Con.
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;
Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;
A woman, naturally born to fears:

And though 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 signs 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.

Con.
O, 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 desperate men,
Which, in the very meeting, fall, and die.—
Lewis marry Blanch! o, boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! what becomes of me?—
Fellow, be gone; I cannot brook thy sight;
The news ^note 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?

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

Art.
I do beseech you, madam, be content.

Con.
If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,
Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks,

I would not care, I then would be content;
For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy,
Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great:
Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lillies boast,
And with the half-blown rose: but fortune, o!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to fortune, and king 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 those woes alone, which I alone
Am bound to under-bear.

Sal.
Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the kings.

Con.
Thou may'st, thou shalt, I will not go with thee:
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud,14Q0545 and makes his owner stoop.
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 [throwing herself upon it.
Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. Flourish. Enter the two Kings, ^note and their Train; Blanch, Lewis, Elinor, Bastard, and Austria.

Phi.
'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 meager cloddy earth to glittering gold:
The yearly course, that brings this day about,
Shall never see it but a holy-day.

Con.
A wicked day, [rising.] and not a holy day:—
What hath this day deserv'd, what hath it done;
That it in golden letters should be set,
Among the high tides, in the kalendar?
Nay, rather, turn this day out of the week;
This day of shame, oppression, perjury.
Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child
Pray, that their burthens may not fall this day,
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be crost:
But on this day, let seamen fear no wreck;
No bargains break, that are not this day made:
This day, all things begun come to ill end;
Yea, faith itself to hollow falshood change!

Phi.
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?

Con.
You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit,
Resembling majesty; which, being touch'd, and try'd,
Proves valueless: You are forsworn, forsworn;
You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,
But now in arms you strengthen it with yours;
The grapling vigour and rough frown of war
Is clad ^note in amity14Q0546 and painted peace,
And our oppression hath made ^note up this league:—
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings!

A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day ^note in peace; but, ere sun-set,
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings!
Hear me, o, hear me!

Aus.
Lady Constance, peace.

Con.
War, war, no peace; peace is to me a war.
O Lymoges, o Austria, thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward;
Thou little valiant, great in villany;
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side;
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety; thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool; to brag, and 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 calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aus.
O, that a man should speak those words to me!

Bas.
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

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

Bas.
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Joh.
We like not this; thou dost forget thyself. Enter Pandulph, attended.

Phi.
Here comes the holy legate of the pope.

Pan.
Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!—
To thee, king John, my holy errand is.

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,
And from pope Innocent the legate here,
Do, in his name, religiously demand,
Why thou against the church, our holy mother,
So wilfully dost spurn; and, force perforce,
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop
Of Canterbury, from that holy see?
This, in our 'foresaid holy father's name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

Joh.
What earthly ^note name to interrogatories
Can task the ^note 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,14Q0547 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 heaven are supreme head,
So, under him, that great supremacy,
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,
Without the assistance of a mortal hand:
So tell the pope; all reverence set apart,
To him, and his usurp'd authority.

Phi.
Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

Joh.
Though you, and all the kings of christendom,
Are led so grosly by this medling priest,
Dreading the curse that money may buy out;
And, by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,
Who, in that sale, sells pardon from himself:
Though you, and all the rest, so grosly led,
This jugling witchcraft with revenue cherish;

Yet I, alone, alone do me oppose
Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.

Pan.
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 worship'd as a saint,
That takes away by any secret course
Thy hateful life.

Con.
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.

Pan.
There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

Con.
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?

Pan.
Philip of France, on peril of a curse,
Let go the hand of that arch-heretick;
And raise the power of France upon his head,
Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Eli.
Look'st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.

Con.
Look to that, devil; lest that France repent,
And, by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

Aus.
King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

Bas.
And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.

Aus.
Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,

Because—

Bas.
Your breeches best may carry them.

Joh.
Philip, what say'st thou to the cardinal?

Con.
What should he say, but as the cardinal?

Lew.
Bethink you, father; for the difference
Is, purchase of a heavy curse from Rome,
Or the light loss of England for a friend:
Forego the easier.

