K. John.
This strict Observance of my Orders, Hubert,
Commends thee to a better Charge: Men of
Such Vigilance are scarce, and should be cherish'd.

Hub.
The Trouble you have taken to convince your Eyes,
Coming in Person to observe my Care;
As it has made me proud to have been prov'd;
So shews it, Sir, how near this Boy concerns you!
And therefore shall it mend my Vigilance.

K. John.
Think not a Doubt of thee has brought me hither!
I came, my Hubert, to assist thy Care!
T'inform—instruct thee—to explain my Orders!
Nay to conceal them from the World beside;
For not within my Realms know I a Soul,
Whose friendly Bosom I would sooner make
The Casket of my secret Deeds, than Hubert.

Hub.
I hope, Sir, you have many more as faithful!
Yet this I know! had I a Secret here,

Unfit for other Knowledge than your own;
If Force or Torture would insist to know it, this
Within my Heart should hide it from the World. [Shews a Dagger.

K. John.
Hubert, thy Hand, thou art thy Master's Master!
There's scarce a Joy or Sorrow in my Soul,
But longs to find its Fellowship in thee!
I had a Thing to say—I know thou'rt secret:
Yet 'tis of such a Nature—now I dare not!
The Sun is in the Heav'ns! and his gay Beams,
Exciting Mirth and Pleasure through the World,
Are all too wanton and too full of Gauds
To give me Audience—No, Hubert, the Time
For Speech like mine—were when the midnight Bell,
With Sound of iron Tongue, proclaim'd the dead
And drousy Truce of worldly Cares and Labour!
The Place—some dark Church-yard or Charnel-house,
Where Tombs, or Bones, and Sculls, might only catch
My Words! There could I meet thee, swoll'n with Wrongs,
When that thy surly Spirit Melancholy
Had bak'd thy Blood, and made it heavy, stagnate!
Which else runs trickling up and down the Veins,
Making that Idiot Laughter fill Mens Eyes,
Straining their Cheeks to idle Merriment,
A Passion hateful to my Purposes.

Hub.
Have you a Purpose, Sir, more fell than Death?
To give, or to receive it, frights not Hubert;
Why then this Pause, this Diffidence of Soul?

K. John.
O! Hubert! could'st thou without Eyes behold me;
Hear without Ears, or make without a Tongue
Reply, using Conceit alone, to sound my Wishes;
Then, in the Face of this broad beaming Day,
Would I into thy Bosom pour my Thoughts,
With the same Confidence my Brain conceives them:
But to a Man like thee, whose Sense compleat
Might weigh against his Deeds their Consequence,
I dare not, Hubert, O, I dare not hint them.

Hub.
Then, Sir, to ease your Heart, I will be plain;
I guess the Secret that distresses you:
Fear not to trust me, Sir, I'll do the Deed.

K. John.
Thou flatter'st me—

Hub.
—I'll serve you, Sir, but yet—

K. John.
What yet? hast thou a Doubt of me?

Hub.
—I've none.
Howe'er, because 'tis possible I may
Mistake your full Intentions, you too must
Be plain, and trust me with each Circumstance:
And, Sir, to shew you how secure you are,
There's my Dagger; if, when you name the Deed,
You find me change, or shew Confusion in
My Looks, or start in my Reply a Doubt,
Or Scruple, to alarm your Jealousy,
Then, from my craven Heart, rip out your Trust!
When you have kill'd me, you resume the Secret.

K. John.
Do I not know thee faithful?—Keep thy Dagger,
It may be useful—

Hub.
—Where?

K. John.
—Must I then speak it?

Hub.
Or how shall I be sure that I obey you?

K. John.
And yet, methinks, in Darkness I could better—
This Light offends—Shut forth the Sun and hear me! [Hubert darkens the Windows.

K. John.
So,—so,—this Gloom befits our Purpose—

Hub.
—Now, Sir,

K. John.
O! Hubert! Hubert! Arthur—is alive!

Hub.
There lies your Grief, and you would have him—

K. John.
—Dead!
He is a very Serpent in my Way!
A Pain to see, and Danger to my Steps!
If thou'rt my Friend,—remove him.

Hub.
—When?

