Hub. My lord, they say, five moons were seen to-night:
Four fixed; and the fifth did whirl about The other four, in wond'rous motion.
K. John. Five moons? Hub. Old men, and beldams, in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously: Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths: And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, And whisper one another in the ear;
And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist; Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action, With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contráry feet,) Told of a many thousand warlike French, That were embatteled and rank'd in Kent: Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death. K. John. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death? Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.
Hub. Had none, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?
K. John. It is the curse of kings, to be attended By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life:
And, on the winking of authority,
To understand a law; to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns More upon humour than advis'd respect.
Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. K. John. O, when the last account 'twixt heaven
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against us to damnation!
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, Makes deeds ill done! Hadest not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted, and sign'd, to do a deed of shame. This murder had not come into my mind : But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspéct, Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
Apt, liable, to be employ'd in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death; And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. Hub. My lord,
K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause,
When I spake darkly what I purposed ; Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid me tell my tale in express words; Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me: But thou didst understand me by my signs, And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And, consequently, thy rude hand to act
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to
Out of my sight, and never see me more! My nobles leave me; and my state is brav'd, Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers: Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reigns Between my conscience, and my cousin's death.
Hub. Arm you against your other enemies, I'll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive: This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never enter'd yet The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought, And you have slander'd nature in my form; Which howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
K. John. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the
Throw this report on their incensed rage, And make them tame to their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art. O, answer not; but to my closet bring The angry lords, with all expedient haste: I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. - The same. Before the Castle.
Enter ARTHUR, on the walls.
Arth. The wall is high; and yet will I leap down:
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not! There's few, or none, do know me; if they did, This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite. I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it. If I get down, and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away: As good to die, and go, as die, and stay.
Sal. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmund's- Bury;
It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time.
Pem. Who brought that letter from the cardinal? Sal. The count Melun, a noble lord of France; Whose private with me, of the Dauphin's love, Is much more general than these lines import.
Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. Sal. Or, rather then set forward: for 'twill be Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet. Enter the Bastard.
Bast. Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords!
The king, by me, requests your presence straight. Sal. The king hath dispossess'd himself of us; We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks: Return, and tell him so; we know the worst.
Bast. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.
Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. Bast. But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore, 'twere reason, you had manners now. Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. Bast. 'Tis true; to hurt his master, no man else. Sal. This is the prison: What is he lies here? [Seeing ARTHUR.
Pem. O death, made princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open, to urge on revenge.
Big. Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
Sal. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,
Or have you read, or heard? or could you think? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see? could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savag'ry, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage, Presented to the tears of soft remorse.
Pem. All murders past do stand excus'd in this: And this so sole, and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet-unbegotten sin of times; And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle.
Bast. It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand.
Sal. If that it be the work of any hand? We had a kind of light, what would ensue: It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand; The practice, and the purpose, of the king: From whose obedience I forbid my soul, Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow ;
[Drawing his sword. Bast. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again. Sal. Not till I sheath it in a murderer's skin. Hub. Stand back, lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;
By heaven, I think, my sword's as sharp as yours: I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.
Big. Out, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a nobleman?
Hub. Not for my life: but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor.
Sal. Thou art a murderer. Hub. Do not prove me so ; Yet, I am none: Whose tongue soe'er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. Pem. Cut him to pieces.
Keep the peace, I say. Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge. Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury: If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime; Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron, That you shall think the devil is come from heli. Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulcon- bridge?
Second a villain and a murderer? Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none. Big.
Hub. 'Tis not an hour since I left him well : I honour'd him, I lov'd him; and will weep My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss. Sal. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum; And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away, with me, all you whose souls abhor The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; For I am stifled with this smell of sin.
Big. Away, toward Bury, to the Dauphin there. Pem. There, tell the king, he may inquire us out. [Exeunt Lords. Knew you of this
Bast. Here's a good world!
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.
If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair, And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be
A beam to hang thee on; or would'st thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon, And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously.
Hub. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me! I left him well. Bast.
Go, bear him in thine arms. —
I am amaz'd, methinks; and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty, The life, the right, and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and England now is left To tug and scamble, and to part by the teeth The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. Now, for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty, Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest, And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace: Now powers from home, and discontents at home, Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits (As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,) The eminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he, whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, And follow me with speed; I'll to the king: A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.
And from his holiness use all your power To stop their marches, 'fore we are inflam'd. Our discontented counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience; Swearing allegiance, and the love of soul, To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of mistemper'd humour Rests by you only to be qualified.
Then pause not; for the present time's so sick, That present medicine must be minister'd, Or overthrow incurable ensues.
Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon your stubborn usage of the pope : But, since you are a gentle convertite, My tongue shall hush again this storm of war, And make fair weather in your blustering land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of service to the pope,
Go I to make the French lay down their arms.
But Dover castle: London hath receiv'd, Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers : Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy;
And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends.
