Abbot.
Thus bending to the Throne of Innocent,
Our holy Sov'reign Sire, whose Heav'n-born Pow'r
All Christian Crowns implicitly obey;
Thus come we humble Supplicants in Sighs
And Sorrow for a sinful Son; whose rash
Ambition in his Pride of Pow'r has dar'd—
O! spare us to repeat the dreadful Crime,
Too black and terrible for Christian Ears!
But if the Pangs of Penitence may plead—

K. John.
Behold him prostrate, contrite, 'whelm'd with Shame!
Off'ring this sacrifice of temp'ral Glory,
His Crown surrender'd to the holy See,
To mitigate the Wrath of Heav'nly Vengeance. [Lays his Crown at the Feet of Pandulph.

Pand.
Thy Penitence, thy contrite Heart, O Son,
Gives Joy and Transport to our holy Mother:
Not human Nature is more prone t'offend,
Than on sincere Repentance she to pardon!
Yet think not Crowns or Scepters could alone
Prevail, or tempt her, in the Pride of Nature,
T'accept these Off'rings of thy mortal Pow'r,
Which, as the human World esteems them—Thus

Beneath her Foot she spurns their carnal Glory. [He treads upon the Crown.
But, as in social Life, Mankind requires
Controlling Kings to rule their headstrong Passions,
To curb Injustice by coercive Laws;
Thus from the sacred Apostolick Grace,
As tributary Lord, dependent ever
On our holy Father, supreme on Earth,
Receive this Circle of imperial Sway
Once more, to keep these temp'ral Realms in Awe,
And fight the sacred Battles of the Chair. [Returns the Crown.

K. John.
With lowly Reverence and humble Heart,
Vowing Obedience to our sov'reign Pontiff,
Unworthy I receive this temp'ral Crown;
But now must kneel for an afflicted People,
Pierc'd with the Pains of Errors not their own!
O! never must these guilty Eyes look up!
Till holy Mercy shall restore their Peace,
By Revocation of her dreadful Censures!

Pand.
Arise, repentant Son, thy sweet Conversion
Shall chace these Clouds of Vengeance from thy Land,
Of Souls unheal'd will we resume the Cure:
Nor foreign or domestick Foe shall now
Presume to give thy fertile Fields Annoyance:
Now shalt thou find the holy Breath, that blew
This Tempest up, shall make the Storm subside.
  This Dauphin's Thunder at our Word shall cease,
  And hush'd Ambition leave thy Realms in Peace. [Exeunt. The Scene a Field. Enter Dauphin, Melun, Salisbury, Pembroke, and Barons, &c.

Dauph.
Why not to-night, my Lords? Are not his late
Supplies from France in the deep Marshes lost?
Arms, Horses, Ammunition, Treasure, all
Immers'd and bury'd in the Floods of Welland?
And shall we now stand pausing o'er our Prey?

And by our cold Debates retard our Conquest?

Salis.
Consider, Sir, our Shadows lengthen with
Our March! the Sun scarce lending Light to lead us!
Let us at least take Day enough for Slaughter;
Nor let their Fears, behind the Shield of Night,
Skulk from the Sword of blinded Victory.

Pem.
And for the Succours they have lost, 'tis not
A Day or Moon's Duration can recruit them.

Salis.
That Load will lie as heavy on their Hopes
To-morrow—

Pem.
—Should we now engage them, Sir,
While the long March that hangs upon our Troops,
Brings down the Spirit to a drooping Eye,
How might the Enemy, tho' less in Numbers,
Hail with Repose, and confident in Vigour,
With more than equal Strength sustain the Battle?

Salis.
Let us then take th'Advantage of the Night
For Rest, and of the Morn for stronger Action.

Dauph.
O! if your Spirits were inflam'd like mine,
To rest this Night would be a harder Toil,
Than all the Labours of immediate Battle!
See, Pandulph too, the holy Legate comes,
With eager Pace and Triumph in his Eye,
As if a Band of Angels on our part
Stood rank'd in Arms to stimulate our Action. Enter Pandulph and Falconbridge.