K. John.
This Night.—

Hub.
—By Death.—

K. John.
—A Grave.—

Hub.
—He shall not live.

K. John.
Enough, my Fears are hush'd! and now with Joy,
I can embrace thee. O, think! think, my Friend!
Howe'er I've worn my Crown—Thy Hand alone
Can make it easy on my Brow—This Night
To England set we forward—When 'tis done,

Bring thou the News—There full Reward shall wait thee. [Exit King John.

Hub.
Now to my Office, let me think upon't,
As to the Time—the Place—the Means—why not
This very Hour? There, where he is—by this! [Drawing his Dagger.
Yet hold—to see the Dagger ere he feels
The Blow; his Screams may give Alarm without;
That—that we must avoid—unseen prevents it.
Perhaps he sleeps—then, without Noise, we end him.
Steal on him softly, and observe—he prays!
The fitter for his Fate—a second Thought
Determines to my Wish—suppose, when dead,
Some Proof were left that he destroy'd himself;
The Means, kept secret, will be half the Merit:
That crowns the Work; by this his Beads are counted—
List—no—he's praying still—ha—what is't I hear!
Distraction to my Sense!—he prays for me!
For Hubert! who has made his Chains sit easy,
And thanks high Heav'n he has so kind a Keeper.
What means this damp Reluctance on my Brow?
These trembling Nerves, this Ague in my Blood?
Is Death more cruel from a private Dagger,
Than, in the Field, from murd'ring Swords of thousands?
Or does the Number slain make Slaughter glorious?
Why then is Conscience more restrain'd in me,
Than in a crown'd Ambition? Conscience there can sleep
Secure by Custom and Impunity:
Shall Custom, then, excuse the Crimes of Pow'r,
And shall the Brave be baffled by a Shadow?
Let sickly Conscience shake the vulgar Soul,
That Brute-like plods the beaten Paths of Life,
Without Reflexion on its Slavery—no,
Be Hubert's Actions, like his Thinking, free. Enter Arthur.
He's here: Young Prince, I have to talk with thee.

Arth.
O! Hubert, I'm glad thou art return'd;
Thou told'st me thou would'st move my Uncle for
My Liberty, and hast thou seen him? ha!

What means that thoughtful Brow? those folded Arms?
And why this Noon-tide Gloom? this doleful Shade?
Art thou not well? I prithee tell me, Hubert;
Or has my Uncle's Answer made thee sad?
For me bad News is better than Suspense.

Hub.
Be satisfy'd—for thou must die a Prisoner.

Arth.
A Prisoner! Tedious Life! O, cruel Uncle!
Is there no Hope, dear Hubert? must I pine
Away my Days within these lonesome Walls?
For Life a Prisoner, said'st thou?—

Hub.
—Only Death
Can end thy Miseries—

Arth.
—Then Death were welcome!

Hub.
I take thee at thy Word. This Dagger shall
Release thee.—

Arth.
—Ha! Why dost thou fright me, Hubert?

Hub.
Thy Fate is in my Hand; raise not thy Voice
On Pain of lingring Wounds. Now, then observe me:
Those golden Tablets I have seen thee use,
Without Delay produce them, quick—

Arth.
—Here! here!
O! Hubert, I have a Diamond on my Finger too,
Take that: Within I've other Gems of Value;
My little Pray'r-book is with precious Stones
Beset, and clasp'd with Gold; I'll yield thee all.
Nay, more, my wretched Mother (give me Time
To write) I know will starve her State to save me!
Let me but live, though here in Misery;
And, Hubert, I will find the Means to make
Thy Life one live-long Age of Happiness.

Hub.
Think'st thou I came to rob thee of thy Toys?

Arth.
It is not Robbery: Why so harsh a Name?
It is thy Right, good Hubert; am I not
Thy Captive, fairly taken in the Field?
Therefore whate'er was mine, by the known Laws
Of War, is duly thine by glorious Claim,
Thy Right and Purchase of superior Valour.

Hub.
I let him talk too much: I must be speedy— [Apart.
Down foolish Qualm; here, write as I shall dictate.

