The Life and Death of King John

1Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?

2Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France

3In my behavior to the majesty,

4The borrow'd majesty, of England here.

5A strange beginning: 'borrow'd majesty!'

6Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

7Philip of France, in right and true behalf

8Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,

9Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim

10To this fair island and the territories,

11To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,

12Desiring thee to lay aside the sword

13Which sways usurpingly these several titles,

14And put these same into young Arthur's hand,

15Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

16What follows if we disallow of this?

17The proud control of fierce and bloody war,

18To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

19Here have we war for war and blood for blood,

20Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

21Then take my king's defiance from my mouth,

22The farthest limit of my embassy.

23Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:

24Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France;

25For ere thou canst report I will be there,

26The thunder of my cannon shall be heard:

27So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath

28And sullen presage of your own decay.

29An honourable conduct let him have:

30Pembroke, look to 't. Farewell, Chatillon.

31What now, my son! have I not ever said

32How that ambitious Constance would not cease

33Till she had kindled France and all the world,

34Upon the right and party of her son?

35This might have been prevented and made whole

36With very easy arguments of love,

37Which now the manage of two kingdoms must

38With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

39Our strong possession and our right for us.

40Your strong possession much more than your right,

41Or else it must go wrong with you and me:

42So much my conscience whispers in your ear,

43Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear.

44My liege, here is the strangest controversy

45Come from country to be judged by you,

46That e'er I heard: shall I produce the men?

47Let them approach.

48Our abbeys and our priories shall pay

49This expedition's charge.

50What men are you?

51Your faithful subject I, a gentleman

52Born in Northamptonshire and eldest son,

53As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,

54A soldier, by the honour-giving hand

55Of Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field.

56What art thou?

57The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

58Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?

59You came not of one mother then, it seems.

60Most certain of one mother, mighty king;

61That is well known; and, as I think, one father:

62But for the certain knowledge of that truth

63I put you o'er to heaven and to my mother:

64Of that I doubt, as all men's children may.

65Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother

66And wound her honour with this diffidence.

67I, madam? no, I have no reason for it;

68That is my brother's plea and none of mine;

69The which if he can prove, a' pops me out

70At least from fair five hundred pound a year:

71Heaven guard my mother's honour and my land!

72A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born,

73Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

74I know not why, except to get the land.

75But once he slander'd me with bastardy:

76But whether I be as true begot or no,

77That still I lay upon my mother's head,

78But that I am as well begot, my liege,--

79Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!--

80Compare our faces and be judge yourself.

81If old sir Robert did beget us both

82And were our father and this son like him,

83O old sir Robert, father, on my knee

84I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!

85Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!

86He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion's face;

87The accent of his tongue affecteth him.

88Do you not read some tokens of my son

89In the large composition of this man?

90Mine eye hath well examined his parts

91And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak,

92What doth move you to claim your brother's land?

93Because he hath a half-face, like my father.

94With half that face would he have all my land:

95A half-faced groat five hundred pound a year!

96My gracious liege, when that my father lived,

97Your brother did employ my father much,--

98Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land:

99Your tale must be how he employ'd my mother.

100And once dispatch'd him in an embassy

101To Germany, there with the emperor

102To treat of high affairs touching that time.

103The advantage of his absence took the king

104And in the mean time sojourn'd at my father's;

105Where how he did prevail I shame to speak,

106But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores

107Between my father and my mother lay,

108As I have heard my father speak himself,

109When this same lusty gentleman was got.

110Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd

111His lands to me, and took it on his death

112That this my mother's son was none of his;

113And if he were, he came into the world

114Full fourteen weeks before the course of time.

115Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine,

116My father's land, as was my father's will.

117Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;

118Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him,

119And if she did play false, the fault was hers;

120Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands

121That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,

122Who, as you say, took pains to get this son,

123Had of your father claim'd this son for his?

124In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept

125This calf bred from his cow from all the world;

126In sooth he might; then, if he were my brother's,

127My brother might not claim him; nor your father,

128Being none of his, refuse him: this concludes;

129My mother's son did get your father's heir;

130Your father's heir must have your father's land.

131Shall then my father's will be of no force

132To dispossess that child which is not his?

133Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,

134Than was his will to get me, as I think.

135Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge

136And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,

137Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion,

138Lord of thy presence and no land beside?

139Madam, an if my brother had my shape,

140And I had his, sir Robert's his, like him;

141And if my legs were two such riding-rods,

142My arms such eel-skins stuff'd, my face so thin

143That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose

144Lest men should say 'Look, where three-farthings goes!'

145And, to his shape, were heir to all this land,

146Would I might never stir from off this place,

147I would give it every foot to have this face;

148I would not be sir Nob in any case.

149I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune,

150Bequeath thy land to him and follow me?

151I am a soldier and now bound to France.

152Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance.

153Your face hath got five hundred pound a year,

154Yet sell your face for five pence and 'tis dear.

155Madam, I'll follow you unto the death.

156Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

157Our country manners give our betters way.

158What is thy name?

159Philip, my liege, so is my name begun,

160Philip, good old sir Robert's wife's eldest son.

161From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bear'st:

162Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great,

163Arise sir Richard and Plantagenet.

164Brother by the mother's side, give me your hand:

165My father gave me honour, yours gave land.

166Now blessed by the hour, by night or day,

167When I was got, sir Robert was away!

168The very spirit of Plantagenet!

169I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so.

170Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though?

171Something about, a little from the right,

172In at the window, or else o'er the hatch:

173Who dares not stir by day must walk by night,

174And have is have, however men do catch:

175Near or far off, well won is still well shot,

176And I am I, howe'er I was begot.

177Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy desire;

178A landless knight makes thee a landed squire.

179Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed

180For France, for France, for it is more than need.

181Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee!

182For thou wast got i' the way of honesty.

183A foot of honour better than I was;

184But many a many foot of land the worse.

185Well, now can I make any Joan a lady.

186'Good den, sir Richard!'--'God-a-mercy, fellow!'--

187And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter;

188For new-made honour doth forget men's names;

189'Tis too respective and too sociable

190For your conversion. Now your traveller,

191He and his toothpick at my worship's mess,

192And when my knightly stomach is sufficed,

193Why then I suck my teeth and catechise

194My picked man of countries: 'My dear sir,'

195Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin,

196'I shall beseech you'--that is question now;

197And then comes answer like an Absey book:

198'O sir,' says answer, 'at your best command;

199At your employment; at your service, sir;'

200'No, sir,' says question, 'I, sweet sir, at yours:'

201And so, ere answer knows what question would,

202Saving in dialogue of compliment,

203And talking of the Alps and Apennines,

204The Pyrenean and the river Po,

205It draws toward supper in conclusion so.

206But this is worshipful society

207And fits the mounting spirit like myself,

208For he is but a bastard to the time

209That doth not smack of observation;

210And so am I, whether I smack or no;

211And not alone in habit and device,

212Exterior form, outward accoutrement,

213But from the inward motion to deliver

214Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth:

215Which, though I will not practise to deceive,

216Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;

217For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.

218But who comes in such haste in riding-robes?

219What woman-post is this? hath she no husband

220That will take pains to blow a horn before her?

221O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady!

222What brings you here to court so hastily?

223Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he,

224That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

225My brother Robert? old sir Robert's son?

226Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?

227Is it sir Robert's son that you seek so?

228Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,

229Sir Robert's son: why scorn'st thou at sir Robert?

