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.

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