Pand.
Joy, Peace, and bloodless Conquest crowns our Arms,
Our Wars are done: The Triumphs of this Day
Shall, in the Annals of revolving Empire,
Stand eminently high on Hills of Fame,
While Praise and Wonder, to a Transport rais'd,
Shall read this Record of religious Glory.

Dauph.
What means your Eminence? Our Wars are done.

Pand.
Furl up thy Colours, and unbrace thy Drums,
King John is now no more an Enemy.
His Crown this Hour surrender'd at our Feet,
Which now in tributary Vassalage
He holds of Rome, has cancell'd all his Crimes.

His contrite Penitence has revok'd our Censures,
Paternal Pardon has confirm'd his Throne,
And now, e'en France, shall honour and embrace him.

Dauph.
Eternal Vengeance! France! shall France embrace him?
His Crown surrender'd! Ha! what Crown has John,
That is not claim'd by France? Or how comes Rome,
In wrong to us, t'accept that Resignation?
Are thus your Champions of the Chair rewarded?
Is this the Kingdom which her Bulls decreed me?
Has John's Repentance thrown his Crimes on us,
That France must like a Vassal wave her Right,
Because the holy Pride of Rome's appeas'd?

Pand.
Is't possible?—

Dauph.
—Was it not you that first
Inflam'd this War? And to my Father's Doubts
Clear'd up my Title to fair England's Crown?
Is not the Bar of Arthur's Right, as thou
Foretold'st, remov'd? Is he not dead? Nay murder'd?
(Is that too pardon'd by your juggling Mercy?)
Is there a Life before me now, that stays
My Right, or makes it, at your Will, precarious?

Pand.
Beware, rash Youth, nor tempt our holy Vengeance,
Unknowing as thou art! I tell thee, Prince,
This England is St. Peter's Fee, and Kings
Hereafter in that holy Right shall rule it.

Dauph.
Cardinal, 'tis false, I do deny th' Assertion.
England was never yet, nor ever shall,
While Arms or Life can urge my Claim, become
The Papal Patrimony. No, nor shall
This Subterfuge, this Farce of John distress'd,
Laugh me to Peace, or save him from my Vengeance.

Pand.
O mortal Sin! abandon'd Imputation!

Dauph.
Think'st thou, fond Man, I brought my Arms so far,
Only to slake Rome's holy Thirst of Sway?
If you want Kingdoms, buy them with the Danger;
Endure the Toils, and fight yourselves your Battles;
Nor hope to make my youthful Sword and Honour,

The Tool and Property of Priestly Pow'r.

Pand.
Hear me and tremble! while I tell thee, Boy,
As well thou might'st provoke the Serpent's Sting,
Or seize upon the feeding Lion's Paw,
As safely might'st oppose thy naked Eye,
Against the Level of a bearded Arrow,
As tempt the Vengeance of our holy Pow'r:
This Instant quit thy hostile Purpose, and depart
This Land—or Woe on thy rebellious Head. [Exit.

Dauph.
Now by the Royal Rage that swells my Heart,
Here will I leave these lifeless Bones,
To Kites and Ravens an inglorious Prey,
Than e'er hold Friendship with this recreant John,
Or yield an English Pasture to the Pride of Rome.

Fal.
And by that Royal Blood thou hast defam'd,
I plaud thy Treatment of this Priestly Tyrant;
Yet think not, that in fear of thee our King
Has bow'd to this insatiate Pontiff. No,
But to conciliate to his Love his People,
Whose Blaze of Zeal had blinded their Obedience:
For know, the warlike Monarch is at hand,
Not trusting to this deep-mouth'd Legate's Thunder,
But to his Pow'rs prepar'd; whose Rods of War
Shall whip this dwarfish Rout, these Pigmy-arms,
From out the Circle of his Territories.

Dauph.
Take to thy Saf'ty; hence, our Drums shall answer thee.

Fal.
O that the Sun could hold his drooping Head
One Hour above the Earth to grace this Battle.

Dauph.
Reserve thy Vauntings for the dawning Morrow,
Nor at the Night repine, whose Shades may save thee. [Exit Dauphin with his Train.

