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Bigot. Or, when he doom'd this beauty to the grave, Found it too precious-princely, for a grave.

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you? You have beheld, Or have you read, or heard? or could you think? Or do you almost think, although you see,

That you do fee? could thought, without this object,
Form fuch another? This is the very top,

The height, the creft, or creft unto the creft,
Of murder's arms: this is the bloodieft fhame,
The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft stroke,

That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or ftaring rage,

Presented to the tears of foft remorse.

Pemb. All murders paft do ftand excus'd in this: And this, fo fole, and fo unmatchable,

Shall give a holiness, a purity,

To the yet-unbegotten fins of time;

And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.

Faulc. 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 enfue:
It is the fhameful work of Hubert's hand;

The practice, and the purpose, of the king
From whofe obedience I forbid my foul,
Kneeling before this ruin of fweet life,
And breathing to this breathless excellence
The incenfe of a vow, a holy vow;
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor converfant with ease and idleness,

the glaive-the fword.

• The practice,]-contrivance, plat.

'Till I have ' fet a glory to this hand,

[Laying bold on one of Arthur's.

By giving it the worship of revenge.

Pemb. Bigot. Our fouls religiously confirm thy words. Enter Hubert.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte in seeking you: Arthur doth live; the king hath fent for you.

Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death :Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hub. I am no villain.

Sal. Muft I rob the law?

[Drawing bis fword.

Faulc. Your fword is bright, fir; put it up again.
Sal. Not 'till I fheath it in a murderer's fkin.

Hub. Stand back, lord Salisbury, ftand back, I fay;
By heaven, I think, my fword's as fharp as yours:
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,
Not tempt the danger of my true defence;

S

Left I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

Bigot. Out, dunghill! dar'ft 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.

t

Hub. Do not prove me so;

Yet, I am none: Whose tongue foe'er speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.

Pemb. Cut him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I say.

Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you, Faulconbridge.
Faulc. Thou wert better gaul the devil, Salisbury:

fet a glory to this hand,]-rendered it famous, by the exemplary vengeance I shall take on the perpetrators of this foul deed. true defence;]-proper, able, fkilful; in a juft caufe. Do not prove me fo;]-put me to this dangerous proof of

cence; by provoking me to kill you.

my

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If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hafty spleen to do me shame,

I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy fword, betimes
Or I'll fo maul you and your toasting iron,

That you shall think the devil is come from hell.

Bigot. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain, and a murderer ? .

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.

Bigot. Who kill'd this prince?

Hub. 'Tis not an hour fince I left him well:
I honour'd him, I lov'd him; and will weep:
My date of life out, for his fweet life's lofs,
Sal. Truft not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without fuch rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocency,
Away, with me, all you whofe fouls abhor
The uncleanly favours of a flaughter-house 3
For I am ftifled with this fmell of fin.

Bigot. Away, toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!
Pemb. There, tell the king, he may enquire us out.

[Exeunt. Faulc. Here's a good world !-Knew you of this fair work?

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

Hub. Do but hear me, fir.

Faulc. Ha! I'll tell thee what;

Thou art damn'd so black-nay, nothing is so black; Thou art more deep damn'd than prince Lucifer:

There is not yet fo ugly a fiend of hell

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

Hub. Upon my foul,

Faulc.

Faulc. If thou didst but confent

To this most cruel act, do but despair,

And, if thou want'ft a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb

Will ferve to ftrangle thee; a rufh will be a beam

To hang thee on: or, would't thou drown thyfelf,
Put but a little water in a spoon,

And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to ftifle fuch a villain

up.

I do fufpect thee very grievously.

Hub. If I in act, confent, or fin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that fweet breath
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.

Faulc. Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amaz'd, methinks; and lofe my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.-
How eafy doft thou take all England up!
From forth this morfel 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 "fcamble, and to part by the teeth
The un-owed intereft of proud-fwelling state.
Now, for the bare-pick'd bone of majefty,
Doth dogged war briftle his angry creft,
And fnarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:
Now powers from home, and difcontents at home,
Meet in one line; and vaft confufion waits
(As doth a raven on a fick-fallen beaft)

W

* The imminent decay of wrefted pomp.

" feramble. wun-owed]-having no proper owner. * The imminent decay of wrested pomp.]-The fpeedy deltruction of a prince, whofe crown is on the point of being wrefted from him.

Now happy he, whofe ' cloak and cincture can
Hold out this tempeft. Bear away that child,
And follow me with speed; I'll to the king:
A thousand bufineffes are brief in hand,
And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

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[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Court of England.

Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants.

K. John. Thus have I yielded up into your hand

The circle of my glory.

Pand. Take again

[Giving up the crown.

From this my hand, as holding of the pope,

Sovereign your greatness and authority.

K. John. Now keep your holy word: go meet the French;

And from his holiness use all your power

To stop their marches, 'fore we are inflam'd,
Our difcontented counties do revolt;

Our people quarrel with obedience;
Swearing allegiance, and the love of foul,
To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.
This inundation of mistemper'd humour

Refts by you only to be qualify'd.

Then pause not; for the present time's so sick,
That prefent medicine must be ministered,

Or overthrow incurable enfues.

Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon your stubborn ufage of the

y cleak and cinture]-garments.

pope:

brief in band,-in hand, and af despatch.

But

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