230He is sir Robert's son, and so art thou.

231James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

232Good leave, good Philip.

233Philip! sparrow: James,

234There's toys abroad: anon I'll tell thee more.

235Madam, I was not old sir Robert's son:

236Sir Robert might have eat his part in me

237Upon Good-Friday and ne'er broke his fast:

238Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess,

239Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it:

240We know his handiwork: therefore, good mother,

241To whom am I beholding for these limbs?

242Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.

243Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,

244That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?

245What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

246Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like.

247What! I am dubb'd! I have it on my shoulder.

248But, mother, I am not sir Robert's son;

249I have disclaim'd sir Robert and my land;

250Legitimation, name and all is gone:

251Then, good my mother, let me know my father;

252Some proper man, I hope: who was it, mother?

253Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

254As faithfully as I deny the devil.

255King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father:

256By long and vehement suit I was seduced

257To make room for him in my husband's bed:

258Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge!

259Thou art the issue of my dear offence,

260Which was so strongly urged past my defence.

261Now, by this light, were I to get again,

262Madam, I would not wish a better father.

263Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,

264And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:

265Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,

266Subjected tribute to commanding love,

267Against whose fury and unmatched force

268The aweless lion could not wage the fight,

269Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.

270He that perforce robs lions of their hearts

271May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,

272With all my heart I thank thee for my father!

273Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well

274When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.

275Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin;

276And they shall say, when Richard me begot,

277If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin:

278Who says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not.

1Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.

2Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,

3Richard, that robb'd the lion of his heart

4And fought the holy wars in Palestine,

5By this brave duke came early to his grave:

6And for amends to his posterity,

7At our importance hither is he come,

8To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf,

9And to rebuke the usurpation

10Of thy unnatural uncle, English John:

11Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

12God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion's death

13The rather that you give his offspring life,

14Shadowing their right under your wings of war:

15I give you welcome with a powerless hand,

16But with a heart full of unstained love:

17Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

18A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?

19Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,

20As seal to this indenture of my love,

21That to my home I will no more return,

22Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France,

23Together with that pale, that white-faced shore,

24Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides

25And coops from other lands her islanders,

26Even till that England, hedged in with the main,

27That water-walled bulwark, still secure

28And confident from foreign purposes,

29Even till that utmost corner of the west

30Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,

31Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

32O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks,

33Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength

34To make a more requital to your love!

35The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords

36In such a just and charitable war.

37Well then, to work: our cannon shall be bent

38Against the brows of this resisting town.

39Call for our chiefest men of discipline,

40To cull the plots of best advantages:

41We'll lay before this town our royal bones,

42Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood,

43But we will make it subject to this boy.

44Stay for an answer to your embassy,

45Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood:

46My Lord Chatillon may from England bring,

47That right in peace which here we urge in war,

48And then we shall repent each drop of blood

49That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

50A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish,

51Our messenger Chatillon is arrived!

52What England says, say briefly, gentle lord;

53We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.

54Then turn your forces from this paltry siege

55And stir them up against a mightier task.

56England, impatient of your just demands,

57Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds,

58Whose leisure I have stay'd, have given him time

59To land his legions all as soon as I;

60His marches are expedient to this town,

61His forces strong, his soldiers confident.

62With him along is come the mother-queen,

63An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife;

64With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain;

65With them a bastard of the king's deceased,

66And all the unsettled humours of the land,

67Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,

68With ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens,

69Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,

70Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,

71To make hazard of new fortunes here:

72In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits

73Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er

74Did nearer float upon the swelling tide,

75To do offence and scath in Christendom.

76The interruption of their churlish drums

77Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,

78To parley or to fight; therefore prepare.

79How much unlook'd for is this expedition!

80By how much unexpected, by so much

81We must awake endavour for defence;

82For courage mounteth with occasion:

83Let them be welcome then: we are prepared.

84Peace be to France, if France in peace permit

85Our just and lineal entrance to our own;

86If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,

87Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct

88Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven.

89Peace be to England, if that war return

90From France to England, there to live in peace.

91England we love; and for that England's sake

92With burden of our armour here we sweat.

93This toil of ours should be a work of thine;

94But thou from loving England art so far,

95That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king

96Cut off the sequence of posterity,

97Out-faced infant state and done a rape

98Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.

99Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face;

100These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:

101This little abstract doth contain that large

102Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time

103Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.

104That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,

105And this his son; England was Geffrey's right

106And this is Geffrey's: in the name of God

107How comes it then that thou art call'd a king,

108When living blood doth in these temples beat,

109Which owe the crown that thou o'ermasterest?

110From whom hast thou this great commission, France,

111To draw my answer from thy articles?

112From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts

113In any breast of strong authority,

114To look into the blots and stains of right:

115That judge hath made me guardian to this boy:

116Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong

117And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

118Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

119Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.

120Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?

121Let me make answer; thy usurping son.

122Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,

123That thou mayst be a queen, and cheque the world!

124My bed was ever to thy son as true

125As thine was to thy husband; and this boy

126Liker in feature to his father Geffrey

127Than thou and John in manners; being as like

128As rain to water, or devil to his dam.

129My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think

130His father never was so true begot:

131It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.

132There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

133There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

134Peace!

135Hear the crier.

136What the devil art thou?

137One that will play the devil, sir, with you,

138An a' may catch your hide and you alone:

139You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,

140Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard;

141I'll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right;

142Sirrah, look to't; i' faith, I will, i' faith.

143O, well did he become that lion's robe

144That did disrobe the lion of that robe!

145It lies as sightly on the back of him

146As great Alcides' shows upon an ass:

147But, ass, I'll take that burthen from your back,

148Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

149What craker is this same that deafs our ears

150With this abundance of superfluous breath?

151Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.

152Women and fools, break off your conference.

153King John, this is the very sum of all;

154England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,

155In right of Arthur do I claim of thee:

156Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?

157My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.

158Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;

159And out of my dear love I'll give thee more

160Than e'er the coward hand of France can win:

161Submit thee, boy.

162Come to thy grandam, child.

163Do, child, go to it grandam, child:

164Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will

165Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:

166There's a good grandam.

167Good my mother, peace!

168I would that I were low laid in my grave:

169I am not worth this coil that's made for me.

170His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

171Now shame upon you, whether she does or no!

172His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames,

173Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,

174Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee;

175Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed

176To do him justice and revenge on you.

177Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

178Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!

179Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp

180The dominations, royalties and rights

181Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eld'st son's son,

182Infortunate in nothing but in thee:

183Thy sins are visited in this poor child;

184The canon of the law is laid on him,

185Being but the second generation

186Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

187Bedlam, have done.

188I have but this to say,

189That he is not only plagued for her sin,

190But God hath made her sin and her the plague

191On this removed issue, plague for her

192And with her plague; her sin his injury,

193Her injury the beadle to her sin,

194All punish'd in the person of this child,

195And all for her; a plague upon her!

196Thou unadvised scold, I can produce

197A will that bars the title of thy son.

198Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will:

199A woman's will; a canker'd grandam's will!

200Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:

201It ill beseems this presence to cry aim

202To these ill-tuned repetitions.

203Some trumpet summon hither to the walls

204These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak

205Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's.

206Who is it that hath warn'd us to the walls?

207'Tis France, for England.

208England, for itself.

209You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects--

210You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects,

211Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle--

212For our advantage; therefore hear us first.