K. John. Would not my lords return to me again,
After they heard young Arthur was alive?
Bast. They found him dead, and cast into the streets;
An empty casket, where the jewel of life
By some damn'd hand was robb'd and ta en away. K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did
Bast. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad? Be great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear, and sad distrust, Govern the motion of a kingly eye: Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example, and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.
Away; and glister like the god of war, When he intendeth to become the field: Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there? and make him tremble there?
O, let it not be said! - Forage, and run To meet displeasure further from the doors; And grapple with him, ere he come so nigh.
K. John. The legate of the pope hath been with
Bast. All Kent bath yielded; nothing there Shall we, upon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy, A cocker'd silken wanton brave our fields, And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread,
find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms: Pernance, the cardinal cannot make your peace; Or if he do, let it at least be said,
They saw we had a purpose of defence.
K. John. Have thou the ordering of this present time.
Bast. Away then, with good courage; yet, I know, Our party may well meet a prouder foc. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — A Plain, near St. Edmund's-Bury. Enter in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and Soldiers.
Lew. My lord Melun, let this be copied out, And keep it safe for our remembrance : Return the precedent to these lords again; That, having our fair order written down, Both they, and we, perusing o'er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament, And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.
Sal. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal, and unurg'd faith,
To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound, By making many: O, it grieves my soul, That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker; O, and there, Where honourable rescue, and defence, Cries out upon the name of Salisbury : But such is the infection of the time, That, for the health and physick of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is't not pity, O my grieved friends! That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this: Wherein we step after a stranger march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up
Her enemies' ranks, (I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause,) To grace the gentry of a land remote, And follow unacquainted colours here? What, here? - O nation, that thou could'st remove! That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself, And grapple thee unto a pagan shore; Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly!
Lew. A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections, wrestling in thy bosom, Do make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought, Between compulsion, and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew, That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks: My heart hath melted at a lady's tears, Being an ordinary inundation;
But this effusion of such manly drops, This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away this storm: Commend these waters to those baby eyes, That never saw the giant world enrag'd; Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity,
As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.
Enter PANDULPH, attended.
And even there, methinks, an angel spake : Look, where the holy legate comes apace, To give us warrant from the hand of heaven; And on our actions set the name of right, With holy breath.
Pand. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this, — king John hath reconcil'd Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy church, The great metropolis and see of Rome:
Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up, And tame the savage spirit of wild war; That, like a lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace, And be no further harmful than in show.
Lew. Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back;
I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at controul,
Or useful serving-man, and instrument, To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chástis'd kingdom and myself, And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprize into my heart; And come you now to tell me, John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me ? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back, Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? is't not I, That undergo this charge? who else but I, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business, and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out, Vive le roy! as I have bank'd their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game, To win this easy match play'd for a crown? And shall I now give o'er the yielded set? No, on my soul, it never shall be said.
Pand. You look but on the outside of this work. Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world, To cutlook conquest, and to win renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. [Trumpet sounds. What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?
Enter the Bastard, attended.
Bast. According to the fair play of the world, Let me have audience; I am sent to speak: My holy lord of Milan, from the king I coine, to learn how you have dealt for him; And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue.
Pan. The dauphin is too wilful opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties; He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.
Bust. By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT.
K. John. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.
Hub. Badly, I fear: How fares your majesty? K. John. This fever, that hath troubled me so long,
The youth says well:- Now hear our English| Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick!
For thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepar'd; and reason too, he should: This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd masque, and unadvised revel, This unhair'd sauciness, and boyish troops, The king doth smile at; and is well prepar'd To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out the circle of his territories.
That hand, which had the strength, even at your door.
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch; To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells; To crouch in litter of your stable planks; To lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests
To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake, Even at the crying of your nation's crow, Thinking his voice an armed Englishman ;- Shall that victorious hand be feebled here, That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No: Know, the gallant monarch is in arms; And like an eagle o'er his aiery towers, To souse annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame : For your own ladies, and pale-visag'd maids, Like Amazons, come tripping after drums; Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their neelds to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination.
And so shall you, being beaten : Do but start An echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd, That shall reverberate all as loud as thine; Sound but another, and another shall, As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear, And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder: for at hand (Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need,) Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and others. Sal. I did not think the king so stor'd with friends.
Pem. Up once again; put spirit in the French: If they miscarry, we miscarry too.
Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. Pem. They say, king John, sore sick, hath left the field.
Enter MELUN wounded, and led by Soldiers. Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England here. Sal. When we were happy, we had other names. Pem. It is the count Melun.
Wounded to death. Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out king John, and fall before his feet; For, if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take, By cutting off your heads: Thus hath he sworn, And I with him, and many more with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmund's- Bury; Even on that altar, where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love.
Sal. May this be possible? may this be true Mel. Have I not hideous death within my view Retaining but a quantity of life;
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire? What in the world should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit ? Why should I then be false; since it is true That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
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