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K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say
so yet:

But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come, for me to do thee good.

I had a thing to say,
But let it
go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds 9,
To give me audience : - If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes ;)

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit 1 alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But, ah, I will not: - Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.
Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I'd do't.

K. John.
Do not I know, thou would'st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;

And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me: Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.

Hub.

And I will keep him so, That he shall not offend your majesty.

K. John. Death.

Hub.

My lord?

K. John.

Hub.

K. John.

A grave.
He shall not live.
Enough.

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

K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had this
praise,

So we could find some pattern of our shame.

Enter CONSTANCE.

Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath:

I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!
K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle
Constance !

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death: - O amiable lovely death!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy détestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy household worms;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me, and I will think'st thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,
O, come to me.
K. Phi.

O fair affliction, peace.

Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to

cry:

O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world;
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern 6 invocation.

Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow,
Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so;

I am not mad: this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost :
I am not mad; I would to heaven, I were !
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some philosophy, to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
For England, cousin : My reasonable part produces reason

I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee;

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SCENE IV. The same. The French King's Tent.

Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and
Attendants.

K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado 3 of convicted sail

Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.
Pand. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.
K. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so
ill?

Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?
Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France ?

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How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses: O, what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const. To England, if you will.
K. Phi.

Bind up your hairs. Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?

I tore them from their bonds: and cried aloud,
O that these hands could so redeem my son,

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As they have given these hairs their liberty! But now I envy at their liberty,

And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven;
If that be true, I shall see my boy again:
For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire 7,
There was not such a gracious 8 creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me that never had a son.
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,

[Tearing off her head-dress. When there is such disorder in my wit. O lord, my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure. [Erit. K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.

[Exit. Lew. There's nothing in this world can make me joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

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

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,
On their departure most of all show evil :
What have you lost, by losing of this day?

Lew. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had.
No, no when fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
'Tis strange, to think how much king John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won:
Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner?

Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. Now hear me speak with a prophetick spirit; For even the breath of what I mean to speak 7 Breathe. 8 Graceful.

Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne; and, therefore, mark.
John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be,
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:
A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:
And he that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;
So be it, for it cannot be but so.

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

Pand. You, in the right of lady Blanch, your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
Pand. How green are you, and fresh in this old
world!

John lays you plots; the times conspire with you :
For he that steeps his safety in true blood,
Shall find but bloody safety, and untrue.
This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal;
That none so small advantage shall step forth,
To check his reign, but they will cherish it:
No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scape of nature, no distemper'd day,
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

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

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand. O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies: and then the heart Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change; And pick strong matter of revolt, and wrath, Out of the bloody fingers' ends of John. Methinks, I see this hurly all on foot; And, O, what better matter breeds for you, Than I have nam'd! - The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England, ransacking the church, Offending charity: If but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side; Or, as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the king: 'Tis wonderful, What may be wrought out of their discontent: Now that their souls are topful of offence, For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew. Strong reasons make strong actions; Let

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ACT IV.

SCENE I.-Northampton. A Room in the Castle.

Enter HUBERT and two Attendants.

| And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

Hub. Heat me these irons hot: and look thou And call it cunning; Do, an if you will:

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Arth. Good-morrow, Hubert.

Hub.
Good-morrow, little prince.
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince,) as may be. You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.
Arth.
Mercy on me!
Methinks, no body should be sad but I:
Yet I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is't not; And I would to heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert,
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy which lies dead:
Therefore, I will be sudden and despatch. [Aside.
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night, and watch with you:
I warrant I love you more than
do me.
you
Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How
now, foolish rheum :
[Aside.

Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief; lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hub. Young boy, I must.

Arth.

And will you?

Hub.
And I will.
Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did
but ake,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again :

And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,

9 Tapestry.

If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes,
that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?

Hub.

I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation,

Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd no tongue, but Hubert's.
[Stamps.
Hub. Come forth.

Re-enter Attendants, with Cord, Irons, &c.
Do as I bid you do.

Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes
are out,

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas! what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lan b;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
1 Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a
deed.
[Exeunt Attendants.
Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

Hub.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

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