Arth.
Most willingly. O! any Thing t'appease thee.

Hub.
For secret Reasons we must make thy Death
Seem to the World thy voluntary Choice—
Nay no Reluctance, do it.—

Arth.
—Cruel Hubert!
Must I do more than die? O! Mercy! Mercy!

Hub.
Suppress thy Voice, or thou art Days in dying.

Arth.
I will; O, spare me, Hubert, but a Moment!
But while I call once more on Heav'n! indeed,
I'll not be loud! alas! I need not, there
The softest supplicating Sigh is heard to Heav'n.

Hub.
First, as I bid thee, write; then shalt thou pray.

Arth.
What would thy Rage enjoin me?

Hub.
—Write me thus:
“From an injurious World and doleful Prison,
“By my own Hand this Dagger set me free.”
Write.

Arth.
—O! Hubert, kill not my Soul, nor let
Me send, in Death, a Falshood up to Heav'n!

Hub.
Write, or thou dy'st before a Pray'r can 'scape thee.

Arth.
Should I write this, what Pray'r could wash away
The Sin? No, Hubert, no, if I must die,
I dare not taint my Innocence; and since
Thy Heart has none—may Heav'n have Mercy on me! [Drops the Tablets.

Hub.
Wilt thou provoke my Rage?

Arth.
—How can I help it!
If I refuse to write, I can at worst but die,
And should I write next Moment thou wilt kill me.
Was it for this I sent my Pray'rs for Hubert!

Hub.
—Ha!

Arth.
This very Hour I pray'd. O! if an Angel
Should have dropp'd from Heav'n t' have told me this,
So well I thought of Hubert, O! I could not,
Could not have believ'd him!— [Hubert, after some Pause of Confusion, throws down the Dagger.

Hub.
I cannot bear this Innocence!—

Arth.
—O Heaven!
My Prayer is heard, Hubert is what he was.
In his relenting Eyes his Virtue lives,
And, like my Guardian Angel, wakes me from

This Dream of Death.—

Hub.
—Short-sighted Wretch
To think such Cruelty was practicable! [To himself.
O! raise thee from the Earth, poor injur'd Prince!
Thy Youth, thy Innocence, thy blooming Virtue,
Have conquer'd and redeem'd my Soul from Ruin!

Arth.
Now thou hast taught my Eyes to weep for thee!
O Hubert! wilt thou spare me? shall I live?

Hub.
Not all thy Uncle's Treasure, nor his Honours
Shall tempt me to thy Harm! O Sleep secure!
Hence to some Fort in England will I bear thee:
There shall a short Concealment be thy Guard,
Till Fate and kinder Seasons may relieve thee.

Arth.
O might I once behold the Fields of England,
Tho' from a Prison-Tower, the Prospect would delight me.

Hub.
This Night shall speed us in our Voyage—Ha!
What knocking!

Arth.
—How I tremble!

Hub.
—Be compos'd.
Some Officer with notice from the Guard,
How now! the News? Enter an Officer.

Off.
—The Lady Constance, Sir,
Is taken—

Arth.
—Ha! My Mother!

Hub.
—Where? from whence?

Off.
Hearing her Son was Pris'ner in this Castle,
Her Griefs have ventur'd, with a small Retinue,
To risk the Mercy of an Enemy,
In hope to have a Sight of him: She waits
Without, and begs in Tears to have an Audience.

Hub.
Conduct her to the Council Room—we attend her. [Exit Officer.
Come, Prince; to dissipate thy Terrors past,
We'll venture to admit this Interview.
Short must it be—

Arth.
—It shall, indeed, dear Hubert.
I'll not misuse thy Goodness.—

Hub.
—O my Shame!
How will thy Terrors ever be aton'd!

Arth
Despair not, Hubert! let thy Comfort be,
Howe'er thy Soul has wander'd into Error,
No Virtue claims more Praise than Penitence;
Has not the holy Parable declar'd
That one poor Soul recover'd, from astray,
Does more triumphant Joy to Heav'n convey,
Than flows from ninety-nine, that never lost their Way.

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