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 splendour of his precious Eye
The meager cloddy Earth to glittering Gold:
The yearly course that brings this Day about,
Shall never see it, but a Holy-day.

Const.
A wicked Day, and not a holy Day.
What hath 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.
Or if it must stand still, let Wives with Child
Pray that their Burthens may not fall this Day,
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be crost:
But, on this Day, let Seamen fear no Wrack,
No Bargains break that are not this Day made;
This Day all things begun, come to ill End,
Yea, Faith it self, to hollow Falshood change.

K. Philip.
By Heav'n 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 being 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, you Heav'ns, against these perjur'd Kings,
A Widow cries, be Husband to me, Heav'ns,
Let not the Hours of this ungodly Day

Wear out the Days in Peace; but e'er 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 dost never fight
But when her humorous Ladyship is by
To teach thee safety; thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up Greatness. What a Fool art thou,
A ramping Fool, to brag, to stamp, and swear,
Upon my Party; 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'st a Lion's Hide? Doff it for shame,
And hang a Calves-skin on those recreant Limbs.

Aust.
O that a Man should speak those words to me.

Bast.
And hang a Calves-skin on those recreant Limbs.

Aust.
Thou dar'st not say so, Villain, for thy Life.

Bast.
And hang a Calves-skin on those recreant Limbs.

K. John.
We like not this, thou dost forget thy self. Enter Pandulph.

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

Pand.
Hail, you anointed Deputies of Heav'n;
To thee, King John, my holy Errand is:
I Pandulph of fair Milain Cardinal,
And from Pope Innocent the Legate here,
Do in his Name religiously demand
Why thou against the Church, our holy Mother,
So wilfully dost 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 earthy Name to Interrogatories
Can taste 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 Heav'n, are supream 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 Reverence set apart
To him and his usurp'd Authority.

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

K. John.
Though you, and all the Kings of Christendom
Are led so grosly by this medling Priest,
Dreading the Curse that Mony 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:
Though you, and all the rest so grosly led,
This jugling 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 worshipp'd as a Saint,
That takes away by any secret Course
Thy hateful Life.

Const.
O lawful let it be
That I have room 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.
There's Law and Warrant, Lady, for my Curse.

Const.
And for mine too, when Law can do no right.
Let it be lawful, that Law bar no wrong:
Law cannot give my Child his Kingdom here;
For he that holds his Kingdom, holds the Law;

Therefore since Law it self is perfect wrong,
How can the Law forbid my Tongue to curse?

Pand.
Philip of France, on peril of a Curse,
Let go the Hand of that Arch-heretick,
And raise the Power of France upon his Head,
Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Eli.
Look'st thou pale, France? Do not let go thy Hand.

Const.
Look to that Devil, lest that France repent,
And by disjoining Hands Hell lose a Soul.

Aust.
King Philip, listen to the Cardinal.

Bast.
And hang a Calves-skin on his recreant Limbs.

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

Bast.
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?

Lewis.
Bethink you Father, for the difference
Is purchase of a heavy Curse from Rome,
Or the light loss of England for a Friend:
Forgo the easier.

Blanch.
That is the Curse of Rome.

Const.
O Lewis, stand fast, the Devil tempts thee here
In likeness of a new untrimmed Bride.

Blanch.
The Lady Constance speaks not from her Faith:
But from her Need.

Const.
Oh, if thou grant my Need,
Which only lives but by the Death of Faith,
That Need, must needs infer this Principle,
That Faith would live again by Death of Need:
O then tread down my Need, and Faith mounts up:
Keep my Need up, and Faith is trodden down.

K. John.
The King is mov'd, and answers not to this.

Const.
O be remov'd from him, and answer well:

Aust.
Do so, King Philip, hang no more in doubt.

Bast.
Hang nothing but a Calves-skin, most sweet Lout.

K. Philip.
I am perplext, and know not what to say.

Pand.
What canst thou say, but will perplex thee more,
If thou stand Excommunicate, and Curst?

K. Philip.
Good reverend Father, make my Person yours,
And tell me how you would bestow your self?
This Royal Hand and mine are newly knit,

And the Conjunction of our inward Souls
Marry'd in League, coupled and link'd together
With all religious Strength of sacred Vows:
The latest Breath, that gave the sound of words,
Was deep sworn Faith, Peace, Amity, true Love
Between our Kingdoms and our Royal selves,
And even before this Truce, but new before,
No longer than we well could wash our Hands,
To clap this Royal Bargain up in Peace,
Heav'n knows they were besmear'd and over stain'd
With Slaughter's Pencil; where Revenge did paint
The fearful difference of incensed Kings:
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 our selves,
As now again to snatch our Palm from Plam?
Un-swear Faith sworn, and on the Marriage-bed
Of smiling Peace to march a bloody Hoast,
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 then 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 cased Lion by the mortal Paw,
A fasting Tyger safer by the Tooth,
Than keep in Peace that Hand which thou dost hold.