213These flags of France, that are advanced here

214Before the eye and prospect of your town,

215Have hither march'd to your endamagement:

216The cannons have their bowels full of wrath,

217And ready mounted are they to spit forth

218Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls:

219All preparation for a bloody siege

220All merciless proceeding by these French

221Confronts your city's eyes, your winking gates;

222And but for our approach those sleeping stones,

223That as a waist doth girdle you about,

224By the compulsion of their ordinance

225By this time from their fixed beds of lime

226Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made

227For bloody power to rush upon your peace.

228But on the sight of us your lawful king,

229Who painfully with much expedient march

230Have brought a countercheque before your gates,

231To save unscratch'd your city's threatened cheeks,

232Behold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle;

233And now, instead of bullets wrapp'd in fire,

234To make a shaking fever in your walls,

235They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke,

236To make a faithless error in your ears:

237Which trust accordingly, kind citizens,

238And let us in, your king, whose labour'd spirits,

239Forwearied in this action of swift speed,

240Crave harbourage within your city walls.

241When I have said, make answer to us both.

242Lo, in this right hand, whose protection

243Is most divinely vow'd upon the right

244Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet,

245Son to the elder brother of this man,

246And king o'er him and all that he enjoys:

247For this down-trodden equity, we tread

248In warlike march these greens before your town,

249Being no further enemy to you

250Than the constraint of hospitable zeal

251In the relief of this oppressed child

252Religiously provokes. Be pleased then

253To pay that duty which you truly owe

254To that owes it, namely this young prince:

255And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,

256Save in aspect, hath all offence seal'd up;

257Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent

258Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven;

259And with a blessed and unvex'd retire,

260With unhack'd swords and helmets all unbruised,

261We will bear home that lusty blood again

262Which here we came to spout against your town,

263And leave your children, wives and you in peace.

264But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer,

265'Tis not the roundure of your old-faced walls

266Can hide you from our messengers of war,

267Though all these English and their discipline

268Were harbour'd in their rude circumference.

269Then tell us, shall your city call us lord,

270In that behalf which we have challenged it?

271Or shall we give the signal to our rage

272And stalk in blood to our possession?

273In brief, we are the king of England's subjects:

274For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

275Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.

276That can we not; but he that proves the king,

277To him will we prove loyal: till that time

278Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world.

279Doth not the crown of England prove the king?

280And if not that, I bring you witnesses,

281Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed,--

282Bastards, and else.

283To verify our title with their lives.

284As many and as well-born bloods as those,--

285Some bastards too.

286Stand in his face to contradict his claim.

287Till you compound whose right is worthiest,

288We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

289Then God forgive the sin of all those souls

290That to their everlasting residence,

291Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,

292In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king!

293Amen, amen! Mount, chevaliers! to arms!

294Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e'er since

295Sits on his horseback at mine hostess' door,

296Teach us some fence!

297Sirrah, were I at home,

298At your den, sirrah, with your lioness

299I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide,

300And make a monster of you.

301Peace! no more.

302O tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

303Up higher to the plain; where we'll set forth

304In best appointment all our regiments.

305Speed then, to take advantage of the field.

306It shall be so; and at the other hill

307Command the rest to stand. God and our right!

308You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,

309And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,

310Who by the hand of France this day hath made

311Much work for tears in many an English mother,

312Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground;

313Many a widow's husband grovelling lies,

314Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth;

315And victory, with little loss, doth play

316Upon the dancing banners of the French,

317Who are at hand, triumphantly display'd,

318To enter conquerors and to proclaim

319Arthur of Bretagne England's king and yours.

320Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:

321King John, your king and England's doth approach,

322Commander of this hot malicious day:

323Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,

324Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;

325There stuck no plume in any English crest

326That is removed by a staff of France;

327Our colours do return in those same hands

328That did display them when we first march'd forth;

329And, like a troop of jolly huntsmen, come

330Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,

331Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes:

332Open your gates and gives the victors way.

333Heralds, from off our towers we might behold,

334From first to last, the onset and retire

335Of both your armies; whose equality

336By our best eyes cannot be censured:

337Blood hath bought blood and blows have answered blows;

338Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power:

339Both are alike; and both alike we like.

340One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even,

341We hold our town for neither, yet for both.

342France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

343Say, shall the current of our right run on?

344Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment,

345Shall leave his native channel and o'erswell

346With course disturb'd even thy confining shores,

347Unless thou let his silver water keep

348A peaceful progress to the ocean.

349England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood,

350In this hot trial, more than we of France;

351Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear,

352That sways the earth this climate overlooks,

353Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,

354We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear,

355Or add a royal number to the dead,

356Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss

357With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

358Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers,

359When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!

360O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;

361The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;

362And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,

363In undetermined differences of kings.

364Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?

365Cry, 'havoc!' kings; back to the stained field,

366You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits!

367Then let confusion of one part confirm

368The other's peace: till then, blows, blood and death!

369Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

370Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king?

371The king of England; when we know the king.

372Know him in us, that here hold up his right.

373In us, that are our own great deputy

374And bear possession of our person here,

375Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

376A greater power then we denies all this;

377And till it be undoubted, we do lock

378Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates;

379King'd of our fears, until our fears, resolved,

380Be by some certain king purged and deposed.

381By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings,

382And stand securely on their battlements,

383As in a theatre, whence they gape and point

384At your industrious scenes and acts of death.

385Your royal presences be ruled by me:

386Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,

387Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend

388Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town:

389By east and west let France and England mount

390Their battering cannon charged to the mouths,

391Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down

392The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city:

393I'ld play incessantly upon these jades,

394Even till unfenced desolation

395Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.

396That done, dissever your united strengths,

397And part your mingled colours once again;

398Turn face to face and bloody point to point;

399Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth

400Out of one side her happy minion,

401To whom in favour she shall give the day,

402And kiss him with a glorious victory.

403How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?

404Smacks it not something of the policy?

405Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,

406I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers

407And lay this Angiers even to the ground;

408Then after fight who shall be king of it?

409An if thou hast the mettle of a king,

410Being wronged as we are by this peevish town,

411Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,

412As we will ours, against these saucy walls;

413And when that we have dash'd them to the ground,

414Why then defy each other and pell-mell

415Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.

416Let it be so. Say, where will you assault?

417We from the west will send destruction

418Into this city's bosom.

419I from the north.

420Our thunder from the south

421Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

422O prudent discipline! From north to south:

423Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth:

424I'll stir them to it. Come, away, away!

425Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,

426And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league;

427Win you this city without stroke or wound;

428Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,

429That here come sacrifices for the field:

430Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

431Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.

432That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,

433Is niece to England: look upon the years

434Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid:

435If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,

436Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?

437If zealous love should go in search of virtue,

438Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?

439If love ambitious sought a match of birth,

440Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?

441Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,

442Is the young Dauphin every way complete:

443If not complete of, say he is not she;

444And she again wants nothing, to name want,

445If want it be not that she is not he:

446He is the half part of a blessed man,

447Left to be finished by such as she;

448And she a fair divided excellence,

449Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.

450O, two such silver currents, when they join,

451Do glorify the banks that bound them in;

452And two such shores to two such streams made one,

453Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings,

454To these two princes, if you marry them.

455This union shall do more than battery can

456To our fast-closed gates; for at this match,

457With swifter spleen than powder can enforce,

458The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,

459And give you entrance: but without this match,

460The sea enraged is not half so deaf,

461Lions more confident, mountains and rocks

462More free from motion, no, not Death himself

463In moral fury half so peremptory,

464As we to keep this city.