Bla.
That's ^note the curse of Rome.

Con.
O Lewis, stand fast; the devil tempts thee here,
In likeness14Q0548 of a new untrimmed ^note bride.

Bla.
The lady Constance speaks not from her faith,
But from her need.

Con.
O, 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.

Joh.
The king is ^note mov'd, and answers not to this.

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

Aus.
Do so, king Philip; hang no more in doubt.

Bas.
Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

Phi.
I am perplex'd, and know not what to say.

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

Phi.
Good reverend 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, coupl'd 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,—
Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and over-stain'd
With slaughter's pencil; where revenge did paint
The fearful difference of incensed kings:
And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood,
So newly join'd in love, so strong in both,
Unyoke this seisure, and this kind regreet?
Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
As now again to snatch our palm from palm;
Unswear 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 then we shall be blest
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.

Pan.
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, breath her curse,
A mother's curse, on her revolting son.
France, thou may'st hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed ^note lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

Phi.
I may disjoin † my hand, but not my faith.

Pan.
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 heaven, first be to heaven 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,
Is yet amiss ^note when it is truly done;
And being not done, where doing tends to ill,
The truth is then most done not doing it:
The better act of purposes mistook
Is, to mistake again; though indirect,
Yet indirection thereby grows direct,
And falshood falshood cures; as fire cools fire,
Within the scorched veins of one new burn'd.
It is religion14Q0549, that doth make vows kept;
But thou hast sworn against religion:
By which, thou ^note swear'st against the thing thou swear'st by;
And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth
Against an oath, the truth thou art unsure.
Who swears, ^note swears only not to be forsworn;—
Else, what a mockery should it be, to swear?—
But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;
And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.
Therefore, thy latter vows against thy first
Is in 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 prayers 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.

Aus.
Rebellion, flat rebellion.

Bas.
Wilt ^note not be?
Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine?

Lew.
Father, to arms!

Bla.
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!—aye, alack, ^note how new
Is husband in my mouth!—even for that name,
Which 'till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,
Upon my † knee I beg, go not to arms
Against mine uncle.

Con.
O, upon my † knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,
Thou virtuous dauphin, alter not the doom
Fore-thought by heaven.

Bla.
Now shall I see thy love; What motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

Con.
That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,
His honour;—O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!

Lew.
I muse, your majesty doth seem so cold,
When such profound respects do pull you on.

Pan.
I will denounce a curse upon his head.

Phi.
Thou shalt not need:—England, I will fall from thee.

Con.
O fair return of banish'd majesty!

Eli.
O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

Joh.
France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

Bas.
Old time the clock-setter, that bald sexton time,
Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.

Bla.
The sun's o'er-cast 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;
Grandame, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
Assured loss, before the match be play'd.

Lew.
Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lives ^note.14Q0550

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

Joh.
Cousin, go draw our puissance together.—
France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, ^note nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France.

Phi.
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.

Joh.
No more than he that threats.—To arms, let's hie! SCENE II. The same. Field of Battle. Alarums, as of a Battle join'd; Excursions: Enter Bastard, with a Head.

Bas.
Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;
Some airy devil hovers in the sky,
And pours down mischief. Austria's head, lie † there;

While Philip breaths.14Q0551 [Alarums. Enter King John, with Arthur, Prisoner; Hubert following.

Joh.
There, Hubert, keep this † boy:—Philip, make up;
My mother is assailed in our tent,
And ta'en, I fear.

Bas.
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 a happy end. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The same. Alarums; Excursions; afterward, a Retreat. Flourish. Enter King John, and Elinor; Bastard, Arthur, Hubert, Lords &c.

Joh.
So shall it be; [to Eli.] your grace shall stay behind,
So strongly guarded.—Cousin, look not sad:
Thy grandame loves thee; and thy uncle will
As dear be to thee as thy father was.

Art.
O, this will make my mother die with grief.

Joh.
Cousin, away for England; haste before:
And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags
Of hoarding abbots; their imprison'd angels
Set thou at liberty: the fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry14Q0552 now be fed upon:
Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bas.
Bell book and candle shall not drive me back,
When gold and silver becks ^note me to come on.
I leave your highness:—Grandame, I will pray
(If ever I remember to be holy)
For your fair safety; so I kiss your hand.

