Introductory matter

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. KING John. Prince Henry, Son to the King. Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, and Nephew to the King. Pembroke, English Lord. Essex, English Lord. Salisbury, English Lord. Hubert [Hubert de Burgh], English Lord. Bigot [Norfolk], English Lord. Faulconbridge [Philip Faulconbridge], Bastard-Son to Richard the First. Robert Faulconbridge, suppos'd Brother to the Bastard. James Gurney, Servant to the Lady Faulconbridge. Peter of Pomfret, a Prophet. Philip, King of France. Lewis, the Dauphin. Arch-Duke of Austria. Cardinal Pandulpho [Cardinal Pandulph], the Pope's Legate. Melun, a French Lord. Chatilion [Chatillon], Ambassador from France to King John. Elinor, Queen-Mother of England. Constance, Mother to Arthur. Blanch, Daughter to Alphonso King of Castile, and Neice to King John. Lady Faulconbridge, Mother to the Bastard, and Robert Faulconbridge. Citizens of Angiers, Heralds, Executioners, Messengers, Soldiers, and other Attendants. [Citizen], [French Herald], [English Herald], [Executioner], [Messenger] The SCENE, sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.

1 ^noteThe LIFE and DEATH of KING JOHN.

ACT I. SCENE I. The Court of England. Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, and Salisbury, with Chatilion.

King John.
Now, say, Chatilion, what would France with us?

Chat.
Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France,
In my behaviour, to the Majesty,
The borrow'd Majesty of England here.

Eli.
A strange beginning; borrow'd Majesty!

K. John.
Silence, good mother; hear the embassie.

Chat.
Philip of France, in right and true behalf
Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,
Arthur Plantagenet, lays lawful claim
To this fair island, and the territories:
To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine:
Desiring thee to lay aside the sword,
Which sways usurpingly these several titles;
And put the same into young Arthur's hand,
Thy nephew, and right-royal Sovereign.

K. John.
What follows, if we disallow of this?

Chat.
The proud controul of fierce and bloody war,
T' inforce these rights so forcibly with-held.

K. John.
Here have we war for war, and blood for blood,
Controulment for controulment; so answer France.

Chat.
Then take my King's defiance from my mouth,
The farthest limit of my embassie.

K. John.
Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace.
Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France,
For ere thou canst report, I will be there,
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard.
So, hence! be thou the trumpet of our wrath,
And sullen presage of your own decay.
An honourable conduct let him have,
Pembroke, look to't; farewel, Chatilion. [Exeunt Chat. and Pem.

Eli.
What now, my son, have I not ever said,
How that ambitious Constance would not cease,
Till she had kindled France and all the world,
Upon the right and party of her son?
This might have been prevented, and made whole
With very easy arguments of love;
Which now the manage of two kingdoms must
With fearful, bloody, issue arbitrate.

K. John.
Our strong possession, and our right for us—

Eli.
Your strong possession much more than your right,

Or else it must go wrong with you and me;
So much my conscience whispers in your ear,
Which none but heav'n, and you, and I shall hear.

Essex.
My Liege, here is the strangest controversie,
Come from the country to be judg'd by you,
That e'er I heard: shall I produce the men?

K. John.
Let them approach.
Our abbies and our priories shall pay
This expedition's charge—What men are you? SCENE II. Enter Robert Faulconbridge, and Philip, his Brother, the Bastard.

Phil.
Your faithful subject, I, a gentleman
Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son,
As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,
A soldier, by the honour-giving hand
Of Cœur-de-lion knighted in the field.

K. John.
What art thou?

Robert.
The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

K. John.
Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?
You came not of one mother then, it seems?

Phil.
Most certain of one mother, mighty King,
That is well known; and, as I think, one father:
But for the certain knowledge of that truth,
I put you o'er to heav'n, and to my mother;
Of that I doubt, as all mens' children may.

Eli.
Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother,
And wound her honour with this diffidence.

Phil.
I, Madam? no, I have no reason for it;
That is my brother's plea, and none of mine;
The which if he can prove, he pops me out
At least from fair five hundred pound a year:
Heav'n guard my mother's honour, and my land!

K. John.
A good blunt fellow; why, being younger born,
Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

Phil.
I know not why, except to get the land;
But, once, he slander'd me with bastardy:
But whether I be true begot or no,
That still I lay upon my mother's head;
But that I am as well begot, my Liege,
(Fair fall the bones, that took the pains for me!)
Compare our faces, and be judge yourself.
If old Sir Robert did beget us both,
And were our father, and this son like him;
O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee
I give heav'n thanks, I was not like to thee.

K. John.
Why, what a mad-cap hath heav'n lent us here?

Eli.
He hath a trick of Cœur-de-lion's face,
The accent of his tongue affecteth him:
Do you not read some tokens of my son
In the large composition of this man?

K. John.
Mine eye hath well examined his parts,
And finds them perfect Richard: Sirrah, speak,
What doth move you to claim your brother's land?

Phil.
Because he hath a half-face, like my father,
With that half-face would he have all my land?
A half-fac'd groat, five hundred pound a year!

Rob.
My gracious Liege, when that my father liv'd,
Your brother did imploy my father much;—

Phil.
Well, Sir, by this you cannot get my land.
Your tale must be, how he imploy'd my mother.

Rob.
And once dispatch'd him in an embassie
To Germany; there with the Emperor
To treat of high affairs touching that time:
Th' advantage of his absence took the King,
And in the mean time sojourn'd at my father's;
Where, how he did prevail, I shame to speak:
But truth is truth; large lengths of seas and shores

Between my father and my mother lay,
(As I have heard my father speak himself)
When this same lusty gentleman was got.
Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd
His lands to me; and took it on his death,
That this, my mother's son, was none of his;
And if he were, he came into the world
Full fourteen weeks before the course of time:
Then, good my Liege, let me have what is mine,
My father's land, as was my father's will.

K. John.
Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;
Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him:
And if she did play false, the fault was hers;
Which fault lyes on the hazard of all husbands,
That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,
Who, as you say, took pains to get this son,
Had of your father claim'd this son for his?
In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept
This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world.
In sooth, he might; then, if he were my brother's,
My brother might not claim him; nor your father,
Being none of his, refuse him; this concludes,
My mother's son did get your father's heir,
Your father's heir must have your father's land.

Rob.
Shall then my father's Will be of no force
To dispossess that child, which is not his?

Phil.
Of no more force to dispossess me, Sir,
Than was his will to get me, as I think.

Eli.
Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge,
And, like thy brother, to enjoy thy land:
Or the reputed Son of Cœur-de-lion,
^{2 note}

Phil.
Madam, and if my brother had my shape,
And I had his, Sir Robert his, like him;
And if my legs were two such riding rods,
My arms such eel-skins stuft; ^{3 note}

my face so thin,
^{4 note}That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose,
Lest men should say, “look, where three farthings goes!
“And to his shape were heir to all this land;”
'Would, I might never stir from off this place,
I'd give it ev'ry foot to have this face:
I would not be Sir Nobbe in any case.

Eli.
I like thee well; wilt thou forsake thy fortune,
Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me?
I am a soldier, and now bound to France.

Phil.
Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance;
Your face hath got five hundred pound a year,
Yet sell your face for five pence, and 'tis dear.
Madam, I'll follow you unto the death.

Eli.
Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

Phil.
Our country manners give our betters way.

K. John.
What is thy name?

Phil.
Philip, my Liege, so is my name begun;
Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's eldest son.

K. John.
From henceforth bear his name, whose form thou bear'st:
Kneel thou down Philip, but rise up more great;
Arise Sir Richard, and Plantagenet.

Phil.
Brother by th' mother's side, give me your hand;
My father gave me honour, yours gave land.
Now blessed be the hour, by night or day,
When I was got, Sir Robert was away!

Eli.
The very spirit of Plantagenet!
I am thy grandam; Richard, call me so.

Phil.
Madam, by chance, but not by truth; what though?
Something about, a little from the right,
  In at the window, or else o'er the hatch:
Who dares not stir by day, must walk by night,
  And have his have, however men do catch;
Near or far off, well won is still well shot;
And I am I, howe'er I was begot.

K. John.
Go, Faulconbridge, now hast thou thy desire;
A landless Knight makes thee a landed 'Squire:
Come, Madam; and come, Richard; we must speed
For France, for France; for it is more than need.

Phil.
Brother, adieu; good fortune come to thee,
For thou was got i'th way of honesty. [Exeunt all but Philip. SCENE III.

A foot of honour better than I was,
But many a many foot of land the worse!
Well, now can I make any Joan a lady.