465Here's a stay

466That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death

467Out of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed,

468That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas,

469Talks as familiarly of roaring lions

470As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!

471What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?

472He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce;

473He gives the bastinado with his tongue:

474Our ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his

475But buffets better than a fist of France:

476Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words

477Since I first call'd my brother's father dad.

478Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;

479Give with our niece a dowry large enough:

480For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie

481Thy now unsured assurance to the crown,

482That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe

483The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.

484I see a yielding in the looks of France;

485Mark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls

486Are capable of this ambition,

487Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath

488Of soft petitions, pity and remorse,

489Cool and congeal again to what it was.

490Why answer not the double majesties

491This friendly treaty of our threaten'd town?

492Speak England first, that hath been forward first

493To speak unto this city: what say you?

494If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,

495Can in this book of beauty read 'I love,'

496Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen:

497For Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,

498And all that we upon this side the sea,

499Except this city now by us besieged,

500Find liable to our crown and dignity,

501Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich

502In titles, honours and promotions,

503As she in beauty, education, blood,

504Holds hand with any princess of the world.

505What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

506I do, my lord; and in her eye I find

507A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

508The shadow of myself form'd in her eye:

509Which being but the shadow of your son,

510Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow:

511I do protest I never loved myself

512Till now infixed I beheld myself

513Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

514Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!

515Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!

516And quarter'd in her heart! he doth espy

517Himself love's traitor: this is pity now,

518That hang'd and drawn and quartered, there should be

519In such a love so vile a lout as he.

520My uncle's will in this respect is mine:

521If he see aught in you that makes him like,

522That any thing he sees, which moves his liking,

523I can with ease translate it to my will;

524Or if you will, to speak more properly,

525I will enforce it easily to my love.

526Further I will not flatter you, my lord,

527That all I see in you is worthy love,

528Than this; that nothing do I see in you,

529Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge,

530That I can find should merit any hate.

531What say these young ones? What say you my niece?

532That she is bound in honour still to do

533What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

534Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?

535Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;

536For I do love her most unfeignedly.

537Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

538Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces,

539With her to thee; and this addition more,

540Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.

541Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal,

542Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

543It likes us well; young princes, close your hands.

544And your lips too; for I am well assured

545That I did so when I was first assured.

546Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,

547Let in that amity which you have made;

548For at Saint Mary's chapel presently

549The rites of marriage shall be solemnized.

550Is not the Lady Constance in this troop?

551I know she is not, for this match made up

552Her presence would have interrupted much:

553Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.

554She is sad and passionate at your highness' tent.

555And, by my faith, this league that we have made

556Will give her sadness very little cure.

557Brother of England, how may we content

558This widow lady? In her right we came;

559Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way,

560To our own vantage.

561We will heal up all;

562For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne

563And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town

564We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance;

565Some speedy messenger bid her repair

566To our solemnity: I trust we shall,

567If not fill up the measure of her will,

568Yet in some measure satisfy her so

569That we shall stop her exclamation.

570Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,

571To this unlook'd for, unprepared pomp.

572Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!

573John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,

574Hath willingly departed with a part,

575And France, whose armour conscience buckled on,

576Whom zeal and charity brought to the field

577As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear

578With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,

579That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith,

580That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,

581Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,

582Who, having no external thing to lose

583But the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that,

584That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity,

585Commodity, the bias of the world,

586The world, who of itself is peised well,

587Made to run even upon even ground,

588Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,

589This sway of motion, this Commodity,

590Makes it take head from all indifferency,

591From all direction, purpose, course, intent:

592And this same bias, this Commodity,

593This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,

594Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France,

595Hath drawn him from his own determined aid,

596From a resolved and honourable war,

597To a most base and vile-concluded peace.

598And why rail I on this Commodity?

599But for because he hath not woo'd me yet:

600Not that I have the power to clutch my hand,

601When his fair angels would salute my palm;

602But for my hand, as unattempted yet,

603Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.

604Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail

605And say there is no sin but to be rich;

606And being rich, my virtue then shall be

607To say there is no vice but beggary.

608Since kings break faith upon commodity,

609Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.

1Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!

2False blood to false blood join'd! gone to be friends!

3Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?

4It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard:

5Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again:

6It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so:

7I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word

8Is but the vain breath of a common man:

9Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;

10I have a king's oath to the contrary.

11Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,

12For I am sick and capable of fears,

13Oppress'd with wrongs and therefore full of fears,

14A widow, husbandless, subject to fears,

15A woman, naturally born to fears;

16And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,

17With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,

18But they will quake and tremble all this day.

19What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?

20Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?

21What means that hand upon that breast of thine?

22Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,

23Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?

24Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?

25Then speak again; not all thy former tale,

26But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

27As true as I believe you think them false

28That give you cause to prove my saying true.

29O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,

30Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die,

31And let belief and life encounter so

32As doth the fury of two desperate men

33Which in the very meeting fall and die.

34Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?

35France friend with England, what becomes of me?

36Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight:

37This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

38What other harm have I, good lady, done,

39But spoke the harm that is by others done?

40Which harm within itself so heinous is

41As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

42I do beseech you, madam, be content.

43If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim,

44Ugly and slanderous to thy mother's womb,

45Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,

46Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,

47Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,

48I would not care, I then would be content,

49For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou

50Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown.

51But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy,

52Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great:

53Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,

54And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O,

55She is corrupted, changed and won from thee;

56She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,

57And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France

58To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,

59And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.

60France is a bawd to Fortune and King John,

61That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!

62Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?

63Envenom him with words, or get thee gone

64And leave those woes alone which I alone

65Am bound to under-bear.

66Pardon me, madam,

67I may not go without you to the kings.

68Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee:

69I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;

70For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.

71To me and to the state of my great grief

72Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great

73That no supporter but the huge firm earth

74Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;

75Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

76'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day

77Ever in France shall be kept festival:

78To solemnize this day the glorious sun

79Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,

80Turning with splendor of his precious eye

81The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:

82The yearly course that brings this day about

83Shall never see it but a holiday.

84A wicked day, and not a holy day!

85What hath this day deserved? what hath it done,

86That it in golden letters should be set

87Among the high tides in the calendar?

88Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,

89This day of shame, oppression, perjury.

90Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child

91Pray that their burthens may not fall this day,

92Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd:

93But on this day let seamen fear no wreck;

94No bargains break that are not this day made:

95This day, all things begun come to ill end,

96Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!

97By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause

98To curse the fair proceedings of this day:

99Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty?

100You have beguiled me with a counterfeit

101Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,

102Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;

103You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,

104But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:

105The grappling vigour and rough frown of war

106Is cold in amity and painted peace,

107And our oppression hath made up this league.

108Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings!

109A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!

110Let not the hours of this ungodly day

111Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,

112Set armed discord 'twixt these perjured kings!

113Hear me, O, hear me!

114Lady Constance, peace!

115War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war

116O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame

117That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!

118Thou little valiant, great in villany!

119Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!

120Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight

121But when her humorous ladyship is by

122To teach thee safety! thou art perjured too,

123And soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou,

124A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear

125Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,

126Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,

127Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend

128Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength,

129And dost thou now fall over to my fores?

130Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,

131And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

132O, that a man should speak those words to me!

133And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

134Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life.

135And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

136We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.

137Here comes the holy legate of the pope.

138Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!

139To thee, King John, my holy errand is.

140I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,

141And from Pope Innocent the legate here,

142Do in his name religiously demand

143Why thou against the church, our holy mother,

144So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce

145Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop

146Of Canterbury, from that holy see?

