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

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