&wlquo;Good-den, Sir Richard,—Godamercy, fellow;
&wlquo;And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter;
&wlquo;For new-made honour doth forget mens' names:
&wlquo;'Tis too respective and unsociable
&wlquo;For your conversing. Now your traveller,
&wlquo;He and his tooth-pick at my worship's mess;
&wlquo;And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd,
&wlquo;Why then I suck my teeth, and catechise
&wlquo;My ^{5 note}piked man of countries;—My dear Sir,
&wlquo;(Thus leaning on mine elbow, I begin)
&wlquo;I shall beseech you,—that is question now;
&wlquo;And then comes answer like an ABC-book:
&wlquo;O Sir, says answer, at your best command,
&wlquo;At your employment, at your service, Sir:—
&wlquo;No, Sir, says question, I, sweet Sir, at yours,—
&wlquo;^{6 note}
And so e'er answer knows what question would,
&wlquo;Saving in dialogue of compliment;
&wlquo;And talking of the Alps and Apennines,
&wlquo;The Pyrenean and the river Po;
&wlquo;It draws towards supper in conclusion, so.

&wlquo;But this is worshipful society,&wrquo;
And fits the mounting spirit like myself:
For he is but a bastard to the time,
That doth not smack of observation;
[^{7 note}And so am I, whether I smack or no:]
And not alone in habit and device,
Exterior form, outward accoutrement;
But from the inward motion to deliver
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth;
Which tho' I will not practise to deceive,
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;
For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.
But who comes in such haste, in riding robes?
What woman-post is this? hath she no husband,
That will take pains to blow a horn before her?
O me! it is my mother; now, good lady,
What brings you here to court so hastily? SCENE IV. Enter Lady Faulconbridge, and James Gurney.

Lady.
Where is that slave, thy brother, where is he,
That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

Phil.
My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son,
Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man,
Is it Sir Robert's son, that you seek so?

Lady.
Sir Robert's son? ay, thou unrev'rend boy,
Sir Robert's son: why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert?
He is Sir Robert's son; and so art thou.

Phil.
James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave a while?

Gur.
Good leave, good Philip.

Phil.
^{8 note}

Lady.
Hast thou conspir'd with thy brother too,
That, for thine own gain, should'st defend mine honour?
What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

Phil.
^{9 note}Knight, Knight, good mother—Basilisco like.
What! I am dub'd; I have it on my shoulder:
But, mother, I am not Sir Robert's son;
I have disclaim'd Sir Robert, and my land;
Legitimation, name, and all is gone:
Then, good my mother, let me know my father;
Some proper man, I hope; who was it, mother?

Lady.
Hast thou deny'd thy self a Faulconbridge?

Phil.
As faithfully, as I deny the devil.

Lady.
King Richard Cœur-de-lion was thy father;
By long, and vehement suit, I was seduc'd
To make room for him in my husband's bed.
Heav'n lay not my transgression to my charge!
Thou art the issue of my dear offence,
Which was so strongly urg'd past my defence.

Phil.
Now, by this light, were I to get again,
Madam, I would not wish a better father.
Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,
And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly;
Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,
Subjected tribute to commanding love;
Against whose fury, and unmatched force,
The awless lion could not wage the fight;
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hands.
He, that perforce robs lions of their hearts,
May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,
With all my heart, I thank thee for my father.
Who lives and dares but say, thou didst not well
When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.
Come, lady, I will shew thee to my kin,
  And they shall say, when Richard me begot,
If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin;
  Who says, it was, he lyes; I say, 'twas not. [Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I. Before the Walls of Angiers in France. Enter Philip King of France, Lewis the Dauphin, the Archduke of Austria, Constance, and Arthur.

Lewis.
Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.
Arthur! that great fore-runner of thy blood
Richard, that robb'd the lion of his heart,
And fought the holy wars in Palestine,
By this brave Duke came early to his grave:
And for amends to his posterity,
At our importance hither is he come,
To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf;
And to rebuke the usurpation
Of thy unnatural uncle, English John.
Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

Arth.
God shall forgive you Cœur-de-lion's death
The rather, that you give his off-spring life;
Shadowing their right under your wings of war.
I give you welcome with a pow'rless hand,
But with a heart full of unstained love:
Welcome before the gates of Angiers, Duke.

Lewis.
A noble boy! who would not do thee right?

Aust.
Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,
As seal to this indenture of my love;
That to my home I will no more return,
Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France,
Together with that pale, that white-fac'd shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
And coops from other lands her islanders;
Ev'n till that England, hedg'd in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure

And confident from foreign purposes,
Ev'n till that outmost corner of the west,
Salute thee for her King. Till then, fair boy,
Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

Const.
O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks,
Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength,
To make a more requital to your love.

Aust.
The peace of heav'n is theirs, who lift their swords
In such a just and charitable war.

K. Philip.
Well then, to work; our engines shall be bent
Against the brows of this resisting town;
Call for our chiefest men of discipline,
To cull the plots of best advantages.
We'll lay before this town our royal bones,
Wade to the market-place in French-mens' blood,
But we will make it subject to this boy.

Const.
Stay for an answer to your Embassie,
Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood.
My lord Chatilion may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in war;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood,
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter Chatilion.

K. Philip.
A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish
Our messenger Chatilion is arrived;
What England says, say briefly, gentle lord,
We coldly pause for thee. Chatilion, speak.

Chat.
Then turn your forces from this paultry siege,
And stir them up against a mightier task.
England, impatient of your just demands,
Hath put himself in arms; the adverse winds,
Whose leisure I have staid, have giv'n him time
To land his legions all as soon as I.
His marches are expedient to this town,

His forces strong, his soldiers confident.
With him along is come the mother-Queen;
An Até, stirring him to blood and strife.
With her, her neice, the lady Blanch of Spain;
With them a bastard of the King deceas'd,
And all th' unsettled humours of the land;
Rash, inconsid'rate, fiery voluntaries,
With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the swelling tide,
To do offence and scathe in christendom.
The interruption of their churlish drums [Drums beat.
Cuts off more circumstance; they are at hand.
To parly, or to fight, therefore prepare.

K. Philip.
How much unlook'd for is this expedition!

Aust.
By how much unexpected, by so much
We must awake endeavour for defence;
For courage mounteth with occasion:
Let them be welcome then, we are prepar'd. SCENE II. Enter King of England, Faulconbridge, Elinor, Blanch, Pembroke, and others.

K. John.
Peace be to France, if France in peace permit
Our just and lineal entrance to our own:
If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heav'n.
Whilst we, God's wrathful agent, do correct
Their proud contempt that beats his peace to heav'n.

K. Philip.
Peace be to England, if that war return
From France to England, there to live in peace!

England we love; and for that England's sake
With burthen of our armour here we sweat;
This toil of ours should be a work of thine.
But thou from loving England art so far,
That thou hast under-wrought its lawful King;
Cut off the sequence of posterity;
Out-faced infant state; and done a rape
Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.
Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face.
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his;
This little abstract doth contain that large,
Which dy'd in Geffrey; and the hand of time
Shall draw this brief into as large a volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,
And this his son; England was Geffrey's right,
And this is Geffrey's; in the name of God,
How comes it then, that thou art call'd a King,
When living blood doth in these temples beat,
Which own the crown that thou o'er-masterest?

K. John.
From whom hast thou this great commission, France,
To draw my answer to thy articles?

K. Philip.
From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
To look into the bolts and stains of right.
That judge hath made me guardian to this boy;
Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong,
And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

K. John.
Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

K. Philip.
Excuse it, 'tis to beat usurping down.

Eli.
Who is't, that thou dost call usurper, France?

Const.
Let me make answer: thy usurping son.—

Eli.
Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be King,
That thou may'st be a Queen, and check the world!

Const.
My bed was ever to thy son as true,
As thine was to thy husband; and this boy,

Liker in feature to his father Geffrey,
Than thou and John, in manners being as like
As rain to water, or devil to his dam.
My boy a bastard! by my soul, I think,
His father never was, so true-begot;
It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.

Eli.
There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

Const.
There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

Aust.
Peace—

Faulc.
Hear the crier.

Aust.
What the devil art thou?

Faulc.
One that will play the devil, Sir, with you,
An a'may catch your hide and you alone.
You are the hare, of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead Lions by the beard;
I'll smoak your skin-coat, an I catch you right;
Sirrah, look to't; i'faith, I will, i' faith.

Blanch.
O, well did he become that Lion's robe,
That did disrobe the Lion of that robe.

Faulc.
It lyes as sightly on the back of him,
As great Alcides' ^{1 note}shews upon an ass;
But, ass, I'll take that burthen from your back,
Or lay on that, shall make your shoulders crack.

Aust.
What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?
King Philip, determine what we shall do strait.

K. Philip.
Women and fools, break off your conference.
King John, this is the very sum of all;
England, and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur I do claim of thee:
Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thy arms?

K. John.
My life as soon.—I do defie thee, France.
Arthur of Britain, yield thee to my hand;
And out of my dear love I'll give thee more,

Than e'er the coward-hand of France can win.
Submit thee, boy.

Eli.
Come to thy grandam, child.

Const.
Do, child, go to it grandam, child.
Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig;
There's a good grandam.

Arth.
Good my mother, peace;
I would, that I were low laid in my grave;
I am not worth this coil, that's made for me.

Eli.
His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

Const.
Now shame upon you, whe're she does or no!
His grandam's wrong, and not his mother's shames,
Draws those heav'n-moving pearls from his poor eyes,
Which heav'n shall take in nature of a fee:
Ay, with these crystal beads heav'n shall be brib'd
To do him justice, and revenge on you.