147This, in our foresaid holy father's name,

148Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

149What earthy name to interrogatories

150Can task the free breath of a sacred king?

151Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name

152So slight, unworthy and ridiculous,

153To charge me to an answer, as the pope.

154Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England

155Add thus much more, that no Italian priest

156Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;

157But as we, under heaven, are supreme head,

158So under Him that great supremacy,

159Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,

160Without the assistance of a mortal hand:

161So tell the pope, all reverence set apart

162To him and his usurp'd authority.

163Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

164Though you and all the kings of Christendom

165Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,

166Dreading the curse that money may buy out;

167And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,

168Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

169Who in that sale sells pardon from himself,

170Though you and all the rest so grossly led

171This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish,

172Yet I alone, alone do me oppose

173Against the pope and count his friends my foes.

174Then, by the lawful power that I have,

175Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate.

176And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

177From his allegiance to an heretic;

178And meritorious shall that hand be call'd,

179Canonized and worshipped as a saint,

180That takes away by any secret course

181Thy hateful life.

182O, lawful let it be

183That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!

184Good father cardinal, cry thou amen

185To my keen curses; for without my wrong

186There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

187There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

188And for mine too: when law can do no right,

189Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong:

190Law cannot give my child his kingdom here,

191For he that holds his kingdom holds the law;

192Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong,

193How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

194Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

195Let go the hand of that arch-heretic;

196And raise the power of France upon his head,

197Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

198Look'st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.

199Look to that, devil; lest that France repent,

200And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

201King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

202And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.

203Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because--

204Your breeches best may carry them.

205Philip, what say'st thou to the cardinal?

206What should he say, but as the cardinal?

207Bethink you, father; for the difference

208Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome,

209Or the light loss of England for a friend:

210Forego the easier.

211That's the curse of Rome.

212O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee here

213In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

214The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,

215But from her need.

216O, if thou grant my need,

217Which only lives but by the death of faith,

218That need must needs infer this principle,

219That faith would live again by death of need.

220O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up;

221Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down!

222The king is moved, and answers not to this.

223O, be removed from him, and answer well!

224Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

225Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

226I am perplex'd, and know not what to say.

227What canst thou say but will perplex thee more,

228If thou stand excommunicate and cursed?

229Good reverend father, make my person yours,

230And tell me how you would bestow yourself.

231This royal hand and mine are newly knit,

232And the conjunction of our inward souls

233Married in league, coupled and linked together

234With all religious strength of sacred vows;

235The latest breath that gave the sound of words

236Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love

237Between our kingdoms and our royal selves,

238And even before this truce, but new before,

239No longer than we well could wash our hands

240To clap this royal bargain up of peace,

241Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and over-stain'd

242With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint

243The fearful difference of incensed kings:

244And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,

245So newly join'd in love, so strong in both,

246Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?

247Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,

248Make such unconstant children of ourselves,

249As now again to snatch our palm from palm,

250Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed

251Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,

252And make a riot on the gentle brow

253Of true sincerity? O, holy sir,

254My reverend father, let it not be so!

255Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose

256Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest

257To do your pleasure and continue friends.

258All form is formless, order orderless,

259Save what is opposite to England's love.

260Therefore to arms! be champion of our church,

261Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,

262A mother's curse, on her revolting son.

263France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,

264A chafed lion by the mortal paw,

265A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,

266Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

267I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

268So makest thou faith an enemy to faith;

269And like a civil war set'st oath to oath,

270Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow

271First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd,

272That is, to be the champion of our church!

273What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself

274And may not be performed by thyself,

275For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss

276Is not amiss when it is truly done,

277And being not done, where doing tends to ill,

278The truth is then most done not doing it:

279The better act of purposes mistook

280Is to mistake again; though indirect,

281Yet indirection thereby grows direct,

282And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire

283Within the scorched veins of one new-burn'd.

284It is religion that doth make vows kept;

285But thou hast sworn against religion,

286By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st,

287And makest an oath the surety for thy truth

288Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure

289To swear, swears only not to be forsworn;

290Else what a mockery should it be to swear!

291But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;

292And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.

293Therefore thy later vows against thy first

294Is in thyself rebellion to thyself;

295And better conquest never canst thou make

296Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts

297Against these giddy loose suggestions:

298Upon which better part our prayers come in,

299If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know

300The peril of our curses light on thee

301So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,

302But in despair die under their black weight.

303Rebellion, flat rebellion!

304Will't not be?

305Will not a calfs-skin stop that mouth of thine?

306Father, to arms!

307Upon thy wedding-day?

308Against the blood that thou hast married?

309What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter'd men?

310Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,

311Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp?

312O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new

313Is husband in my mouth! even for that name,

314Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,

315Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms

316Against mine uncle.

317O, upon my knee,

318Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,

319Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

320Forethought by heaven!

321Now shall I see thy love: what motive may

322Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

323That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

324His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!

325I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,

326When such profound respects do pull you on.

327I will denounce a curse upon his head.

328Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee.

329O fair return of banish'd majesty!

330O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

331France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

332Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,

333Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.

334The sun's o'ercast with blood: fair day, adieu!

335Which is the side that I must go withal?

336I am with both: each army hath a hand;

337And in their rage, I having hold of both,

338They swirl asunder and dismember me.

339Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;

340Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;

341Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;

342Grandam, I will not wish thy fortunes thrive:

343Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose

344Assured loss before the match be play'd.

345Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.

346There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

347Cousin, go draw our puissance together.

348France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;

349A rage whose heat hath this condition,

350That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

351The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France.

352Thy rage sham burn thee up, and thou shalt turn

353To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:

354Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

355No more than he that threats. To arms let's hie!

1Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;

2Some airy devil hovers in the sky

3And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there,

4While Philip breathes.

5Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up:

6My mother is assailed in our tent,

7And ta'en, I fear.

8My lord, I rescued her;

9Her highness is in safety, fear you not:

10But on, my liege; for very little pains

11Will bring this labour to an happy end.

1[To QUEEN ELINOR] So shall it be; your grace shall

2stay behind

3So strongly guarded.

4Cousin, look not sad:

5Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will

6As dear be to thee as thy father was.

7O, this will make my mother die with grief!

8[To the BASTARD] Cousin, away for England!

9haste before:

10And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

11Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels

12Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace

13Must by the hungry now be fed upon:

14Use our commission in his utmost force.

15Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,

16When gold and silver becks me to come on.

17I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray,

18If ever I remember to be holy,

19For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.

20Farewell, gentle cousin.

21Coz, farewell.

22Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

23Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,

24We owe thee much! within this wall of flesh

25There is a soul counts thee her creditor

26And with advantage means to pay thy love:

27And my good friend, thy voluntary oath

28Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.

29Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,

30But I will fit it with some better time.

31By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed

32To say what good respect I have of thee.

33I am much bounden to your majesty.

34Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,

35But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,

36Yet it shall come from me to do thee good.

37I had a thing to say, but let it go:

38The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,

39Attended with the pleasures of the world,

40Is all too wanton and too full of gawds

41To give me audience: if the midnight bell

42Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,

43Sound on into the drowsy race of night;

44If this same were a churchyard where we stand,

45And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs,

46Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

47Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick,

48Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

49Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes

50And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,

51A passion hateful to my purposes,

52Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,

53Hear me without thine ears, and make reply

54Without a tongue, using conceit alone,

55Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words;

56Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,

57I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:

58But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well;

59And, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well.

