:
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns,
Between my conscience and my cousin's death.

Hub.
Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace between your soul and you.
This hand of mine
Is yet a maiden, and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
And you have slander'd nature in my form;
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
Young Arthur is alive.

K. John.
Doth Arthur live? Oh, haste thee to the Peers,
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience.
Forgive the comment that my passion made,
Upon thy feature, for my rage was blind;
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
Oh, answer not, but to my closet bring
The angry lords with all expedient haste. [Exeunt.

Scene SCENE, A Street before a Prison. Enter Arthur on the Walls, disguis'd.

Arthur.
The wall is high, and yet will I leap down.
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not!
There's few or none do know me: if they did,
This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite.
I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it.
If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:
As good to die, and go; as die, and stay. [Leaps down.
Oh me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:
Heav'n take my soul, and England keep my bones! [Dies. Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Essex.

Sal.
Lords, I will meet him at St. Edmondsbur
It is our safety; and we must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pemb.
Who brought that letter from the cardinal?

Sal.
Chatillion, a noble lord of France,
Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love,
Is much more gen'ral than these lines import.

Essex.
To-morrow morning let us meet him, then.

Sal.
Or rather then set forward, for 'twill be
Two long days journey, lords, or ere we meet. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords;
The King by me requests your presence strait.

Sal.
The King hath dispossest himself of us;
We will not attend the foot,
That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks.
Return, and tell him so: we know the worst.

Faulc.
Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.

Sal.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

Faulc.
But there is little reason in your grief,
Therefore 'twere reason, you had manners now.

Pemb.
Sir, Sir, impatience hath its privilege.

Faulc.
'Tis true, to hurt its master, no man else.

Sal.
This is the prison: what is he lies here? [Seeing Arthur.

Pemb.
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

Sal.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open, to urge on revenge.

Essex.
Or, when he doom'd this beauty to the grave,
Found it too precious princely for a grave.

Sal.
'Tis the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder's arms; this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savag'ry, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage,
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

Pemb.
All murders past do stand excus'd in this;
And this so sole, and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,
To the yet unbegotten sins of time;
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

Faulc.
It is a damned and a bloody work,
The graceless action of a heavy hand:
If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal.
If that it be the work of any hand?
We had a kind of light what would ensue.
It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand,
The practice and the purpose of the King:
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,
And breathing to this breathless excellence,
The incense of a vow, a holy vow!
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
Till I have set a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.

Pemb. Essex.
Our souls religiously confirm thy words. Enter Hubert.

Hub.
Lords, I am hot with haste, in seeking you:
Arthur doth live, the king hath sent for you.

Sal.
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hub.
I am no villain.

Sal.
Must I rob the law? [Drawing his Sword.

Faulc.
Your sword is bright, Sir; put it up again.

Sal.
Not till I sheath it in a murd'rer's skin.

Hub.
Put up, lord Salisbury, put up, I say;
By heav'n, I think, my sword's as sharp as yours.
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

Essex.
Out, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a Nobleman?

Hub.
Not for my life: but yet I dare defend
My innocent life against an Emperor.

Sal.
Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub.
Do not prove me so;
Yet, I am none. Whose tongue soe'er speaks false,
Not truly speaks: who speaks not truly, lies.

Pemb.
Cut him to pieces.

Faulc.
Keep the peace, I say.

Sal.
Stand by, or I shall gaul you, Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Thou were better gaul the devil, Salisbury.
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime,
Or I'll so maul you, and your toasting iron,
That you shall think the devil is come from hell.

Essex.
What will you do, renowned Faulconbridge?
Second a villain, and a murderer?

Hub.
Lord Essex, I am none.

Essex.
Who kill'd this Prince?

Hub.
'Tis not an hour since I left him well:
I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep
My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss.

Sal.
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without such rheum;
Away with me all you whose souls abhor
Th' uncleanly savour of a slaughter-house,
For I am stifled with the smell of sin.

Essex.
Away tow'rd Bury, to the Dauphin there.

Pemb.
There, tell the king, he may enquire us out. [Exeunt Lords.

Faulc.
Here's a good world! knew you of this fair work?

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach
Of mercy, (if thou didst this deed of death)
Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

Hub.
Do but hear me, Sir.

Faulc.
Ha? I'll tell thee what,
Thou'rt damn'd so black—nay, nothing is so black;
Thou art more deep damn'd than prince Lucifer:
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell,
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

Hub.
Upon my soul—

Faulc.
If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb,
Will strangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or would'st thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.
I do suspect thee, very grievously.

Hub.
If I, in act, consent, or sin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.

Faulc.
Go, bear him in thine arms.
I am amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way,
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
Now pow'rs from home, and discontents at home,
Meet in one line: and vast confusion waits
(As doth a raven on a sick-fall'n beast)
The imminent decay of wrested pomp.
Now happy he, whose cloak and cincture can
Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child,
And follow me with speed; I'll to the King;
A thousand businesses are brief at hand,
And heav'n itself doth frown upon the land. [Exeunt* ^note.