Eli.
Thou monstrous slanderer of heav'n and earth!

Const.
Thou monstrous injurer of heav'n and earth!
Call me not slanderer; thou, and thine, usurp
The domination, royalties and rights
Of this oppressed boy; this is thy eldest son's son.
Infortunate in nothing but in thee:
Thy sins are visited in this poor child;
The canon of the law is laid on him;
Being but the second generation
Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

K. John.
Bedlam, have done.

Const.
I have but this to say,
That he is not only plagued for her sin,
But God hath made her sin and her the plague
On this removed issue, plagu'd for her,
And with her plague her sin; his injury,
Her injury, the beadle to her sin,
All punish'd in the person of this child,
And all for her, a plague upon her!

Eli.
Thou unadvis'd scold, I can produce

A will, that bars the title of thy son.

Const.
Ay, who doubts that? a will!—a wicked will;
A woman's will, a cankred grandam's will.

K. Phil.
Peace, Lady; pause, or be more temperate:
It ill beseems this presence to cry Aim
To these ill-tuned repetitions.
Some trumpet summon hither to the walls
These men of Angiers; let us hear them speak,
Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's. [Trumpet sounds. SCENE III. Enter a Citizen upon the Walls.

Cit.
Who is it, that hath warn'd us to the walls?

K. Philip.
'Tis France, for England.

K. John.
England for itself;
You men of Angiers and my loving subjects—

K. Philip.
You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects,
Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle—

K. John.
For our advantage; therefore hear us first:
These flags of France, that are advanced here
Before the eye and prospect of your town,
Have hither march'd to your endamagement.
The cannons have their bowels full of wrath;
And ready mounted are they to spit forth
Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls:
All preparations for a bloody siege
And merciless proceeding, by these French,
Confront your city's eyes, your winking gates;
And, but for our approach, those sleeping stones,
That as a waste do girdle you about,
By the compulsion of their ordinance
By this time from their fixed beds of lime
Had been dishabited, and wide havock made
For bloody power to rush upon your peace.

But on the sight of us your lawful King,
(Who painfully with much expedient march
Have brought a counter-check before your gates,
To save unscratch'd your city's threatned checks)
Behold, the French, amaz'd, vouchsafe a parle;
And now, instead of bullets wrap'd in fire,
To make a shaking fever in your walls,
They shoot but calm words folded up in smoak,
To make a faithless error in your ears;
Which trust accordingly, kind citizens;
And let in us, your King, whose labour'd spirits,
Fore-weary'd in this action of swift speed,
Crave harbourage within your city-walls.

K. Philip.
When I have said, make answer to us both.
Lo! in this right hand, whose protection
Is most divinely vow'd upon the right
Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet;
Son to the elder brother of this man,
And King o'er him, and all that he enjoys.
For this down-trodden equity, we tread
In warlike march these greens before your town:
Being no further enemy to you,
Than the constraint of hospitable zeal,
In the relief of this oppressed child,
Religiously provokes. Be pleased then
To pay that duty, which you truly owe
To him that owns it; namely, this young prince.
And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,
Save in aspect, hath all offence seal'd up:
Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent
Against th' invulnerable clouds of heav'n;
And with a blessed, and unvext retire,
With unhack'd swords, and helmets all unbruis'd,
We will bear home that lusty blood again,
Which here we came to spout against your town;
And leave your children, wives, and you in peace.

But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer,
'Tis not the rounder of your old-fac'd walls
Can hide you from our messengers of war:
Tho' all these English, and their discipline,
Were harbour'd in their rude circumference.
Then tell us, shall your city call us lord,
In that behalf which we have challeng'd it?
Or shall we give the signal to our rage,
And stalk in blood to our possession?

Cit.
In brief, we are the King of England's subjects;
For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

K. John.
Acknowledge then the King, and let me in.

Cit.
That can we not; but he that proves the King,
To him will we prove loyal; 'till that time,
Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world.

K. John.
Doth not the crown of England prove the King?
And if not that, I bring you witnesses,
Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed—

Faulc.
(Bastards, and else.)

K. John.
To verify our title with their lives.

K. Philip.
As many, and as well-born bloods as those—

Faulc.
(Some bastards too.)

K. Philip.
Stand in his face to contradict his claim.

Cit.
Till you compound, whose right is worthiest,
We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

K. John.
Then God forgive the sin of all those souls,
That to their everlasting residence,
Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,
In dreadful tryal of our kingdom's King!

K. Philip.
Amen, Amen.—Mount chevaliers, to arms!

Faulc.
Saint George that swing'd the dragon, and e'er since

Sits on his horseback at mine hostess' door,
Teach us some fence. Sirrah, were I at home
At your den, sirrah, with your Lioness,
I'd set an ox-head to your Lion's hide,
And make a monster of you.— [To Austria.

Aust.
Peace, no more.

Faulc.
O, tremble; for you hear the Lion roar.

K. John.
Up higher to the plain, where we'll set forth
In best appointment all our regiments.

Faulc.
Speed then to take th' advantage of the field.

K. Philip.
It shall be so; and at the other hill
Command the rest to stand. God, and our right! [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A long Charge sounded: then, after excursions, enter the Herald of France with trumpets to the gates.

F. Her.
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,
And let young Arthur Duke of Bretagne in;
Who by the hand of France this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lye scatter'd on the bleeding ground:
And many a widow's husband groveling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth;
While victory with little loss doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French;
Who are at hand triumphantly display'd,
To enter conquerors; and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne, England's King, and yours. Enter English Herald with Trumpets.

E. Her.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers; ring your bells;
King John, your King and England's, doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day.

Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt in Frenchmens' blood.
There struck no plume in any English Crest,
That is removed by a staff of France.
Our Colours do return in those same hands;
That did display them, when we first march'd forth;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands;
Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.
Open your gates, and give the victors way.

Cit
Heralds, from off our tow'rs we might behold,
From first to last, the Onset and Retire
Of both your armies, whose equality
By our best eyes cannot be censured;
Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows;
Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power.
Both are alike, and both alike we like;
One must prove greatest. While they weigh so even,
We hold our town for neither; yet for both. SCENE V. Enter the two Kings with their Powers, at several Doors.

K. John.
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?
Say, shall the current of our Right run on?
Whose passage, vext with thy impediment,
Shall leave his native channel, and o'er-swell
With course disturb'd ev'n thy confining shores;
Unless thou let his silver water keep
A peaceful progress to the ocean.

K. Philip.
England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood
In this hot tryal, more than we of France;

Rather lost more. And by this hand I swear,
That sways the earth this climate overlooks,
Before we will lay by our just-borne arms,
We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear;
Or add a royal number to the dead;
Gracing the scroul, that tells of this war's loss,
With slaughter coupled to the name of Kings.

Faulc.
Ha! Majesty,—how high thy glory towers,
When the rich blood of Kings is set on fire!
Oh, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;
The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his phangs;
And now he feasts, mouthing the flesh of men
In undetermin'd diff'rences of Kings.
Why stand these royal Fronts amazed thus?
Cry havock, Kings; back to the stained field,
You equal Potents, fiery-kindled spirits!
Then let Confusion of one part confirm
The other's peace; till then, blows, blood, and death.

K. John.
Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

K. Philip.
Speak, Citizens, for England, who's your King?

Cit.
The King of England, when we know the King?

K. Philip.
Know him in us, that here hold up his Right.

K. John.
In us, that are our own great deputy,
And bear possession of our person here;
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

Cit.
^{2 note}

Be by some certain King purg'd and depos'd.

Faulc.
By heav'n, the Scroyles of Angiers flout you, Kings,
And stand securely on their battlements,
As in a Theatre, whence they gape and point
At your industrious Scenes and Acts of death.
You royal presences, be rul'd by me;
Do like the Mutines of Jerusalem,
Be friends a while, and both conjointly bend
Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town.
By east and west let France and England mount
Their batt'ring cannon charged to the mouths;
Till their soul-fearing clamours have braul'd down
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous City.
I'd play incessantly upon these jades;
Even till unfenced desolation
Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.
That done, dissever your united strengths,
And part your mingled Colours once again;
Turn face to face, and bloody point to point.
Then in a moment fortune shall cull forth
Out of one side her happy minion;
To whom in favour she shall give the day,
And kiss him with a glorious Victory.
How like you this wild counsel, mighty States?
Smacks it not something of the Policy?

K. John.
Now by the sky, that hangs above our heads,
I like it well. France, shall we knit our Pow'rs,
And lay this Angiers even with the ground,
Then, after, fight who shall be King of it?

Faulc.
And if thou hast the mettle of a King,
Being wrong'd as we are by this peevish town,
Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,
As we will ours, against these sawcy walls;
And when that we have dash'd them to the ground,
Why, then defie each other; and, pell-mell,

Make work upon ourselves for heav'n or hell.

K. Philip.
Let it be so; say, where will you assault?

K. John.
We from the west will send destruction
Into this City's bosom.

Aust.
I from the north.