Fal.
Now, noble Lords, what think you of your Cause?
The holy Sword of Rome, you see, forsakes you;
Her Politicks, like other mortal Motives,
Begin their wiser Charities at home;
Let but her pious Views be gorg'd with Pow'r,
Her full Contentment slumbers in her Chair,
And leaves Devotion for the vulgar Comfort!
For Shame resume your Sense! see for your selves!

And be no more the Ladders of Ambition!

Salis.
Well hast thou warn'd us to oppose Ambition,
A Passion oft so ignorant of Glory,
By its own Nature so corruptible,
That it shall stoop to be a Tyrant's Slave,
To play the greater Tyrant o'er its People.
This—in the Shame of his surrender'd Crown,
Our servile King has prov'd a Truth notorious.

Fal.
To you, to you, rash Lords, we owe that Stain,
Had your weak Cause alone supported you,
His Crown unblemish'd had maintain'd his Right!
Obedience to Prerogative had bow'd,
And in the Monarch's Grandeur both been glorious!
Can you then think the Perfidy is worse,
That stoops below itself to save a Kingdom,
Than is the mad Resistance that would sell it:
For such must be the Consequence, if France
Prevail; France then becomes your Purchaser.
Rome might, indeed, plead Custom for her Claim,
But France had none, save what your Fears have found,
Or to your foreign Masters may have granted.
Would you, then, change the Lion for the Fox?
Be rather Slaves to grinding Vice-Roys here,
Than bear the Errors of your native King?

Salis.
Perdition on the abject Soul that thinks it!
No, Falconbridge, whate'er has drawn our Swords,
However under Grievances we grone,
Think not but English Spirits would as soon
Admit the Devil, as a Vice-Roy here.
No, not to lord it o'er a Village in
The Fens of England:—

Fal.
—Then I ask no more!
Howe'er our civil Discord may divide us,
Let not our Enemy enjoy the Breach.

Salis.
Against Invasion let us, close united, [Embracing.
If Vows or sacred Oaths can hold our Faith,
Already have we sworn, that no Success
Shall lead Obedience to the Claims of France.

Fal.
This News has hush'd my Fears. This to the King

Will I recount, in hopes we yet may save,
By Peace, those Streams of Blood that boil for Battle;
If not,—tho' now to diff'rent Sides we part,
Let each Opposer shew an English Heart. [Exeunt severally. King John from his Tent, supported by two Attendants.

K. John.
O feeble Frame! is this a Time to fail me!
When my collected Spirits should inflame
The Eye to lead and animate the War?
Why has the Monarch so much Use for Life?
Yet in his Health is levell'd with the Peasant!
O painful Majesty! unequal State!
Not all the gorgeous Pomp, thy Flags of Pow'r,
Thy Dignities, Dominions, Ceremonies,
The Crown, the Sceptre, and the Royal Ball,
The purple Robe, nor Princely Crowds, whose Press
Of Duty intercepts the wholsom Air;
Not all these Glories, for one precious Hour,
Can buy the Beggar's Health or Appetite. Enter Falconbridge.

Fal.
To Arms, my Liege, th'embattl'd Foe comes onward;
Their Armour, gilded by the blazing Sun,
Reflects another Day. Defend me, Heav'n!
How fares your Majesty?—

K. John.
—Disorder'd still!
This Autumn Fever hangs upon my Limbs;
But in the Field we'll sweat it from the Blood!
Prepare my lighter Helmet and my Litter:
Cousin, on thee the Conduct and the Care
Of this Day's Action may devolve,—be watchful.

Fal.
With my best Blood will I account for it!
But go not, Sir, I beg you, to the Field.

K. John.
If Life is done, let me with Honour end it.
Lead forth my Horse, and let the Trumpet sound
The warning Blast to Victory or Death.

Fal.
Would you repose, it might relieve you.—

K. John.
—No!

This Tumult of the Spirits shall have Action.
My fierce, though mortal, Flames within shall glow,
Refulgent on my Brow—and burn against the Foe. [Exeunt leading off the King.

Previous section

Next section