ACT V. Scene SCENE, the Court of England. Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants.

K. John.
Thus I have yielded up into your hand
The circle of my Glory. [Giving the Crown.

Pand.
Take again,
From this my hand, as holding of the Pope,
Your sovereign greatness and authority.

K. John.
Now keep your holy word; go meet the French,
And from his Holiness use all your power,
To stop their marches.

Pand.
It was my breath that blew the tempest up,
Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope:
But, since you are a gentle convertite,
My tongue shall hush again this storm of war;
And make fair weather in your blust'ring land. [Exit. * ^noteEnter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
All Kent hath yielded, nothing there holds out,
But Dover-Castle: London hath receiv'd,
Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers.
Your Nobles will not hear you, but are gone
To offer service to your enemy;
And wild amazement hurries up and down
The little number of your doubtful friends.

K. John.
Would not my lords return to me again
After they heard young Arthur was alive?

Faulc.
They found him dead, and cast into the streets,

An empty casket, where the jewel, life,
By some damn'd hand was robb'd and ta'en away.

K. John.
That villain Hubert told me he did live.

Faulc.
So on my soul he did, for aught he knew:
But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?
Be great in act, as you have been in thought:
Let not the world see fear and sad distrust
Govern the motion of a kingly eye:
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;
Threaten the threatner, and out-face the brow
Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,
That borrow their behaviours from the Great,
Grow great by your example;
Away, and glister like the God of war,
When he intendeth to become the field:
What, shall they seek the lion in his den,* ^note
And fright him there? and make him tremble there?
Oh, let it not be said! Forage, and run
To meet displeasure farther from the doors;
And grapple with him ere he come so nigh.

K. John.
The Legate of the Pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him;
And he hath promis'd to dismiss the Powers
Led by the Dauphin.

Faulc.
Oh inglorious league!
Shall we, upon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play-orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce,
To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,
A cocker'd silken wanton, brave our fields,
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with colours idly spread,
And find no check? Let us, my Liege, to arms:
Perchance the Cardinal can't make your peace;
Or if he do, let it at least be said,
They saw we had a purpose of defence.

K. John.
Have thou the ord'ring of this present time.

Faulc.
Away then, with good courage; yet, I know,
Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to the Dauphin's Camp, at St. Edmondsbury. Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Chatillion, Pembroke, Essex, and Soldiers.

Lewis.
My lord Chatillion, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance:
Return the precedent to these lords again,
That, having our fair order written down,
Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes,
May know wherefore we took the Sacrament;
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Sal.
Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
Yet believe me, Prince, Oh, it grieves my soul,
That I must draw this metal from my side,
To be a widow-maker:* ^note

But such is the infection of the time,
That, for the health and physick of our right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice—I must withdraw, and weep
Upon the spot of this enforced cause.

Lewis.
A noble temper dost thou shew in this;
And great affection, wrestling in thy bosom,
Doth make an earthquake of Nobility.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm.
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep
Into the purse of rich prosperity,
As Lewis himself; so, Nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. Enter Pandulph.
Look, where the holy Legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of Heav'n,
And on our actions set the name of right,
With holy breath.

Pand.
Hail, noble Prince of France!
The next is this: King John hath reconcil'd
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,
That so stood out against the holy Church,
The great Metropolis and See of Rome.
Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war;
That, like a lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace,
And be no further harmful than in shew.

Lewis.
Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not back
I am too high-born to be propertied,
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of war,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire.
And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out,
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with int'rest to this land:
Yea, thrust this enterprize into my heart:
And come ye now, to tell me John hath made
His peace with Rome? what is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine:
And now it is half conquer'd, must I back,
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I Rome's slave?
No, on my soul, it never shall be said.

Pand.
You look but on the outside of this work.

Lewis.
I care not, I will not return. [Trumpet sounds. A Call.
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience: I am sent to speak,
My holy lord of Milan, from the King:
I come to learn how you have dealt for him:
And as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.

Pand.
The Dauphin is too wilful opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties:
He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.

Faulc.
By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
The youth says well. Now hear our English King;
For thus his Royalty doth speak in me* ^note:
He is prepar'd; and reason too, he should.
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd mask, and unadvised revel,
This unhair'd sawciness and boyish troops,
The King doth smile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.
That hand which had the strength, ev'n at your door,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No; know the gallant Monarch is in arms;
And like an Eagle o'er his aiery tow'rs,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.
And you degen'rate, you ingrate revolts,

You bloody Nero's, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame.

Lewis.
We grant, thou canst out-scold us; fare thee well;
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a babler.

Pand.
Give me leave to speak.

Faulc.
No, I will speak.

Lewis.
We will attend to neither:
Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war
Plead for our int'rest, and our being here.

Faulc.
Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten; do but start
And echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And ev'n at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverb'rate all as loud as thine.
Sound but another, and another shall
As loud as thine rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder. For at hand
(Not trusting to this halting Legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd Death; whose office is, this day,
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lewis.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

Faulc.
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to a Field of Battle. Alarms. Enter King John and Hubert.