K. Philip.
Our thunder from the south
Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

Faulc.
O prudent discipline! from North to South;
Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth.
I'll stir them to it; come, away, away!

Cit.
Hear us, great Kings; vouchsafe a while to stay,
And I shall shew you peace, and fair-fac'd league;
Win you this city without stroak or wound;
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,
That here come sacrifices for the field;
Persever not, but hear me, mighty Kings.

K. John.
Speak on, with favour; we are bent to hear.

Cit.
That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,
Is near to England; look upon the years
Of Lewis the Dauphin, and that lovely maid.
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love, ambitious, sought a match of Birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?
Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,
Is the young Dauphin every way compleat:
If not compleat, (a) ^note oh say, he is not she;
And she again wants nothing, (to name Want,)
If Want it be not, that she is not he.
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such a She:
And she a fair divided Excellence,

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
Oh! two such silver currents, when they join,
Do glorifie the banks that bound them in:
And two such shores, to two such streams made one,
Two such controlling bounds shall you be, Kings,
To these two Princes, if you marry them.
This union shall do more than battery can,
To our fast-closed gates: for at this match,
With swifter Spleen than Powder can enforce,
The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,
And give you entrance; but without this match,
The sea enraged is not half so deaf,
Lions so confident, mountains and rocks
So free from motion; no, not death himself
In mortal fury half so peremptory,
As we to keep this City.

Faulc.
Here's a stay,
That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death
Out of his rags. Here's a large mouth, indeed,
That spits forth death, and mountains, rocks and seas;
Talks as familiarly of roaring Lions,
As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs.
What Cannoneer begot this lusty blood?
He speaks plain cannon-fire, and smoak and bounce,
He gives the bastinado with his tongue:
Our ears are cudgel'd; not a word of his,
But buffets better than a fist of France;
Zounds! I was never so bethumpt with words,
Since I first call'd my brother's father dad.

Eli.
Son, list to this conjunction, make this match,
Give with our Neice a dowry large enough;
For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie
Thy now unsur'd assurance to the Crown,
That yon green boy shall have no Sun to ripe
The bloom, that promiseth a mighty fruit.
I see a Yielding in the looks of France;
Mark, how they whisper; urge them, while their souls

Are capable of this ambition;
Lest zeal now melted by the windy breath
Of soft petitions, pity and remorse,
Cool and congeal again to what it was.

Cit.
Why answer not the double Majesties
This friendly Treaty of our threaten'd town?

K. Philip.
Speak, England, first, that hath been forward first
To speak unto this City: what say you?

K. John.
If that the Dauphin there, thy Princely son,
Can in this book of beauty read, I love;
Her dowry shall weigh equal with a Queen.
For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,
And all that we upon this side the sea,
Except this City now by us besieg'd,
Find liable to our Crown and Dignity,
Shall gild her bridal bed; and make her rich
In titles, honours, and promotions;
As she in beauty, education, blood,
Holds hand with any Princess of the world.

K. Philip.
What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

Lewis.
I do, my lord, and in her eye I find
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle;
The shadow of myself form'd in her eye;
Which, being but the shadow of your son,
Becomes a Sun, and makes your son a shadow.
I do protest, I never lov'd myself,
Till now, infixed, I beheld myself,
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. [Whispering with Blanch.

Faulc.
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye!
  Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!
And quarter'd in her heart! he doth espie
  Himself love's traitor: this is pity now,
That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there should be,
In such a Love, so vile a lout as he.

Blanch.
My uncle's will in this respect is mine.
If he see aught in you, that makes him like,
That any thing he sees, which moves his liking,
I can with ease translate it to my will:
Or if you will, to speak more properly,
I will enforce it easily to my love.
Further I will not flatter you, my lord,
That all I see in you is worthy love,
Than this; that nothing do I see in you,
(Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge)
That I can find should merit any hate.

K. John.
What say these young Ones? what say you, my Neice?

Blanch.
That she is bound in Honour still to do
What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

K. John.
Speak then, Prince Dauphin, can you love this lady?

Lewis.
Nay, ask me, if I can refrain from love;
For I do love her most unfeignedly.

K. John.
Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,
Poictiers, and Anjou, these five Provinces,
With her to thee; and this addition more,
Full thirty thousand Marks of English coin.
Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal,
Command thy Son and Daughter to join hands.

K. Philip.
It likes us well; young Princes, close your hands.

Aust.
And your lips too; for, I am well assur'd,
That I did so, when I was first assur'd.

K. Philip.
Now, Citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,
Let in that amity which you have made:
For at Saint Mary's Chapel presently
The Rights of Marriage shall be solemniz'd.
Is not the lady Constance in this troop?
I know, she is not; for this Match made up
Her presence would have interrupted much.

Where is she and her son, tell me, who knows?

Lewis.
She's sad and passionate at your Highness' Tent.

K. Philip.
And, by my faith, this league, that we have made,
Will give her sadness very little Cure.
Brother of England, how may we content
This widow lady? in her Right we came;
Which we, God knows, have, turn'd another way
To our own vantage.

K. John.
We will heal up all,
For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Britain,
And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town
We make him lord of. Call the lady Constance;
Some speedy Messenger bid her repair
To our Solemnity: I trust, we shall,
If not fill up the measure of her will,
Yet in some measure satisfie her so,
That we shall stop her exclamation.
Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,
To this unlook'd-for, unprepared, Pomp. [Exeunt all but Faulconbridge. SCENE VI.

Faulc.
Mad world, mad Kings, mad composition!
John, to stop Arthur's Title in the whole,
Hath willingly departed with a part:
And France, whose armour Conscience buckled on,
Whom Zeal and Charity brought to the field,
As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear
With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,
That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith,
That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,
Of Kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,
Who having no external thing to lose
But the word Maid, cheats the poor maid of that;

That smooth-fac'd gentleman, tickling Commodity,—
Commodity, the biass of the world,
&wlquo;The world, which of itself is poised well,
&wlquo;Made to run even, upon even ground;
&wlquo;Till this advantage, this vile-drawing biass,
&wlquo;This sway of motion, this Commodity,
&wlquo;Makes it take head from all indifferency,
&wlquo;From all direction, purpose, course, intent.&wrquo;
And this same biass, this Commodity,
This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,
Clapt on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid,
From a resolv'd and honourable war,
To a most base and vile-concluded peace.—
And why rail I on this Commodity?
But for because he hath not wooed me yet:
Not that I have the power to clutch my hand,
When his fair angels would salute my palm;
But that my hand, as unattempted yet,
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, while I am a beggar, I will rail;
And say, there is no sin but to be rich:
And being rich, my virtue then shall be,
To say, there is no vice, but beggary.
Since Kings break faith upon commodity,
Gain, be my lord; for I will worship thee! [Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I. The French King's Pavilion. Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury.

Constance.
Gone to be marry'd! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends!
Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?
It is not so, thou hast mis-spoke, mis-heard;
Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again,
It cannot be; thou dost but say, 'tis so.
I trust, I may not trust thee; for thy word
Is but the vain breath of a common man:
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;
I have a King's oath to the contrary.
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears;
Opprest with wrongs, and therefore full of fears:
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;
A woman, naturally born to fears,
And, tho' thou now confess thou didst but jest,
With my vext spirits I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?
Be these sad sighs confirmers of thy words?
Then speak again, not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Sal.
As true, as, I believe, you think them false,
That give you cause to prove my saying true.

Const.
Oh, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
And let belief and life encounter so,
As doth the fury of two desp'rate men,
Which in the very meeting, fall and die,
Lewis wed Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! what becomes of me?
Fellow, be gone, I cannot brook thy sight:
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

Sal.
What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done?

Const.
Which harm within itself so heinous is,
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

Arth.
I do beseech you, mother, be content.

&wlquo;Const.
&wlquo;If thou, that bidst me be content, wert grim,
&wlquo;Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,
&wlquo;Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless stains,
&wlquo;Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
&wlquo;Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks;
&wlquo;I would not care, I then would be content:
&wlquo;For then I should not love thee: no, nor thou
&wlquo;Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
&wlquo;But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy!
&wlquo;Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great.
&wlquo;Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lillies boast,
&wlquo;And with the half-blown rose.&wrquo; But fortune, oh!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and, won from thee,
Adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluckt on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to fortune, and to John;
That strumpet fortune, that usurping John!
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,
And leave these woes alone, which I alone

Am bound to under-bear.

Sal.
Pardon me, Madam,
I may not go without you to the Kings.

Const.
Thou may'st, thou shalt, I will not go with thee.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For Grief is proud, and makes his owner (a) ^note stout.
To me, and to the State of my great Grief,
Let Kings assemble: for my Grief's so great,
That no Supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: Here I and Sorrow sit:
Here is my Throne, bid Kings come bow to it. [Sits down on the Floor. SCENE II. Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanch, Elinor, Faulconbridge, and Austria.

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 splendor of his precious eye
The meagre cloddy earth to glitt'ring gold.
The yearly course, that brings this day about,
Shall never see it, but a holy-day.

