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.

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