K. Philip.
I may dis-join my Hand, but not my Faith.

Pand.
So mak'st thou Faith an Enemy to Faith,
And like a Civil War set'st Oath to Oath,
Thy Tongue against thy Tongue. 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.

What since thou swor'st, is sworn against thy self,
And may not be performed by thy self;
For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss,
Is not amiss when it is truly done:
And being not done, where doing tends to ill,
The truth is then most done, not doing it:
The better Act of Purposes mistook,
Is to mistake again, though indirect,
Yet indirection thereby grows direct,
And Falshood, Falshood cures, as Fire cools Fire
Within the scorching Veins of one new burn'd.
It is Religion that doth make Vows kept,
But thou hast sworn against Religion:
By what thou swear'st, against the thing thou swear'st:
And mak'st an Oath the surety for thy Truth:
Against an Oath the Truth, thou art unsure
To swear, swears, only not to be forsworn;
Else what a Mockery should it be to swear?
But thou dost swear, only to be forsworn,
And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear;
Therefore thy latter Vows, against thy first,
Is in thy self Rebellion to thy self:
And better Conquest never canst thou make,
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler Parts
Against these giddy loose Suggestions:
Upon which better Part, our Pray'rs come in
If thou vouchsafe them. 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.

Bast.
Will't not be?
Will not a Calves-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: Ay, alack, how new
Is Husband in my Mouth? Even for that Name

Which 'till this time my Tongue did ne'er pronounce;
Upon my Knee I beg, go not to Arms
Against mine Uncle.

Const.
O, upon my Knee, made hard with kneeling,
I do pray to thee, thou virtuous Dauphin,
Alter not the Doom fore-thought 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 will fall from thee.

Const.
O fair return of banish'd Majesty.

Eli.
O foul revolt of French Inconstancy.

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

Bast.
Old Time the Clock-Setter, that bald Sexton, Time,
Is it as he will? Well then, France shall rue.

Blanch.
The Sun's o'ercast with Blood: Fair Day adieu.
Which is the side that I must go withal?
I am with both, each Army hath a Hand,
And in their Rage, I having hold of both,
They whurle asunder, and dismember me.
Husband, I cannot pray that thou may'st win:
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou may'st lose:
Father, I may not wish the Fortune thine:
Grandam, I will not wish thy Wishes thrive:
Who ever wins, on that side shall I lose:
Assured loss, before the match be plaid.

Lewis.
Lady, with me, with me thy Fortune lyes.

Blanch.
There where my Fortune lives, there my Life dies.

K. John.
Cousin, go draw our Puissance together.
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 valu'd Blood of France.

K. Philip.
Thy Rage shall burn thee up, and thou shall turn
To Ashes, e'er our Blood shall quench that Fire:
Look to thy self, thou art in jeopardy.

K. John.
No more than he that threats. To Arms let's hie. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. Alarms, Excursions: Enter Bastard with Austria's Head.

Bast.
Now by my Life, this Day grows wondrous hot,
Some aiery Devil hovers in the Sky,
And pours down mischief. Austria's Head lye there, Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert.
While Philip breathes.

K. John.
Hubert, keep this Boy. Philip, make up;
My Mother is assailed in our Tent,
And ta'en, I fear.

Bast.
My Lord, I rescued 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. Enter King John, Elinor, Arthur, Bastard, Hubert, and Lords.

K. John.
So shall it be; your Grace shall stay behind
So strongly guarded: Cousin, look not sad,
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,
And e'er our coming see thou shake the Bags
Of hoarding Abbots, imprisoned Angels
Set at liberty: The fat ribs of Peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon:
Use our Commission in its utmost force.

Bast.
Bell, Book, and Candle, shall not drive me back,
When Gold and Silver becks 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, gentle Cousin.

K. John.
Coz, farewel.

Eli.
Come hither little Kinsman, hark, a word.

K. John.
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 tune.
By Heav'n, Hubert, I am 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,
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 Pleasure 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 on into the drowsie Race of Night;
If this same were a Church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand Wrongs;
Or if that surly Spirit, Melancholy,
Had bak'd thy Blood, and made it heavy, thick,
Which else runs trickling 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 couldst 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 brooded 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,
Though that my Death were adjunct to my Act,
By Heav'n I would do it.