60So well, that what you bid me undertake,

61Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

62By heaven, I would do it.

63Do not I know thou wouldst?

64Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

65On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,

66He is a very serpent in my way;

67And whereso'er this foot of mine doth tread,

68He lies before me: dost thou understand me?

69Thou art his keeper.

70And I'll keep him so,

71That he shall not offend your majesty.

72Death.

73My lord?

74A grave.

75He shall not live.

76Enough.

77I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;

78Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:

79Remember. Madam, fare you well:

80I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.

81My blessing go with thee!

82For England, cousin, go:

83Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

84With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!

1So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

2A whole armado of convicted sail

3Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.

4Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.

5What can go well, when we have run so ill?

6Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?

7Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?

8And bloody England into England gone,

9O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

10What he hath won, that hath he fortified:

11So hot a speed with such advice disposed,

12Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,

13Doth want example: who hath read or heard

14Of any kindred action like to this?

15Well could I bear that England had this praise,

16So we could find some pattern of our shame.

17Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;

18Holding the eternal spirit against her will,

19In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

20I prithee, lady, go away with me.

21Lo, now I now see the issue of your peace.

22Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

23No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

24But that which ends all counsel, true redress,

25Death, death; O amiable lovely death!

26Thou odouriferous stench! sound rottenness!

27Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

28Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

29And I will kiss thy detestable bones

30And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows

31And ring these fingers with thy household worms

32And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust

33And be a carrion monster like thyself:

34Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest

35And buss thee as thy wife. Misery's love,

36O, come to me!

37O fair affliction, peace!

38No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:

39O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!

40Then with a passion would I shake the world;

41And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy

42Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,

43Which scorns a modern invocation.

44Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

45Thou art not holy to belie me so;

46I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;

47My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;

48Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:

49I am not mad: I would to heaven I were!

50For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:

51O, if I could, what grief should I forget!

52Preach some philosophy to make me mad,

53And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;

54For being not mad but sensible of grief,

55My reasonable part produces reason

56How I may be deliver'd of these woes,

57And teaches me to kill or hang myself:

58If I were mad, I should forget my son,

59Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:

60I am not mad; too well, too well I feel

61The different plague of each calamity.

62Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note

63In the fair multitude of those her hairs!

64Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,

65Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends

66Do glue themselves in sociable grief,

67Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

68Sticking together in calamity.

69To England, if you will.

70Bind up your hairs.

71Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?

72I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud

73'O that these hands could so redeem my son,

74As they have given these hairs their liberty!'

75But now I envy at their liberty,

76And will again commit them to their bonds,

77Because my poor child is a prisoner.

78And, father cardinal, I have heard you say

79That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:

80If that be true, I shall see my boy again;

81For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,

82To him that did but yesterday suspire,

83There was not such a gracious creature born.

84But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud

85And chase the native beauty from his cheek

86And he will look as hollow as a ghost,

87As dim and meagre as an ague's fit,

88And so he'll die; and, rising so again,

89When I shall meet him in the court of heaven

90I shall not know him: therefore never, never

91Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

92You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

93He talks to me that never had a son.

94You are as fond of grief as of your child.

95Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

96Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

97Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

98Remembers me of all his gracious parts,

99Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;

100Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?

101Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,

102I could give better comfort than you do.

103I will not keep this form upon my head,

104When there is such disorder in my wit.

105O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

106My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!

107My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!

108I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.

109There's nothing in this world can make me joy:

110Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale

111Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

112And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste

113That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

114Before the curing of a strong disease,

115Even in the instant of repair and health,

116The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,

117On their departure most of all show evil:

118What have you lost by losing of this day?

119All days of glory, joy and happiness.

120If you had won it, certainly you had.

121No, no; when Fortune means to men most good,

122She looks upon them with a threatening eye.

123'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost

124In this which he accounts so clearly won:

125Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?

126As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

127Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.

128Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;

129For even the breath of what I mean to speak

130Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,

131Out of the path which shall directly lead

132Thy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark.

133John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be

134That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,

135The misplaced John should entertain an hour,

136One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.

137A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand

138Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd;

139And he that stands upon a slippery place

140Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:

141That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;

142So be it, for it cannot be but so.

143But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?

144You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

145May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

146And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

147How green you are and fresh in this old world!

148John lays you plots; the times conspire with you;

149For he that steeps his safety in true blood

150Shall find but bloody safety and untrue.

151This act so evilly born shall cool the hearts

152Of all his people and freeze up their zeal,

153That none so small advantage shall step forth

154To cheque his reign, but they will cherish it;

155No natural exhalation in the sky,

156No scope of nature, no distemper'd day,

157No common wind, no customed event,

158But they will pluck away his natural cause

159And call them meteors, prodigies and signs,

160Abortives, presages and tongues of heaven,

161Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

162May be he will not touch young Arthur's life,

163But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

164O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,

165If that young Arthur be not gone already,

166Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts

167Of all his people shall revolt from him

168And kiss the lips of unacquainted change

169And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath

170Out of the bloody fingers' ends of John.

171Methinks I see this hurly all on foot:

172And, O, what better matter breeds for you

173Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge

174Is now in England, ransacking the church,

175Offending charity: if but a dozen French

176Were there in arms, they would be as a call

177To train ten thousand English to their side,

178Or as a little snow, tumbled about,

179Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,

180Go with me to the king: 'tis wonderful

181What may be wrought out of their discontent,

182Now that their souls are topful of offence.

183For England go: I will whet on the king.

184Strong reasons make strong actions: let us go:

185If you say ay, the king will not say no.

1Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand

2Within the arras: when I strike my foot

3Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,

4And bind the boy which you shall find with me

5Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

6I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

7Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't.

8Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

9Good morrow, Hubert.

10Good morrow, little prince.

11As little prince, having so great a title

12To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.

13Indeed, I have been merrier.

14Mercy on me!

15Methinks no body should be sad but I:

16Yet, I remember, when I was in France,

17Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,

18Only for wantonness. By my christendom,

19So I were out of prison and kept sheep,

20I should be as merry as the day is long;

21And so I would be here, but that I doubt

22My uncle practises more harm to me:

23He is afraid of me and I of him:

24Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?

25No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven

26I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

27[Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate

28He will awake my mercy which lies dead:

29Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

30Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:

31In sooth, I would you were a little sick,

32That I might sit all night and watch with you:

33I warrant I love you more than you do me.

34[Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.

35Read here, young Arthur.

36How now, foolish rheum!

37Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

38I must be brief, lest resolution drop

39Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.

40Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?

41Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:

42Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

43Young boy, I must.

44And will you?

45And I will.

46Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

47I knit my handercher about your brows,

48The best I had, a princess wrought it me,

49And I did never ask it you again;

50And with my hand at midnight held your head,

51And like the watchful minutes to the hour,

52Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time,

53Saying, 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'

54Or 'What good love may I perform for you?'

55Many a poor man's son would have lien still

56And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;

57But you at your sick service had a prince.

58Nay, you may think my love was crafty love

59And call it cunning: do, an if you will:

60If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,

61Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?

62These eyes that never did nor never shall

63So much as frown on you.

64I have sworn to do it;

65And with hot irons must I burn them out.

66Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!

67The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

68Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears

69And quench his fiery indignation

70Even in the matter of mine innocence;

71Nay, after that, consume away in rust

72But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

73Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?

74An if an angel should have come to me

75And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

76I would not have believed him,--no tongue but Hubert's.

77Come forth.

78Do as I bid you do.

79O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out

80Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

81Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

82Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough?