Const.
A wicked day, and not an holy-day.— [Rising.
What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done,
That it in golden letter 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 wreck;
No bargains break, that are not this day made;
This day, all things begun come to ill end,
Yea, faith itself to hollow fashood change!

K. Philip.
By heaven, 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, 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, ye heav'ns, against these perjur'd Kings:
A widow cries, be husband to me, heav'n!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day in peace; but ere 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 humourous 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 a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.
O, that a man would speak those words to me!

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.
Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

&plquo;Aust.
&plquo;^{1 note}Methinks, that Richard's pride and Richard's fall
&plquo;Should be a precedent to fright you, Sir.&prquo;

&plquo;Faulc.
&plquo;What words are these? how do my sinews shake!
&plquo;My father's foe clad in my father's spoil!
&plquo;How doth Alecto whisper in my ears,
&plquo;Delay not, Richard, kill the villain strait;
&plquo;Disrobe him of the matchless monument,
&plquo;Thy father's triumph o'er the savages.—
&plquo;Now by his soul I swear, my father's soul,
&plquo;Twice will I not review the morning's rise,
&plquo;Till I have torn that trophy from thy back;
&plquo;And split thy heart, for wearing it so long.&prquo;

K. John.
We like not this, thou dost forget thyself.

SCENE III. 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 'forsaid holy Father's name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

K. John.
What earthly name to interrogatories
Can task 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 supreme 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 rev'rence set apart
To him and his usurp'd authority.

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

K. John.
Tho' you and all the Kings of Christendom
Are led so grosly by this medling Priest,
Dreading the curse, that mony may buy out;
And buy ^note the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself:
Tho' 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 itself 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 pow'r 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.

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on his recreant limbs.

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

Faulc.
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's the curse of Rome.

Const.
Lewis, stand fast; the Devil tempts thee here
In likeness of ^{2 note}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.

Faulc.
Hang nothing but a calve's-skin, most sweet lout.

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

Pand.
What can'st thou say, but will perplex thee more,
If thou stand excommunicate and curst?

K. Philip.
Good rev'rend father, make my person yours;
And tell me, how you would bestow yourself.

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 of peace,
Heav'n knows, they were besmear'd and over-stain'd
With slaughter's pencil; where revenge did paint
The fearful diff'rence 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 seizure, and this kind regreet?
Play fast and loose with faith? so, jest with heav'n?
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
As now again to snatch our palm from palm?
Un-swear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed
Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,
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 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 chafed lyon 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 thyself;
And may not be performed by thyself.
For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss,
^{3 note}

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 thyself rebellion to thyself.
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.

Faulc.
Will't not be?
Will not a calve's-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; (ah! alack, how new
Is husband in my mouth?) ev'n 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
Forethought 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'll 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.

Faulc.
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 whirl 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:
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose:
Assured loss, before the match be play'd.

Lewis.
Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.

Blanch.
There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

K. John.
Cousin, go draw our puissance together. [Exit Faulconbridge.
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 shalt turn
To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

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

SCENE IV. Changes to a Field of Battle. Alarms, Excursions: Enter Faulconbridge, with Austria's Head.

Faulc.
Now, by my life, this day grows wond'rous hot;
^{5 note}Some fiery devil hovers in the sky,
And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there.—
Thus hath King Richard's son perform'd his vow,
And offer'd Austria's blood for sacrifice
Unto his father's ever-living soul. Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert.

K. John.
There, Hubert, keep this boy. Richard, make up;
My mother is assailed in our tent,
And ta'en, I fear.

Faulc.
My lord, I rescu'd 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. SCENE V. Alarms, Excursions, Retreat. Re-enter King John, Elinor, Arthur, Faulconbridge, Hubert, and Lords.

K. John.
So shall it be; your Grace shall stay behind
So strongly guarded: Cousin, look not sad, [To Arthur.
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, [To Faulconbridge.
And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags
Of hoarding Abbots; their imprison'd angels
Set thou at liberty: ^{6 note}

Faulc.
Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,
When gold and silver beck 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, my gentle cousin.

K. John.
Coz, farewel. [Exit Faulc.

Eli.
Come hither, little kinsman;—hark, a word. [Taking him to one side of the stage.

K. John. [to Hubert on the other side.
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 time.
By heaven, Hubert, I'm 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.
&plquo;I had a thing to say—but, let it go:
&plquo;The sun is in the heav'n, and the proud day,
&plquo;Attended with the pleasures of the world,
&plquo;Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
&plquo;To give me audience. If the midnight bell
&plquo;Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
&plquo;^{7 note}
Sound one unto the drowsie race of night;
&plquo;If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
&plquo;And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
&plquo;Or if that surly spirit Melancholy
&plquo;Had bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick,
&plquo;Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,
&plquo;Making that ideot laughter keep mens' eyes,
&plquo;And strain their cheeks to idle merriment;
&plquo;(A passion hateful to my purposes)
&plquo;Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
&plquo;Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
&plquo;Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
&plquo;Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
&plquo;Then, in despight of broad-ey'd watchful day,
&plquo;I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
&plquo;But ah, I will not&prquo;—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,
Tho' that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heav'n, I'd do't.

K. John.
Do not I know, thou would'st?
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. [Returning to the Queen.
I'll send those pow'rs o'er to your Majesty.

Eli.
My blessing go with thee!

K. John.
For England, cousin, go.
Hubert shall be your man, t'attend on you
With all true duty; on, toward Calais, ho! [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Changes to the French Court. Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulpho, and Attendants.

K. Philip.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
^{8 note}

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 Pris'ner? diverse dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'er-bearing interruption, spite of France?

Lewis.
What he hath won, that hath he fortify'd:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temp'rate order ^{9 note}in so fierce a course,
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 'gainst her will
In the vile prison of afflicted breath;
I pr'ythee, 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, and redress,
But that, which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death; oh amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness,
Arise forth from thy 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 houshold worms;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster, like thyself;

Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st,
And kiss thee as thy wife; misery's 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,
And scorns a modern invocation.

Pand.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Const.
Thou art not holy to belie 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 heaven, I were!
For then 'tis like, I should forget myself.
Oh, 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 myself.
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 diff'rent 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,
Ev'n to that drop ten thousand wiery friends
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 giv'n 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, 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 meagre as an ague's 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 heinous 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, [Tearing off her head-cloaths.
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 sorrow's cure! [Exit.

K. Philip.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit. SCENE VII.

Lewis.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy;
&plquo;Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
&plquo;Vexing the dull ear of a drowsie man.&prquo;
A bitter shame hath spoilt the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Ev'n 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 threat'ning 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 prisonor?

Lewis.
As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.

Pand.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak with a prophetick spirit;
For ev'n 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 boist'rously maintain'd, as gain'd.

&wlquo;And he, that stands upon a slippr'y place,
&wlquo;Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.&wrquo;
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.
&wlquo;This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts
&wlquo;Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal;
&wlquo;That no so small advantage shall step forth
&wlquo;To check his reign, but they will cherish it.
&wlquo;No nat'ral exhalation in the sky,
&wlquo;^{1 note}
No 'scape of nature, no distemper'd day,
&wlquo;No common wind, no customed event,
&wlquo;But they will pluck away its nat'ral cause,
&wlquo;And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
&wlquo;Abortives, and presages, tongues of heav'n
&wlquo;Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.&wrquo;

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.
Ev'n 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 hurly 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 twelve 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. 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. ACT IV. SCENE I. Changes to ENGLAND. A PRISON. Enter Hubert and Executioners.

Hubert.
Heat me these irons hot, and, look, thou stand
Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth;
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful; hence, and watch.

Exe.
I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hub.
Uncleanly scruples! fear not you; look to't.—
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur.

Arth.
Good morrow, Hubert.

Hub.
Good morrow, little prince.

Arth.
As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. You are sad.

Hub.
Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth.
Mercy on me!
Methinks, no body should be sad but I;
Yet I remember when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.
And so I would be here, but that, I doubt,
My uncle practises more harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault, that I was Geffrey's son?
Indeed, it is not; and I would to heav'n,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

Hub.
If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lyes dead;
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. [Aside.

Arth.
Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to day;
In sooth, I wou'd, you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night and watch with you.
Alas, I love you more than you do me.

Hub.
His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur— [Shewing a paper.
How now, foolish rheum, [Aside.
Turning dis-piteous (a) ^note nature out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.—
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth.
Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with irons burn out both mine eyes?

Hub.
Young boy, I must.

Arth.
And will you?

Hub.
And I will.

Arth.
Have you the heart? when your head did but ake,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows;
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon chear'd up the heavy time,
Saying, what lack you? and where lyes your grief?
Or what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, an if you will:
If heav'n be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why then, you must—Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you.

Hub.
I've sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth.
Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it.
The iron of itself, tho' heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench its fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard, than hammer'd iron?
Oh! if an Angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,

^{1 note}

Hub.
Come forth; do, as I bid you. [Stamps, and the men enter.

Arth.
O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out,
Ev'n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub.
Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth.
Alas, what need you be so boist'rous-rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heav'n's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound.
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb.
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub.
Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

Exec.
I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. [Exeunt.