K. John.
Do not I know thou wouldst?
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 lyes 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.
I'll send those Powers o'er to your Majesty.

Eli.
My Blessing go with thee.

K. John.
For England, Cousin, go.
Hubert shall be your Man, to attend on you
With all true Duty; on toward Callice, hoa. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulpho, and Attendants.

K. Philip.
So by a roaring Tempest on the Flood,
A whole Armado of convicted 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 Prisoner? Divers dear Friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'er-bearing Interruption, spight of France?

Lewis.
What he hath won, that hath he fortify'd:
So hot a Speed, with such Advice dispos'd,
Such temperate 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 against her Will,

In the vile Prison of afflicted Breath;
I prithee, 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 defie all Counsel, all Redress,
But that which ends all Counsel, true Redress;
Death, Death, oh amiable, lovely Death,
Thou odoriferous Stench; sound Rottenness,
Arise forth from the 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 ring these Fingers with thy houshould Worms,
And stop this Gap of Breath with fulsom Dust,
And be a Carrion Monster like thy self.
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy Wife; Miseries 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 a Passion I would shake the World,
And rouze from Sleep that fell Anatomy,
Which cannot hear a Lady's feeble Voice,
Which scorns a modern Invocation.

Pand.
Lady, you utter Madness, and not Sorrow.

Const.
Thou art not holy to belye 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 Heav'n I were,
For then 'tis like I should forget my self.
O, if I could, what Grief should I forget!
Preach some Philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of Grief,
My reasonable Part produces Reason
How I may be deliver'd of these Woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang my self.
If I were mad, I should forget my Son,
Or madly think a Babe of Clouts were he:

I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different Plague of each Calamity.

K. Philip.
Bind up those Tresses; O what Love I note
In the fair multitude of those her Hairs;
Where but by chance a silver Drop hath fall'n,
Even to that Drop ten thousand wiery Fiends
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.

Const.
Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their Bonds, and cry'd aloud,
O, that these Hands could so redeem my Son,
As they have given these Hairs their Liberty;
But now I envy at their Liberty,
And will again commit them to their Bonds,
Because my poor Child is a Prisoner.
And Father Cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our Friends in Heav'n;
If that be true, 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 meager as an Agues 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 hainous 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;
Stuffs out his vacant Garments with his Form,
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,
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 Sorrows 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 drowsie Man;
And bitter Shame hath spoil'd the sweet Words taste,
That it yields nought but Shame and Bitterness.

Pand.
Before the curing of a strong Disease,
Even in the Instant of repair and health,
The Fit is strongest: Evils that take Leave,
On their Departure, most of all shew evil.
What have you lost by losing of this Day?

Lewis.
All Days of Glory, Joy, and Happiness.

Pand.
If you had won it, certainly you had.
No, no; when Fortune means to Men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatning Eye.
'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost
In this, which he accounts so clearly won.
Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his Prisoner?

Lewis.
As heartily as he is g ad he hath him.

Pand.
Your Mind is all as youthful as your Blood.
Now hear me speak with a prophetick Spirit;
For even 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.
A Scepter snatch'd with an unruly Hand,
Must be as boyst'rously maintain'd as gain'd.
And he that stands upon a slippery Place,
Makes nice of no vile Hold to stay him up.

That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall,
So be it, for it cannot be but so.

Lewis.
But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?

Pand.
You, in the right of Lady Blanch your Wife,
May then make all the Claim that Arthur did.

Lewis.
And lose it, Life and all, as Arthur did.

Pand.
How green you are, and fresh in this old World?
John lays you Plots; the Times conspire with you;
For he that steeps his Safety in true Blood,
Shall find but bloody Safety and untrue.
This Act so evilly born shall cool the Hearts
Of all his People, and freeze up their Zeal,
That none so small Advantage shall step forth
To check his Reign, but they will cherish it.
No natural exhalation in the Sky,
No Scope of Nature, no distemper'd Day,
No common Wind, no customed Event,
But they will pluck away his natural Cause,
And call them Meteors, Prodigies, and Signs,
Abortives, Presages, and Tongues of Heav'n,
Plainly denouncing Vengeance upon John.

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,
Even at this News he dies; and then the Hearts
Of all his People shall revolt from him,
And kiss the Lips of unacquainted Change,
And pick strong Matter of Revolt. and Wrath,
Out of the bloody Fingers Ends of John.
Methinks I see this Hurley all on foot;
And O, what better matter breeds for you,
Than I have nam'd. The Bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ransacking the Church,
Offending Charity. If but a dozen French
Were there in Arms, they would be as a Call
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little Snow, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a Mountain. O noble Dauphin,
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.

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