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 Frenchmens 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 arriv'd;
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 Atê, 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 birthright 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 † ^notescathe 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, Bastard, 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. Phil.
From that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
To look into the blots 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.* ^note

Lewis.
King John, this is the very sum of all;
England, and Ireland, Angiers, Touraine, Main,
In right of Arthur do I 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.* ^note

K. Phil.
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 it self;
You men of Angiers and my loving subjects—

K. Phil.
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 † ^notewinking 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 cheeks)
Behold the French amaz'd vouchsafe a parle;
And now instead of bullets wrap'd in fire,
To make a shaking feaver 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.
Loe 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 † ^noterounder of your old-fac'd walls
Can hide you from our messengers of war;
Though 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—

Bast.
(Bastards, and else.)

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

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

Bast.
(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.

Bast.
Saint George that swindg'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,
† ^noteI'd set an Ox-head to your Lion's hide,
And make a monster of you. [To Austria.

Aust.
Peace, no more.

Bast.
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.

Bast.
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. Here, 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 lyes,
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 Trumpet.

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 stuck 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,
Stain'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-born 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.

Bast.
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.
A greater pow'r than we denies all this;
And 'till it be undoubted, we do lock
Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates.* ^note

Bast.
By heav'n, these 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?

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?

Bast.
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 our selves 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.* ^note

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;
Persevere 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 of, 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 as she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
O 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 ^{a note}speed 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.

Bast.
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 Angiers, 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;
And she in beauty, education, blood,
Holds hands 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 wond'rous miracle,* ^note





I do protest I never lov'd my self
'Till now infixed I beheld my self,
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. [Whispering with Blanch.

Bast.
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 ought 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 will 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.* ^note




Now citizens of Angiers ope your gates,
Let in that amity which you have made:
For at Saint Mary's chappel presently
The rites 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. [Ex. all but Bast. SCENE VI.

Bast.
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,
The world, which of it self is poised well,
Made to run even, upon even ground;
'Till this advantage, this vile-drawing biass,
This sway of motion, this Commodity,
Makes it take head from all indifferency,
From all direction, purpose, course, intent.
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. SCENE VII. Enter Constance, Arthur and Salisbury.

Const.
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 think I may not trust thee, for thy word
Is but the vain breath of a common 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 though thou now confess thou didst but jest,

With my vext spirits I can't 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.

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.* ^note

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

Const.
If thou that bidst 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, 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 soveraignty,
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 sorrow to be proud;
For grief is proud, 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
Can hold it up: Here I and sorrow sit;
Here is my throne, bid Kings come bow to it.

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