83I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

84For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

85Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,

86And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

87I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,

88Nor look upon the iron angerly:

89Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,

90Whatever torment you do put me to.

91Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

92I am best pleased to be from such a deed.

93Alas, I then have chid away my friend!

94He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:

95Let him come back, that his compassion may

96Give life to yours.

97Come, boy, prepare yourself.

98Is there no remedy?

99None, but to lose your eyes.

100O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,

101A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

102Any annoyance in that precious sense!

103Then feeling what small things are boisterous there,

104Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

105Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

106Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues

107Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:

108Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert;

109Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,

110So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes.

111Though to no use but still to look on you!

112Lo, by my truth, the instrument is cold

113And would not harm me.

114I can heat it, boy.

115No, in good sooth: the fire is dead with grief,

116Being create for comfort, to be used

117In undeserved extremes: see else yourself;

118There is no malice in this burning coal;

119The breath of heaven has blown his spirit out

120And strew'd repentent ashes on his head.

121But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

122An if you do, you will but make it blush

123And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:

124Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes;

125And like a dog that is compell'd to fight,

126Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.

127All things that you should use to do me wrong

128Deny their office: only you do lack

129That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,

130Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

131Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye

132For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:

133Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy,

134With this same very iron to burn them out.

135O, now you look like Hubert! all this while

136You were disguised.

137Peace; no more. Adieu.

138Your uncle must not know but you are dead;

139I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:

140And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,

141That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,

142Will not offend thee.

143O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

144Silence; no more: go closely in with me:

145Much danger do I undergo for thee.

1Here once again we sit, once again crown'd,

2And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

3This 'once again,' but that your highness pleased,

4Was once superfluous: you were crown'd before,

5And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off,

6The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt;

7Fresh expectation troubled not the land

8With any long'd-for change or better state.

9Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,

10To guard a title that was rich before,

11To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

12To throw a perfume on the violet,

13To smooth the ice, or add another hue

14Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

15To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,

16Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

17But that your royal pleasure must be done,

18This act is as an ancient tale new told,

19And in the last repeating troublesome,

20Being urged at a time unseasonable.

21In this the antique and well noted face

22Of plain old form is much disfigured;

23And, like a shifted wind unto a sail,

24It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about,

25Startles and frights consideration,

26Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected,

27For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.

28When workmen strive to do better than well,

29They do confound their skill in covetousness;

30And oftentimes excusing of a fault

31Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse,

32As patches set upon a little breach

33Discredit more in hiding of the fault

34Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.

35To this effect, before you were new crown'd,

36We breathed our counsel: but it pleased your highness

37To overbear it, and we are all well pleased,

38Since all and every part of what we would

39Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

40Some reasons of this double coronation

41I have possess'd you with and think them strong;

42And more, more strong, then lesser is my fear,

43I shall indue you with: meantime but ask

44What you would have reform'd that is not well,

45And well shall you perceive how willingly

46I will both hear and grant you your requests.

47Then I, as one that am the tongue of these,

48To sound the purpose of all their hearts,

49Both for myself and them, but, chief of all,

50Your safety, for the which myself and them

51Bend their best studies, heartily request

52The enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint

53Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent

54To break into this dangerous argument,--

55If what in rest you have in right you hold,

56Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend

57The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up

58Your tender kinsman and to choke his days

59With barbarous ignorance and deny his youth

60The rich advantage of good exercise?

61That the time's enemies may not have this

62To grace occasions, let it be our suit

63That you have bid us ask his liberty;

64Which for our goods we do no further ask

65Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,

66Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

67Let it be so: I do commit his youth

68To your direction. Hubert, what news with you?

69This is the man should do the bloody deed;

70He show'd his warrant to a friend of mine:

71The image of a wicked heinous fault

72Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his

73Does show the mood of a much troubled breast;

74And I do fearfully believe 'tis done,

75What we so fear'd he had a charge to do.

76The colour of the king doth come and go

77Between his purpose and his conscience,

78Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set:

79His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.

80And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence

81The foul corruption of a sweet child's death.

82We cannot hold mortality's strong hand:

83Good lords, although my will to give is living,

84The suit which you demand is gone and dead:

85He tells us Arthur is deceased to-night.

86Indeed we fear'd his sickness was past cure.

87Indeed we heard how near his death he was

88Before the child himself felt he was sick:

89This must be answer'd either here or hence.

90Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?

91Think you I bear the shears of destiny?

92Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

93It is apparent foul play; and 'tis shame

94That greatness should so grossly offer it:

95So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.

96Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; I'll go with thee,

97And find the inheritance of this poor child,

98His little kingdom of a forced grave.

99That blood which owed the breadth of all this isle,

100Three foot of it doth hold: bad world the while!

101This must not be thus borne: this will break out

102To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt.

103They burn in indignation. I repent:

104There is no sure foundation set on blood,

105No certain life achieved by others' death.

106A fearful eye thou hast: where is that blood

107That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?

108So foul a sky clears not without a storm:

109Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

110From France to England. Never such a power

111For any foreign preparation

112Was levied in the body of a land.

113The copy of your speed is learn'd by them;

114For when you should be told they do prepare,

115The tidings come that they are all arrived.

116O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?

117Where hath it slept? Where is my mother's care,

118That such an army could be drawn in France,

119And she not hear of it?

120My liege, her ear

121Is stopp'd with dust; the first of April died

122Your noble mother: and, as I hear, my lord,

123The Lady Constance in a frenzy died

124Three days before: but this from rumour's tongue

125I idly heard; if true or false I know not.

126Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

127O, make a league with me, till I have pleased

128My discontented peers! What! mother dead!

129How wildly then walks my estate in France!

130Under whose conduct came those powers of France

131That thou for truth givest out are landed here?

132Under the Dauphin.

133Thou hast made me giddy

134With these ill tidings.

135Now, what says the world

136To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff

137My head with more ill news, for it is full.

138But if you be afeard to hear the worst,

139Then let the worst unheard fall on your bead.

140Bear with me cousin, for I was amazed

141Under the tide: but now I breathe again

142Aloft the flood, and can give audience

143To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

144How I have sped among the clergymen,

145The sums I have collected shall express.

146But as I travell'd hither through the land,

147I find the people strangely fantasied;

148Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams,

149Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear:

150And here a prophet, that I brought with me

151From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found

152With many hundreds treading on his heels;

153To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,

154That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,

155Your highness should deliver up your crown.

156Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

157Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

158Hubert, away with him; imprison him;

159And on that day at noon whereon he says

160I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang'd.

161Deliver him to safety; and return,

162For I must use thee.

163O my gentle cousin,

164Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arrived?

165The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it:

166Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury,

167With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,

168And others more, going to seek the grave

169Of Arthur, who they say is kill'd to-night

170On your suggestion.

171Gentle kinsman, go,

172And thrust thyself into their companies:

173I have a way to win their loves again;

174Bring them before me.

175I will seek them out.

176Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.

177O, let me have no subject enemies,

178When adverse foreigners affright my towns

179With dreadful pomp of stout invasion!

180Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,

181And fly like thought from them to me again.

182The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.

183Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman.

184Go after him; for he perhaps shall need

185Some messenger betwixt me and the peers;

186And be thou he.

187With all my heart, my liege.

188My mother dead!

189My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;

190Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about

191The other four in wondrous motion.

192Five moons!