Eli.
Farewel, my gentle cousin.

Joh.
Coz, farewel. [Exit Bastard.

Eli.
Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. [to Arthur, drawing him aside.

Joh.
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 ^note.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.

Hub.
I am much bounden to your majesty.

Joh.
Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come, for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say,—But let it go:
The sun is in the heaven; and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience: If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto ^note14Q0553 the drouzy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins;
Making that ideot, laughter, keep mens' ^note eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes)

Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despight of broad-ey'd ^note watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But, ah, I will not: Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.

Hub.
So well, that, what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it. ^note

Joh.
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 lies before me: Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.

Hub.
And I'll keep him so,
That he shall not offend your majesty.

Joh.
Death.

Hub.
My lord?

Joh.
A grave.

Hub.
He shall not live.

Joh.
Enough.
I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember.—Madam, fare you well:
I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.

Eli.
My blessing go with thee!

Joh.
For England, cousin, go:
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

With all true duty.—On toward Calais, ho! [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. The French Camp. Enter King Philip, Lewis, and Pandulph.

Phi.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado of collected ^note sail
Is scatter'd, and disjoin'd from fellowship.

Pan.
Courage, and comfort! all shall yet go well.

Phi.
What can go well, when we have run so ill?
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?
Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'er-bearing interruption, spite of France?

Lew.
What he hath won, that hath he fortify'd:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temperate order in so fierce a course ^note,14Q0554
Doth want example; Who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this?

Phi.
Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Lady Constance, her Hair dishevel'd.
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath:—
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

Con.
Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!

Phi.
Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

Con.
No, I defy all counsel, all redress,
But that, which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch ^note 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 buss thee as thy wife: Misery's love,
O, come to me!

Phi.
O fair affliction, peace.

Con.
No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:—
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I ^note shake the world;
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot ^note hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern invocation.

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

Con.
Thou art not holy, to bely ^note 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:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget?—
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang 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 different plague of each calamity.

Phi.
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 fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends ^note
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Con.
To England, if you will.14Q0555

Phi.
Bind up your hairs.

Con.
Yes, that I will; And wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds; and cry'd aloud,
O, that these hands could so redeem my son,
As they have given these hairs their liberty!
But now I envy at their liberty,
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.—
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be, I ^note shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male-child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meager as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pan.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Con.
He talks to me, that never had a son.

Phi.
You are as fond of grief, as of your child.

Con.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies 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, [throwing away her Head-dress.
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! [Exit, wildly.

Phi.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit K. Phi.

Lew.
There's nothing in this world, can make me joy:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowzy man;
And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's ^note taste,
That it yields nought, but shame, and bitterness.

Pan.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils, that take leave,
On their departure most of all shew evil:
What have you lost by losing of this day?

Lew.
All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

Pan.
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 prisoner?

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

Pan.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak, with a prophetick spirit;
For even the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne: and, therefore, mark.
John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be,
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
One 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:
And he, that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;
So be it, for it cannot be but so.

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

Pan.
You, in the right of lady Blanch your wife,
May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew.
And lose it, ^note life and all, as Arthur did.

Pan.
How green you are, and fresh in this old world!
John lays you plots; the times conspire with you:
For he, that steeps his safety in true blood,
Shall find but bloody safety, and untrue.
This act, so evilly ^note born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal;

That none so ^note small advantage shall step forth,
To check his reign, ^note but they will cherish it:
No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scape ^note of nature, no distemper'd day,
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lew.
May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pan.
O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,
If that young Arthur be not gone already,
Even at that 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 a dozen French14Q0556
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little snow, tumbl'd about,
Anon becomes a mountain. O noble dauphin,
Go with me to the king: 'Tis wonderful,
What may be wrought out of their discontent:
Now that their souls are top-full of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew.
Strong reasons make ^note strong actions: ^note Let us go;

If you say, ay, the king will not say, no. [Exeunt.

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