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,
-- 61 --
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.
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