Arth.
Alas, I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart;
Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

Hub.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth.
Is there no remedy?

Hub.
None, but to lose your eyes.

Arth.
O heav'n! that there were but a moth in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense:
Then, feeling what small thngs are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub.
Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.—

Arth.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue: let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!
Though to no use, but still to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub.
I can heat it, boy.

Arth.
No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extreams; see else yourself,
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heav'n hath blown its spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on its head.

Hub.
But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

Arth.
And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes:
And like a dog, that is compell'd to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things, that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office; only you do lack
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extend,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub.
Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye,

For all the treasure that thine uncle owns:
Yet am I sworn; and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth.
O, now you look like Hubert. All this while
You were disguised.

Hub.
Peace: no more. Adieu,
Your uncle must not know but you are dead.
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

Arth.
O heav'n! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub.
Silence, no more; go closely in with me.
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Changes to the Court of England. Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords.

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 faiths 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;
&wlquo;To gild refined gold, to paint the lilly,
&wlquo;To throw a perfume on the violet,
&wlquo;To smooth the ice, or add another hue

&wlquo;Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
&wlquo;To seek the beauteous eye of heav'n to garnish,&wrquo;
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

Pemb.
But that your royal pleasure must be done,
This act is as an ancient tale new told,
And in the last repeating troublesome;
Being urged at a time unseasonable.

&wlquo;Sal.
&wlquo;In this the antique and well-noted face
&wlquo;Of plain old form is much disfigured;
&wlquo;And, like a shifted wind unto a sail,
&wlquo;It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about;
&wlquo;Startles and frights consideration;
&wlquo;Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected,
&wlquo;For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.&wrquo;

Pemb.
When workmen strive to do better than well,
They do confound their ^{2 note}skill in covetousness;
And oftentimes excusing of a fault
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse:
As patches, set upon a little breach,
Discredit more ^{3 note}
in hiding of the flaw,
Than did the flaw before it was so patch'd.

Sal.
To this effect, before you were new-crown'd,
We breath'd our counsel; but it pleas'd your highness
To over-bear it; and we're all well pleas'd;
Since all and every part of what we would,
Must make a stand at what your highness will.

K. John.
Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possest you with, and think them strong.
And more, more strong (the lesser is my fear)
I shall endue you with: 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,
To sound the purposes of all their hearts,
(Both for myself and them; but chief of all,
Your safety; for the which, myself and they
Bend their best studies;) heartily request
Th' infranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint
Doth move the murm'ring lips of discontent
To break into this dang'rous argument;
If what in rest you have, in right you hold,
Why shou'd 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;
Which for our good we do no further ask,
Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,
Counts it your weal, that he have liberty. Enter Hubert.

K. John.
Let it be so; I do commit his youth
To your direction. Hubert, what news with you?

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 (a) ^note 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.
That blood, which own'd the breadth of all this isle,
Three foot of it doth hold; bad world the while!
This must not be thus borne; this will break out
To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter a Messenger.

K. John.
They burn in indignation; I repent.
There is no sure foundation set on blood;
No certain life atchiev'd by others' death— [Aside.
A fearful eye thou hast; where is that blood, [To the Messenger.
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.
The copy of your speed is learn'd by them:
For when you should be told, they do prepare,
The tidings come, that they are all arriv'd.

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 frenzie dy'd
Three days before: but this from rumour's tongue
I idlely heard; if true or false, I know not.

K. John.
With-hold thy speed, dreadful occasion!
O make a league with me, till I have pleas'd
My discontented peers. What! 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, and Peter of Pomfret.

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.

Faul.
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 breath again
Alost the flood, and can give audience
To 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,
And here's a Prophet that I brought with me
From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found
With many hundreds treading on his heels:
To whom he sung in rude harsh-sounding rhimes,
That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,
Your Highness should deliver up your crown.

K. John.
Thou idle dreamer, wherefore did'st thou so?

Peter.
Fore-knowing, that the truth will fall out so.

K. John.
Hubert, away with him, imprison him,
And on that day at noon, whereon he says
I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang'd.
Deliver him to safety, and return,
For I must use thee.—O my gentle cousin, [Exit Hubert, with Peter.
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 Bigot 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: the better foot before.
O, let me have no subject enemies,
When adverse foreigners affright my towns
With dreadful pomp of stout invasion.
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.

K. John.
Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman.
Go after him; for he, perhaps, shall need
Some messenger betwixt me and the Peers;
And be thou he.

Mes.
With all my heart, my Liege. [Exit.

K. John.
My mother dead! SCENE IV. 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 motion.

K. John.
Five moons?

Hub.
Old men and beldams, in the streets,
Do prophesie upon it dangerously:
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths;
&plquo;And, when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
&plquo;And whisper one another in the ear.
&plquo;And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist,
&plquo;Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action
&plquo;With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
&plquo;I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,
&plquo;The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
&plquo;With open mouth swallowing a taylor's news;
&plquo;Who with his shears and measure in his hand,
&plquo;Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste
&plquo;Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,
&plquo;Told of a many thousand warlike French,
&plquo;That were embatteled and rank'd in Kent.
&plquo;Another lean, unwash'd artificer
&plquo;Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.&prquo;

K. John.
Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?
Thy hand hath murther'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?

&wlquo;K. John.
&wlquo;^{4 note}It is the curse of Kings, to be attended
&wlquo;By slaves that take their humours for a warrant,
&wlquo;To break into the bloody house of life:
&wlquo;And, on the winking of authority,
&wlquo;To understand a law, to know the meaning
&wlquo;Of dang'rous majesty; when, perchance, it frowns
&wlquo;More upon humour, than advis'd respect.&wrquo;

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.
&wlquo;How oft the sight of means, to do ill deeds,
&wlquo;Makes deeds ill done? for hadst not thou been by,
&wlquo;A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
&wlquo;Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame,
&wlquo;This murther had not come into my mind.&wrquo;
But taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody villany,
Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger,
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—

&wlquo;K. John.
&wlquo;Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause,
&wlquo;When I spake darkly what I purposed:

&wlquo;Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,
&wlquo;Or bid me tell my tale in express words;
&wlquo;Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
&wlquo;And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.&wrquo;
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again parley with sin;
Yea, without stop, did'st 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.
Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden, and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter'd yet
^{5 note}

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.

K. John.
Doth Arthur live? O, 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.
I conjure thee but slowly: run more fast. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Street before a Prison. Enter Arthur on the Walls, disguis'd.

Arth.
The wall is high, and yet will I leap down.
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not!
There's few or none do know me: if they did,
This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite.
I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it.
If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:
As good to die, and go; as die, and stay. [Leaps down.

Oh me! my Uncle's spirit is in these stones:
Heav'n take my soul, and England keep my bones! [Dies. Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.

Sal.
Lords, I will meet him at St. Edmondsbury;
It is our safety; and we must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pem.
Who brought that letter from the Cardinal?

Sal.
The Count Melun, a noble lord of France,
^{6 note}Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love
Is much more gen'ral than these lines import.

Bigot.
To-morrow morning let us meet him then.

Sal.
Or rather then set forward, for 'twill be
Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Once more to day well met, distemper'd lords;
The King by me requests your presence strait.

Sal.
The King hath dispossest himself of us;
We will not line his thin, bestained cloak
With our pure honours: nor attend the foot,
That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks.
Return, and tell him so: we know the worst.

Faulc.
What e'er you think, good words, I think, were best.

Sal.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

Faulc.
But there is little reason in your grief,
Therefore, 'twere reason, you had manners now.

Pem.
Sir, Sir, impatience hath its privilege.

Faulc.
'Tis true, to hurt its master, no man else.

Sal.
This is the prison: what is he lyes here? [Seeing Arthur.

Pem.
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

Sal.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Bigot.
Or when he doom'd this beauty to the grave,
Found it too precious princely for a grave.

Sal.
Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld,
Or have you read, or heard, or could you think,
Or do you almost think, altho' you see,
What you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another? 'tis the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest
Of murder's arms; this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savag'ry, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage,
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

Pem.
All murders past do stand excus'd in this;
And this so sole, and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,
To the yet-unbegotten sins of time;
And prove a deadly blood-shed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

Faulc.
It is a damned and a bloody work,
The graceless action of a heavy hand:
If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal.
If that it be the work of any hand?
We had a kind of light, what would ensue.
It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand,
The practice and the purpose of the King:
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,
And breathing to this breathless excellence
The incense of a vow, a holy vow!
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
Till I have set a glory to this hand,

By giving it the worship of revenge.

Pem. Bigot.
Our souls religiously confirm thy words. SCENE VI. Enter Hubert.

Hub.
Lords, I am hot with haste, in seeking you;
Arthur doth live, the King hath sent for you.

Sal.
Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death;
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hub.
I am no villain.

Sal.
Must I rob the law? [Drawing his Sword.

Faulc.
Your sword is bright, Sir, put it up again.

Sal.
Not till I sheath it in a murd'rer's skin.