193Old men and beldams in the streets

194Do prophesy upon it dangerously:

195Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:

196And when they talk of him, they shake their heads

197And whisper one another in the ear;

198And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist,

199Whilst he that hears makes fearful action,

200With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.

201I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,

202The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,

203With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;

204Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,

205Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste

206Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,

207Told of a many thousand warlike French

208That were embattailed and rank'd in Kent:

209Another lean unwash'd artificer

210Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur's death.

211Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?

212Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?

213Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had a mighty cause

214To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

215No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?

216It is the curse of kings to be attended

217By slaves that take their humours for a warrant

218To break within the bloody house of life,

219And on the winking of authority

220To understand a law, to know the meaning

221Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns

222More upon humour than advised respect.

223Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

224O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth

225Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal

226Witness against us to damnation!

227How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds

228Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,

229A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,

230Quoted and sign'd to do a deed of shame,

231This murder had not come into my mind:

232But taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,

233Finding thee fit for bloody villany,

234Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger,

235I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;

236And thou, to be endeared to a king,

237Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

238My lord--

239Hadst thou but shook thy head or made a pause

240When I spake darkly what I purposed,

241Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,

242As bid me tell my tale in express words,

243Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,

244And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me:

245But thou didst understand me by my signs

246And didst in signs again parley with sin;

247Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,

248And consequently thy rude hand to act

249The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name.

250Out of my sight, and never see me more!

251My nobles leave me; and my state is braved,

252Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:

253Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,

254This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,

255Hostility and civil tumult reigns

256Between my conscience and my cousin's death.

257Arm you against your other enemies,

258I'll make a peace between your soul and you.

259Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine

260Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,

261Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.

262Within this bosom never enter'd yet

263The dreadful motion of a murderous thought;

264And you have slander'd nature in my form,

265Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,

266Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

267Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

268Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers,

269Throw this report on their incensed rage,

270And make them tame to their obedience!

271Forgive the comment that my passion made

272Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,

273And foul imaginary eyes of blood

274Presented thee more hideous than thou art.

275O, answer not, but to my closet bring

276The angry lords with all expedient haste.

277I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.

1The wall is high, and yet will I leap down:

2Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!

3There's few or none do know me: if they did,

4This ship-boy's semblance hath disguised me quite.

5I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it.

6If I get down, and do not break my limbs,

7I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:

8As good to die and go, as die and stay.

9O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:

10Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

11Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury:

12It is our safety, and we must embrace

13This gentle offer of the perilous time.

14Who brought that letter from the cardinal?

15The Count Melun, a noble lord of France,

16Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love

17Is much more general than these lines import.

18To-morrow morning let us meet him then.

19Or rather then set forward; for 'twill be

20Two long days' journey, lords, or ere we meet.

21Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords!

22The king by me requests your presence straight.

23The king hath dispossess'd himself of us:

24We will not line his thin bestained cloak

25With our pure honours, nor attend the foot

26That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks.

27Return and tell him so: we know the worst.

28Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.

29Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

30But there is little reason in your grief;

31Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now.

32Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

33'Tis true, to hurt his master, no man else.

34This is the prison. What is he lies here?

35O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

36The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

37Murder, as hating what himself hath done,

38Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

39Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave,

40Found it too precious-princely for a grave.

41Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld,

42Or have you read or heard? or could you think?

43Or do you almost think, although you see,

44That you do see? could thought, without this object,

45Form such another? This is the very top,

46The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,

47Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,

48The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,

49That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage

50Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

51All murders past do stand excused in this:

52And this, so sole and so unmatchable,

53Shall give a holiness, a purity,

54To the yet unbegotten sin of times;

55And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,

56Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

57It is a damned and a bloody work;

58The graceless action of a heavy hand,

59If that it be the work of any hand.

60If that it be the work of any hand!

61We had a kind of light what would ensue:

62It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand;

63The practise and the purpose of the king:

64From whose obedience I forbid my soul,

65Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,

66And breathing to his breathless excellence

67The incense of a vow, a holy vow,

68Never to taste the pleasures of the world,

69Never to be infected with delight,

70Nor conversant with ease and idleness,

71Till I have set a glory to this hand,

72By giving it the worship of revenge.

73Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

74Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:

75Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.

76O, he is old and blushes not at death.

77Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

78I am no villain.

79Must I rob the law?

80Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.

81Not till I sheathe it in a murderer's skin.

82Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;

83By heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours:

84I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,

85Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;

86Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget

87Your worth, your greatness and nobility.

88Out, dunghill! darest thou brave a nobleman?

89Not for my life: but yet I dare defend

90My innocent life against an emperor.

91Thou art a murderer.

92Do not prove me so;

93Yet I am none: whose tongue soe'er speaks false,

94Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.

95Cut him to pieces.

96Keep the peace, I say.

97Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.

98Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:

99If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,

100Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,

101I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime;

102Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron,

103That you shall think the devil is come from hell.

104What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge?

105Second a villain and a murderer?

106Lord Bigot, I am none.

107Who kill'd this prince?

108'Tis not an hour since I left him well:

109I honour'd him, I loved him, and will weep

110My date of life out for his sweet life's loss.

111Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,

112For villany is not without such rheum;

113And he, long traded in it, makes it seem

114Like rivers of remorse and innocency.

115Away with me, all you whose souls abhor

116The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;

117For I am stifled with this smell of sin.

118Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!

119There tell the king he may inquire us out.

120Here's a good world! Knew you of this fair work?

121Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

122Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

123Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

124Do but hear me, sir.

125Ha! I'll tell thee what;

126Thou'rt damn'd as black--nay, nothing is so black;

127Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer:

128There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell

129As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

130Upon my soul--

131If thou didst but consent

132To this most cruel act, do but despair;

133And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread

134That ever spider twisted from her womb

135Will serve to strangle thee, a rush will be a beam

136To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself,

137Put but a little water in a spoon,

138And it shall be as all the ocean,

139Enough to stifle such a villain up.

140I do suspect thee very grievously.

141If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,

142Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath

143Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,

144Let hell want pains enough to torture me.

145I left him well.

146Go, bear him in thine arms.

147I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way

148Among the thorns and dangers of this world.

149How easy dost thou take all England up!

150From forth this morsel of dead royalty,

151The life, the right and truth of all this realm

152Is fled to heaven; and England now is left

153To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth

154The unowed interest of proud-swelling state.

155Now for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty

156Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest

157And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:

158Now powers from home and discontents at home

159Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits,

160As doth a raven on a sick-fall'n beast,

161The imminent decay of wrested pomp.

162Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can

163Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child

164And follow me with speed: I'll to the king:

165A thousand businesses are brief in hand,

166And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

1Thus have I yielded up into your hand

2The circle of my glory.

3Take again

4From this my hand, as holding of the pope

5Your sovereign greatness and authority.

6Now keep your holy word: go meet the French,

7And from his holiness use all your power

8To stop their marches 'fore we are inflamed.

9Our discontented counties do revolt;

10Our people quarrel with obedience,

11Swearing allegiance and the love of soul

12To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.

13This inundation of mistemper'd humour

14Rests by you only to be qualified:

15Then pause not; for the present time's so sick,

16That present medicine must be minister'd,

17Or overthrow incurable ensues.

18It was my breath that blew this tempest up,

19Upon your stubborn usage of the pope;

20But since you are a gentle convertite,

21My tongue shall hush again this storm of war

22And make fair weather in your blustering land.

23On this Ascension-day, remember well,

24Upon your oath of service to the pope,

25Go I to make the French lay down their arms.

26Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet

27Say that before Ascension-day at noon