Joh.
Thus have I yielded up into your hand
The circle of my glory.

Pan.
Take again [giving back the Crown.
From this my hand, as holding of the pope,
Your sovereign greatness and authority.

Joh.
Now keep your holy word: go meet the French;
And from his holiness use all your power
To stop their marches, 'fore we are enflam'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 med'cine must be minist'red, ^note
Or overthrow incurable ensues.

Pan.
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 blustring 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 Pandulph and Train.

Joh.
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, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary. Enter Bastard.

Bas.
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 ^note doubtful friends.

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

Bas.
They found him dead, and cast into the streets;
An empty casket, where the jewel of life ^note
By some damn'd hand was rob'd and ta'en away.

Joh.
That villain Hubert told me, he did live.

Bas.
So, on my soul, he did, for ought 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 mistrust,
Govern the motion of a kingly eye:
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire,
Threaten the threat'ner, 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?
O, let it not be said! Forage, and run
To meet displeasure farther from the doors;
And grapple with him, ere he come so nigh.

Joh.
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.

Bas.
O inglorious league!
Shall we, upon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parly, 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 idly spread,
And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms:
Perchance, the cardinal cannot make your peace;

Or if he do, let it at least be said,
They saw we had a purpose of defence.

Joh.
Have thou the ord'ring of this present time.

Bas.
Away then, with good courage; yet, I know,
Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Plain in Suffolk. Drums, &c. Enter Lewis, and Forces, marching; Melun, Pembroke, Bigot, Salisbury, and Others.

Lew.
My lord Melun, let this &dagger2; be copy'd out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance: ^note
Return the precedent14Q0563 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, an ^note unurg'd faith,
To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,
I am not glad that such a sore of time
Should seek a plaster by contemn'd ^note revolt,
And heal the inveterate canker of one wound
By making many: O, it grieves my soul,
That I must draw this † metal from my side
To be a widow-maker; o, 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, o my grieved friends,
That we, the sons and children of this isle,
Were born ^note to see so sad an hour as this;
Wherein we step14Q0564 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 ^note 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 ^note thee unto a pagan shore;
Where these two christian armies might combine
The blood of malice in a vein ^note of league,
And not to spend ^note it so unneighbourly!

Lew.
A noble temper dost thou shew in this;
And great affections, wrestling in thy bosom,
Do make ^note an earth-quake ^note of nobility.
O what a noble combat hast thou fought,
Between compulsion14Q0565 and a brave respect!
Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation;
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm:

Commend these waters to ^note those baby eyes
That never saw the giant world enrag'd;
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full warm of14Q0566 blood, of mirth, of gossiping.
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. Enter Pandulph, attended.
And even there, methinks, an angel spake:
Look, where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heaven;
And on our actions set the name of right,
With holy breath.

Pan.
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 threat'ning colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war;
That, like a lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace,
And be no further harmful than in shew.

Lew.
Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back;
I am too high-born to be property'd,
To be a secondary at controul,
Or useful serving-man, and instrument,
To any sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindl'd the dead coal of wars ^note
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 enkindl'd it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest 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 born,
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 roi! as I have bank'd their towns?
Have I not here the best cards for the game,
To win this easy match play'd for a crown;
And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?
No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.

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

Lew.
Outside, or inside, I will not return
Till my attempt so much be glorify'd
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 out-look conquest, and to win renown
Even in the jaws of danger and of death.— [Trumpet within.

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter Bastard, attended.

Bas.
According to the fair-play of the world,
Let me have audience; I am sent to speak:14Q0567—
My holy lord of Milan, 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.

Pan.
The dauphin is too wilful-opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties;
He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.

Bas.
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 ^note should:
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd masque, and unadvised revel,
This unhair'd ^note sauciness, and boyish troops, ^note
The king doth smile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy ^note arms,
From out ^note the circle of his territories.
That hand, which had the strength, even 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 lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and trunks;
To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake,
Even at the crying of your nation's crow,
Thinking this voice an armed Englishman;—
Shall that victorious hand be feebl'd here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?

No: Know, the gallant monarch is in arms;
And like an eagle o'er his aiery towers,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.—
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, 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.

Lew.
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 brabler.

Pan.
Give me leave to speak.

Bas.
No, I will speak.

Lew.
We will attend to neither:—
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war
Plead for our interest, and our being here.

Bas.
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 reverberate 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-rib'd death, whose office is this day

To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

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

Bas.
And thou shalt find it, dauphin, do not doubt. SCENE III. The same. Field of Battle. Loud Alarums. Enter King John, and Hubert.

Joh.
How goes the day with us? o, tell me, Hubert.

Hub.
Badly, I fear: How fares your majesty?