Hub.
Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;
By heav'n, I think, my sword's as sharp as yours.
I would not have you, Lord, forget yourself,
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

Bigot.
Out, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a Nobleman?

Hub.
Not for my life; but yet I dare defend
My innocent life against an Emperor.

Sal.
Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub.
Do not prove me so;
Yet, I am none. Whose tongue soever speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lyes.

Pem.
Cut him to pieces.

Faulc.
Keep the peace, I say.

Sal.
Stand by, or I shall gaul you, Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Thou wert better gaul the devil, Salisbury.
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
I'll strike the dead. Put up thy sword betime,
Or I'll so maul you, and your tosting-iron,
That you shall think, the devil is come from hell.

Bigot.
What will you do, renowned Faulconbridge?
Second a villain, and a murderer?

Hub.
Lord Bigot, I am none.

Bigot.
Who kill'd this Prince?

Hub.
'Tis not an hour since I left him well:
I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep
My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss.

Sal.
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without such a rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorse and innocence.
Away with me all you, whose souls abhor
Th' uncleanly savour of a slaughter-house,
For I am stifled with the smell of sin.

Bigot.
Away towr'd Bury, to the Dauphin there.

Pem.
There, tell the King, he may enquire us out. [Exeunt Lords. SCENE VII.

Faulc.
Here's a good world; knew you of this fair work?
Beyond the infinite and boundless reach
Of mercy, (if thou didst this deed of death)
Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

Hub.
Do but hear me, Sir.

Faulc.
Ha! I'll tell thee what,
Thou'rt damn'd so black—nay, nothing is so black;
Thou art more deep damn'd than prince Lucifer.
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

Hub.
Upon my soul—

Faulc.
If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread,
That ever spider twisted from her womb,

Will strangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or would'st thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.
I do suspect thee very grievously.

Hub.
If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.

Faulc.
Go, bear him in thine arms.
I am amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
^{7 note}How easie dost thou take all England up!
From forth this morsel of dead Royalty,
The life, the right, and truth of all this Realm
Is fled to heav'n; and England now is left
To tug and scramble, and to part by th' teeth
The un-owed interest of proud-swelling State.
Now for the bare-pickt bone of Majesty,
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest;
And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace.
Now Pow'rs from home and discontents at home
Meet in one line: and vast confusion waits
(As doth a Raven on a sick, fall'n beast)
The imminent Decay of wrested Pomp.
Now happy he, whose cloak and cincture can
Hold out this tempest. Bear away the child,
And follow me with speed; I'll to the King;
A thousand businesses are brief at hand,
And heav'n itself doth frown upon the Land. [Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE I. The Court of england. Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants.

K. John.
Thus I have yielded up into your hand
The circle of my Glory. [Giving the Crown.

Pand.
Take again
From this my hand, as holding of the Pope,
Your sovereign Greatness and Authority.

K. John.
Now keep your holy word; go meet the French,
And from his Holiness use all your power
To stop the Marches, 'fore we are inflam'd.
Our discontented Counties do revolt;
Our people quarrel with obedience;
Swearing allegiance, and the love of soul,
To stranger blood, to foreign Royalty;
This inundation of mistemper'd humour
Rests by you only to be qualify'd.
Then pause not; for the present time's so sick,
That present medicine must be ministred,
Or Overthrow incurable insues.

Pand.
It was my breath that blew this tempest up,
Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope:
But since you are a gentle convertite,
My tongue shall hush again this storm of war;
And make fair weather in your blust'ring Land.
On this Ascension-day, remember well,
Upon your oath of service to the Pope,
Go I to make the French lay down their arms. [Exit.

K. John.
Is this Ascension-day? did not the Prophet

Say, that before Ascension-day at noon
My Crown I should give off? even so I have:
I did suppose, it should be on constraint;
But, heav'n be thank'd, it is but voluntary. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
All Kent hath yielded, nothing there holds out
But Dover-Castle: London hath receiv'd,
Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his Powers.
Your Nobles will not hear you, but are gone
To offer service to your enemy;
And wild amazement hurries up and down
The little number of your doubtful friends.

K. John.
Would not my lords return to me again,
After they heard, young Arthur was alive?

Faulc.
They found him dead, and cast into the streets,
An empty casket, where the jewel, life,
By some damn'd hand was robb'd and ta'en away.

K. John.
That villain Hubert told me, he did live.

Faulc.
So on my soul he did, for aught he knew:
But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?
Be great in act, as you have been in thought:
Let not the world see fear and sad distrust
Govern the motion of a kingly eye:
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;
Threaten the threatner, and out-face the brow
Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,
That borrow their behaviours from the Great,
Grow great by your example; and put on
The dauntless spirit of resolution.
Away, and glister like the God of war,
When he intendeth to become the field;
Shew boldness and aspiring confidence.
What, shall they seek the Lion in his den,

And fright him there? and make him tremble there?
Oh, let it not be said! Forage, and run
To meet displeasure farther from the doors;
And grapple with him, ere he come so nigh.

K. John.
The Legate of the Pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him;
And he hath promis'd to dismiss the Powers
Led by the Dauphin.

Faulc.
Oh inglorious league!
Shall we, upon the footing of our Land,
Send fair-play-orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce,
To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,
A cocker'd, silken, Wanton brave our fields,
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with Colours idely spread,
And find no check? let us, my Liege, to arms:
Perchance, the Cardinal can't make your peace;
Or if he do, let it at least be said,
They saw, we had a purpose of defence.

K. John.
Have thou the ord'ring of this present time.

Faulc.
Away then, with good courage; yet, I know,
Our Party may well meet a prouder foe. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Changes to the Dauphin's Camp. Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, Pembroke, Bigot, and Soldiers.

Lewis.
My lord Melun, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance:

Return the president to these lords again,
That having our fair order written down,
Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes,
May know wherefore we took the Sacrament;
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Sal.
Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear
A voluntary zeal and un-urg'd faith
To your proceedings; yet believe me, Prince,
I am not glad that such a Sore of time
Should seek a plaister by contemn'd revolt;
And heal th' inveterate canker of one wound,
By making many. Oh, it grieves my soul,
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker: oh, and there,
Where honourable rescue, and defence,
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury.
But such is the infection of the time,
That, for the health and physick of our Right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice, and confused wrong.
And is't not pity, oh, my grieved friends!
That we the sons and children of this Isle,
Were born to see so sad an hour as this,
Wherein we step after a stranger March
Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up
Her enemies ranks? (I must withdraw and weep
Upon the Spot of this enforced cause;)
To grace the gentry of a Land remote,
And follow unacquainted Colours here?
What, here? O nation, that thou could'st remove!
That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about,
Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,
And grapple thee unto a Pagan shore!
Where these two christian armies might combine
The blood of malice in a vein of league,

And not to spend it so un-neighbourly.

Lewis.
A noble temper dost thou shew in this;
And great affection, wrestling in thy bosom,
Doth make an earthquake of Nobility.
Oh, what a noble combat hast thou fought,
^{1 note}Between compulsion, and a brave respect!
Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks.
&wlquo;My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
&wlquo;Being an ordinary inundation:
&wlquo;But this effusion of such manly drops,
&wlquo;This show'r, blown up by tempest of the soul,
&wlquo;Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd,
&wlquo;Than had I seen the vaulty top of heav'n
&wlquo;Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.&wrquo;
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm.
&wlquo;Commend these waters to those baby-eyes,
&wlquo;That never saw the giant world enrag'd;
&wlquo;Nor met with fortune, other than at feasts,
&wlquo;Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossipping.&wrquo;
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep
Into the purse of rich prosperity,
As Lewis himself; so, Nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.

SCENE III. Enter Pandulph.

And even there, methinks, an angel (a) ^note speeds;
Look, where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heav'n,
And on our actions set the name of Right
With holy breath.

Pand.
Hail, noble Prince of France!
The next is this: King John hath reconcil'd
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,
That so stood out against the holy Church,
The great Metropolis and See of Rome.
Therefore thy threatning Colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war;
That, like a Lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lye gently at the foot of peace:
And be no further harmful than in shew.

Lewis.
Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not back:
I am too high-born to be propertied,
To be a secondary at controul;
Or useful serving-man, and instrument,
To any sovereign State throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of war,
Between this chastis'd Kingdom and myself;
And brought in matter, that should feed this fire.
And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out,
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of Right,
Acquainted me with int'rest to this Land;
Yea, thrust this enterprize into my heart:
And come ye now, to tell me John hath made

His peace with Rome? what is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,
After young Arthur, claim this Land for mine:
And now it is half-conquer'd, must I back,
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I Rome's slave? what penny hath Rome borne.
What men provided, what munition sent,
To under-prop this action? is't not I,
That undergo this charge? who else but I,
And such as to my Claim are liable,
Sweat in this business, and maintain this war?
Have I not heard these islanders shout out,
Vive le Roy! as I have bank'd their towns?
Have I not here the best cards for the game,
To win this easie match, plaid for a Crown?
And shall I now give o'er the yielded Set?
No, on my soul, it never shall be said.

Pand.
You look but on the outside of this work.

