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Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
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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.

-- 458 --

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.
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Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
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