Joh.
This fever, that hath troubl'd me so long,
Lies heavy on me; O, 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.

Joh.
Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.

Mes.
Be of good comfort; for the great supply,
That was expected by the dauphin here,
Was wreck'd ^note three nights ago on Goodwin sands.
This news was brought to Richard but even now:
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

Joh.
Ay me! ^note this tyrant fever burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.—
Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. Another Part of the same. Alarums continu'd. Enter Pembroke, Bigot, Salisbury, and Others.

Sal.
I did not think the king so stor'd with friends.

Pem.
Up once again; put spirit in the French;
If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

Sal.
That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,

In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

Pem.
They say, king John, sore sick, hath left the field. Enter Melun, led.

Mel.
Lead me to the revolts of England here.

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

Pem.
It is the count Melun.

Sal.
Wounded to death.

Mel.
Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;
Unthread the14Q0568 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 saint Edmundsbury;
Even on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

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

Mel.
Have I not hideous death within my view,
Retaining but a quantity of life;
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?
What in the world should make me now deceive,
Since I must lose ^note 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 even this night,—whose black contagious breath
Already smokes about the burning crest

Of the old, feeble, and day-weary'd sun,—
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire;
Paying the fine of rated treachery,
Even 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 ^note flood,
Leaving our rankness ^note and irregular course,
Stoop low within those bounds we have o'er-look'd,
And calmly run on in obedience,
Even 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
Fight in ^note thine eye.—Away, my friends! New flight;
And happy newness, that intends old right. ^note [Exeunt, leading off Melun. SCENE V. The same. The French Camp. Enter Lewis, and his Train.

Lew.
The sun of heaven, methought, was loth to set;

But stay'd, and made the western welkin blush,
When the English measur'd ^note backward their own ground
In faint retire: O, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good-night;
And wound14Q0569 our tatter'd ^note colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it! Enter a Messenger, hastily.

Mes.
Where is my prince, the ^note dauphin?

Lew.
Here; What news?

Mes.
The count Melun is slain; the English lords,
By his persuasion, are again faln ^note off:
And your supplies ^note, which you have wish'd so long,
Are cast away, and sunk, on Goodwin sands.

Lew.
Ah, foul shrewd news!—Beshrew thy very heart!
I did not think to be so 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.
Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lew.
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 VI. Swinstead. Plains leading to the Abbey. Enter Bastard, and Hubert, meeting.

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

Bas.
A friend: What art thou?

Hub.
Of the part of England.

Bas.
Whither dost thou go?

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

Bas.
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?

Bas.
Who thou wilt: an if thou please,
Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think
I come one way of the Plantagenets.

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

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

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

Bas.
Brief, then; and what's the news?

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

Bas.
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
To acquaint you with this evil; that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time,
Than if you14Q0570 had at leisure known of this.

Bas.
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.

Bas.
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.

Bas.
With-hold thine indignation, mighty heaven,
And tempt us not to bear above our power!—
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide,
These Lincoln washes have devoured them;
Myself, well mounted, hardly ^note have escap'd.
Away before! conduct me to the king;
I doubt, he will be dead, or ere I come. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. The same. The Abbey-Garden. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot.

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

Pem.
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.

Hen.
Let him be brought into the orchard here.—
Doth he still rage? [Exit Bigot.

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

Hen.
O vanity of sickness! fierce extreams,
In their continuance, will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd ^note upon the outward parts,
Leaves them insensible ^note:14Q0571 and his ^note siege is now
Against the mind ^note, 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 ^note to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to ^note 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. Enter Attendants, and Bigot, bringing in King John in a Chair.

Joh.
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 scribbl'd form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment; and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

Hen.
How fares your majesty?

Joh.
Poison'd,—ill fare;—dead, forsook, cast off:
And none of you will bid the winter come,
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold: I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

Hen.
O, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you.

Joh.
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. Enter Bastard, hastily.

Bas.
O, I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your majesty.

Joh.
O 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 see'st, is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.

Bas.
The dauphin is preparing hitherward;
Where, heaven 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. [King sinks in his Chair, and expires.

Sal.
You breath these dead news in as dead an ear:—
My liege! my lord!—But now a king; now † thus.

Hen.
Even so must I run on, and even so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this † was now a king, and now is clay!

Bas.
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 heaven,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.—
Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres,
Where be your powers? 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:
Straight let us seek, or straight 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.

Bas.
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.

Bas.
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.

Hen.
As Worcester must his body be interr'd;
For so he will'd it.

Bas.
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 loves we make,

To rest without a spot for evermore. [kneeling too, with the other Lords.

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

Bas.
O, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.—
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie 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 ^note shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeunt, bearing in the Body.

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