Lewis.
Outside or inside, I will not return,
Till my attempt so much be glorified,
As to my ample hope was promised,
Before I drew this gallant head of war;
And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world,
To outlook Conquest, and to win Renown
Ev'n in the jaws of danger, and of death. [Trumpet sounds.
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? SCENE IV. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
According to the fair Play of the world,
Let me have audience: I am sent to speak,
My holy lord of Milain, from the King:
I come, to learn how you have dealt for him:

And as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.

Pand.
The Dauphin is too willfull-opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties:
He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.

Faulc.
By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
The Youth says well. Now hear our English King;
For thus his Royalty doth speak in me:
He is prepar'd; and reason too, he should.
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd mask, and unadvised revel,
This unheard sawciness and boyish troops,
The King doth smile at; and is well-prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his Territories.
That hand which had the strength, ev'n at your door,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;
To crouch in litter of your stable-planks,
To lye, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and trunks;
To herd with swine; to seek sweet safety out,
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake,
Ev'n at the crying of our nation's Crow,
Thinking his voice an armed English man;
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No; know, the gallant Monarch is in arms;
And like an Eagle o'er his Aiery tow'rs,
To souse annoiance that comes near his nest.
And you degen'rate, you ingrate Revolts,
You bloody Nero's, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame.
For your own ladies, and pale-visag'd maids,
Like Amazons, come tripping after drums;
Their Thimbles into armed Gantlets change,
Their Needles to Lances, and their gentle Hearts

To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lewis.
There end thy Brave, and turn thy face in peace;
We grant, thou canst out-scold us; fare thee well:
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a babler.

Pand.
Give me leave to speak.

Faulc.
No, I will speak.

Lewis.
We will attend to neither:
Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war
Plead for our int'rest, and our being here.

Faulc.
Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten; do but start
An Echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverb'rate all as loud as thine.
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder. For at hand
(Not trusting to this halting Legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport, than need)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd death; whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lewis.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

Faulc.
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Changes to a Field of Battle. Alarms. Enter King John and Hubert.

K. John.
How goes the day with us? oh, tell me, Hubert.

Hub.
Badly, I fear; how fares your Majesty?

K. John.
This feaver, that hath troubled me so long,
Lyes heavy on me: oh, my heart is sick! Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,
Desires your Majesty to leave the field;
And send him word by me which way you go.

K. John.
Tell him, tow'rd Swinstead, to the Abbey there.

Mes.
Be of good Comfort: for the great Supply,
That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wreck'd three nights ago an ^note Godwin-sands.
This news was brought to Richard but ev'n now;
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John.
Ah me! this tyrant feaver burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on tow'rd Swinstead; to my Litter strait;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Changes to the French Camp. Enter Salisbury, Pembroke and 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 Melun, wounded.

Melun.
Lead me to the Revolts of England here.

Sal.
When we were happy, we had other names.

Pemb.
It is the Count Melun.

Sal.
Wounded to death.

Melun.
Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;
Unthread the rude eye 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. Edmonsbury;
Ev'n on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

Sal.
May this be possible! may this be true!

Melun.
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?
Why should I then be false, since it is true,
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,
He is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the east.
But ev'n this night, whose black contagious breath
Already smoaks about the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,
Ev'n this ill night, your breathing shall expire;
Paying the fine of rated treachery,
Ev'n with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
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,
Leaving our rankness and irregular course,
Stoop low within those bounds, we have o'er-look'd;
And calmly run on in 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
(a) ^notePight in thine eye. Away, my friends; new flight;
And happy newness, that intends old right! [Exeunt, leading off Melun. SCENE VII. Changes to a different part of the French Camp. Enter Lewis, and his Train.

Lewis.
The sun of heav'n, methought, was loth to set,
But staid, and made the western welkin blush;
When th' English measur'd backward their own ground
In faint retire: oh, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;

And wound our tatter'd colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!— Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Lewis.
Here; what news?

Mes.
The count Melun is slain; the English lords
By his perswasion are again fall'n off;
And your supply, which you have wish'd so long,
Are cast away, and sunk on Godwin sands.

Lewis.
Ah foul, shrewd, news! Beshrew thy very heart,
I did not think to be sad to night,
As this hath made me. Who was he, that said,
King John did fly, an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mes.
Who ever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lewis.
Well; keep good quarter, and good care to night;
The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of to morrow. [Exeunt. SCENE VIII. An open Place in the Neighbourhood of Swinstead Abbey. Enter Faulconbridge, and Hubert, severally.

Hub.
Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.

Faulc.
A friend. What art thou?

Hub.
Of the part of England.

Faulc.
And whither dost thou go?

Hub.
What's that to thee?
Why may not I demand of thine affairs,
As well as thou of mine?

Faulc.
Hubert, I think.

Hub.
Thou hast a perfect thought:
I will upon all hazards well believe
Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well:
Who art thou?

Faulc.
Who thou wilt; and, if thou please,
Thou may'st be-friend me so much, as to think,
I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hub.
Unkind remembrance! ^{2 note}thou and eyeless night
Have done me shame; brave soldier, pardon me,
That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,
Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Faulc.
Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?

Hub.
Why here walk I, in the black brow of night,
To find you out.

Faulc.
Brief then: and what's the news?

Hub.
O my sweet Sir, news fitting to the night;
Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

Faulc.
Shew me the very wound of this ill news,
I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.

Hub.
The King, I fear, is poison'd by a Monk:
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
T' acquaint you with this evil; that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time,
Than if you had at leisure known of this.

Faulc.
How did he take it? who did taste to him?

Hub.
A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,
Whose bowels suddenly burst out; the King
Yet speaks; and, peradventure, may recover.

Faulc.
Who didst thou leave to tend his Majesty?

Hub.
Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,
And brought Prince Henry in their company;
At whose request the King hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his Majesty.

Faulc.
With-hold thine indignation, mighty heav'n!
And tempt us not to bear above our power.
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my pow'rs this night,
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide;
These Lincoln-washes have devoured them;
Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped.
Away, before: conduct me to the King;
I doubt, he will be dead, or e'er I come. [Exeunt. SCENE IX. Changes to the Orchard in Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury and Bigot.

Henry.
It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain,
(Which, some suppose, the soul's frail dwelling house,)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretel the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke.

Pemb.
His highness yet doth speak, and holds belief,
That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison, which assaileth him.

Henry.
Let him be brought into the orchard here;
Doth he still rage?

Pemb.
He is more patient,
Than when you left him; even now he sung.

Henry.
O vanity of sickness! fierce extreams
In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them (a) ^note insensible; his siege is now,
Against the mind; the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies;
Which, in their throng, and press to that last hold,
Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing:—
I am the cygnet to this pale, faint swan,
Who chaunts a doleful hymn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal.
Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born
To set a form upon that indigest,
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. King John brought in.

K. John.
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

Henry.
How fares your Majesty?

K. John.
Poison'd, ill fare! dead, forsook, cast off;
&wlquo;And none of you will bid the winter come
&wlquo;To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
&wlquo;Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
&wlquo;Through my burn'd bosom: nor intreat the north
&wlquo;To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
&wlquo;And comfort me with cold.&wrquo; I ask not much,

I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ungrateful, you deny me that.

Henry.
Oh, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!

K. John.
The salt of them is hot.
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable, condemned blood. SCENE X. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc.
Oh! I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your Majesty.

K. John.
Oh! cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crackt and burnt;
And all the shrowds, wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou seest, is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.

Faulc.
The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where, heav'n he knows, how we shall answer him.
For, in a night, the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The King dies.

Sal.
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear:
My Liege! my Lord!—but now a King—now thus.

Henry.
Ev'n so must I run on, and ev'n so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a King, and now is clay?

Faulc.
Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind,
To do the office for thee of revenge:
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heav'n,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.
Now, now, you stars, that move in your bright spheres,
Where be your pow'rs? shew now your mended faiths,
And instantly return with me again,
To push destruction and perpetual shame
Out of the weak door of our fainting land:
Strait let us seek, or strait we shall be sought;
The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

Sal.
It seems you know not then so much as we:
The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,
Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin;
And brings from him such offers of our peace,
As we with honour and respect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.

Faulc.
He will the rather do it, when he sees
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Sal.
Nay, it is in a manner done already;
For many Carriages he hath dispatch'd
To the sea-side, and put his Cause and Quarrel
To the disposing of the Cardinal:
With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To consummate this business happily.

Faulc.
Let it be so; and you, my noble Prince,
With other Princes that may best be spar'd,
Shall wait upon your father's Funeral.

Henry.
At Worcester must his body be interr'd.
For so he will'd it.

Faulc.
Thither shall it then.
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal State, and Glory of the Land!
To whom, with all Submission on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services,
And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal.
And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a Spot for evermore.

Henry.
I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks,
And knows not how to do it, but with tears.

Faulc.
Oh, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been before-hand with our griefs.
(a) ^noteThus England never did, nor never shall,
Lye at the proud foot of a Conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her Princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them!—Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeunt omnes. Volume back matter The End of the Third Volume.

Previous section

Next section