K. John.
How goes the day with us? oh, tell me, Hubert.

Hub.
Badly, I fear: how fares your Majesty?

K. John.
This fever, that hath troubled me so long,
Lyes heavy on me; oh, my heart is sick! Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
My lord, your valiant kinsman Faulconbridge
Desires your Majesty to leave the field;
And send him word by me which way you go.

K. John.
Tell him, tow'rd Swinstead, to the Abbey there.

Mes.
Be of good comfort: for the great supply
That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wreck'd, three nights ago, on Goodwin sands.
This news was brought to Richard but ev'n now;
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John.
Ah me! this tyrant fever burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on tow'rd Swinstead; to my litter strait;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to the French Camp. Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot.

Sal.
I did not think the King so stor'd with friends.

Pemb.
Up once again; put spirit in the French:
If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

Sal.
That mis-begotten devil Faulconbridge,
In spight of spight, alone upholds the day.

Pemb.
They say, King John, sore sick, hath left the field. Enter Chatillion wounded, and led by two Soldiers.

Chat.
Lead me to the revolts of England here.

Pemb.
It is the Count Chatillion.

Chat.
Fly, noble English, ye are bought and sold;
Untread the rude way of rebellion,
And welcome home again discarded faith.
Seek out King John, and fall before his feet:
For if the French be lords of this loud day,
He means to recompence the pains you take,
By cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at St. Edmondsbury;
Ev'n on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

Sal.
May this be possible! may this be true!

Chat.
Have I not hideous death within my view?
Retaining but a quantity of life,
Which bleeds away, ev'n as a form of wax
Resolveth from its figure 'gainst the fire?
What in the world should make me now deceive,
Since I must lose the use of all deceit?
I say again, if Lewis win the day,

He is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day-break in the east.
But ev'n this night,
Ev'n this ill night, your breathing shall expire.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your King:
The love of him, and this respect besides,
(For that my grandsire was an Englishman)
Awakes my conscience to confess all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence,
From forth the noise and rumour of the field:
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts,
In peace; and part this body and my soul,
With contemplation, and devout desires.

Sal.
We do believe thee; and beshrew my soul,
But I do love the favour and the form
Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damned flight;
And, like a bated and retired flood,
Calmly run on in due obedience,
Ev'n to our ocean, to our great King John.
My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence:
For I do see the cruel pangs of death,
Right in thine eye. Away, my friends. [Exeunt, leading off Chatilion. Scene SCENE, an open Place, in the Neighbourhood of Swinstead Abbey. Enter Faulconbridge, and Hubert, severally.* ^note

Hub.
Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly.

Faulc.
A friend. What art thou?

Hub.
Of the part of England.

Faulc.
Hubert, I think.

Hub.
Brave soldier, pardon me,
That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,
Should 'scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Faulc.
Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?

Hub.
O my sweet Sir, news fitting to the night;
Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

Faulc.
Shew me the very wound of this ill news:
I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.

Hub.
The King, I fear, is poison'd by a Monk:
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
T' acquaint you with this evil.

Faulc.
How did he take it? who did taste to him?

Hub.
A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,
Whose bowels suddenly burst out; the King
Yet speaks; and peradventure may recover.

Faulc.
Who didst thou leave to tend his Majesty?

Hub.
Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,
And brought Prince Henry in their company;
At whose request the King hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his Majesty.

Faulc.
With-hold thine indignation, mighty heav'n!
And tempt us not to bear above our power.
Away, before: conduct me to the King;
I doubt, he will be dead, or ere I come. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to the Orchard in Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury and Essex.

Henry.
It is too late; the life of all his blood,
Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain,
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretel the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke.

Pemb.
His Highness yet doth speak, and holds belief,
That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

Henry.
Let him be brought into the orchard here.
Doth he still rage?

Pemb.
He is more patient,
Than when you left him; even now he sung.

King John brought in.

K. John.
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room* ^note;
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

Henry.
How fares your Majesty?

K. John.
Poison'd, ill fare! dead, forsook, cast off;
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom: nor intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold. I ask not much:
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ungrateful, you deny me that.

Henry.
Oh, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!

K. John.
The salt of them is hot.
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Oh! I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your Majesty.

K. John.
Oh! cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crackt and burnt;
And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be utter'd;
And then all this thou seest, is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.

Faulc.
The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where, heav'n he knows, how we shall answer him.

For, in a night, the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The King dies.

Sal.
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear;
My Liege! my Lord!—but now a King—now thus!

Faulc.
Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind,
To do the office for thee of revenge:
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heav'n,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.

Henry.
At Worcester must his body be interr'd,
For so he will'd it.

Faulc.
Thither shall it then.
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land!
To whom, with all submission on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services,
And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal.
And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore.

Henry.
I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks,
And knows not how to do it, but with tears.

Faulc.
Oh, let us pay the time but needful woe.
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lye at the proud foot of a Conqueror.
Now these her Princes are come home again,* ^note
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them!—Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeunt omnes.† ^note The End of King John.

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