When I fpake darkly what I purposed:
Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,
Or bid me tell my tale in exprefs words;

Deep shame had ftruck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.
But thou didst understand me by my figns,

And didft in figns again parley with fin:
Yea, without ftop, did't let thy heart confent,
And confequently thy rude hand to act

The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name-
Out of my fight, and never fee me more!
My Nobles leave me, and my state is brav'd,
Ev'n at my gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs;
Nay, in the body of this flefhy land,

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hoftility, and civil tumult reigns,

Between my

confcience and my coufin's death. Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,

I'll make a peace between your foul 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 bofom never enter'd yet

The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought (5),

And!

(5) The dreadful motion of a MURD'ROUS thought,] Nothing can be falfer than what Hubert here fays in his own vindication (yet it was the poet's purpose that he should speak truth); for we find, from a preceding scene, the motion of a murd'rous thought bad entred into bim, and that, very deeply: and it was with difficulty that the tears, the intreaties, and the innocence of Arthur had diverted and fuppreffed it. Nor is the expreffion, in this reading, at all exact, it not being the necessary quality of a murd'rous thought to be dreadful, affrighting, or terrible: For it being commonly excited by the flattering views of intereft, pleasure, or revenge, the mind is often too much taken up with thofe ideas to attend, fteadily, to the confequences. We must conclude therefore that Shakespeare wrote,

-4 MURDERER's thought.

And this makes Hubert fpeak truth, as the poet intende he should. He had not committed the murther, and confequently the motion of a murtherer's thought bad never enter'd bis bofom. And in this reading, the epithet dreadful is admirably juft, and in nature. For after the perpetration of the fact, the appetites, that hurried their r owner to it, lofe their force; and nothing fucceeds to take poffeffion of the mind, but a dreadful confcioufnefs, that torments the murderer without refpite or intermiffion. WARBURTON.

P5

I do...

And you have flander'd nature in my
Which, howfoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,

form;

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. John. Doth Arthur live? O, hafte thee to the

Peers,

Throw this report on their incenfed
rage,
And make them tame to their obedience.
Forgive the comment that my paffion made
Upon thy feature, for my rage was blind
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Prefented thee more hideous than thou art.
Oh, anfwer not, but to my closet bring
The angry Lords with all expedient hafte.
I conjure thee but flowly: run more fast.

SCENE V.

A Street before a Prison.

Enter Arthur on the Walls, difguis'd.

[Exeunt

Arth. The wall is high, and yet I will leap down.
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not!
There's few or none do know me: if they did,
This fhip-boy's femblance hath difguis'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 ftay.
Oh me! my uncle's fpirit is in these ftones:

[Leaps down.

Heav'n take my foul, and England keep my bones! [Dies.

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.

Sal. Lords, I will meet him at St. Edmondsbury; It is our fafety; and we muft embrace

This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pemb. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal?

I do not fee any thing in this change worth the vehemence with which it is recommended. Read the line either way, the 'fenfe is nearly the fame; nor does Hubert tell truth in either reading when he charges John with flandering bis form. He that could once intend to burn out the eyes of a captive prince, had a mind not too fair for the rudeft form.

Sal

Sal. The Count Melun, a noble Lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love (6) Is much more gen'ral than these lines import.

Bigot. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for 'twill be, Two long days' journey, Lords, or ere we meet. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faule. Once more to-day well met, diftemper'd Lords; The King by me requests your prefence strait. Sal. The King hath difpoffeft himself of us; We will not line his thin, beftained cloak With our puse honours: nor attend the foot, That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks. Return, and tell him fo ; we know the worst.

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

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reafon now (7).. Faulc. But there is little reafon in your grief, Therefore 'twere reafon, you had manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath its privilege. Faulc. 'Tis true, to hurt its mafter, no man else. Sal. This is the prison: what is he lies here?

[Seeing Arthur. Pemb. O death, made proud with pure and 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.

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? Have you beheld, Or, have e you read, or heard, or could you think, Or do you almoft think, altho' you fee,

What you do fee? Could thought, without this object,
Form fuch another? "Tis the very top,

The height, the creft, or creft unto the creft,
Of murder's arms; this is the bloodieft fhame,

(6) Whofe private, &c.——] i, e. whose private account, of the Dauphin's affection to our caufe, is much more ample than the letters.

POPE.

(7) To reason, in Shakespeare, is not fo often to argue, as to talk.

The

The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft stroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or ftaring rage,
Prefented to the tears of foft remorfe.

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 blood-fhed but a jeft,
Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.

Faule. 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 breathlefs excellence
The incenfe of a vow, a holy vow (8)!
Never to tafte the pleafures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor converfant with eafe and idleness,
Till I have fet a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge (9).

Pemb.
Bigot.

}

Our fouls religiously confirm thy words.

SCENE VI.

Enter Hubert.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte, in feeking you; Arthur doth live, the King hath fent for you.

(8) - a row, -

Never to taste the pleafares of the world,] This is a copy of the vows made in the ages of fuperftition and chivalry.

(9) the worfbip of revenge.] The worfpip is the dignity, the bonour. We fill fay zerfpipful of magiftrates,

Sal.

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 Sword.

Faulc. Your fword is bright, Sir, put it up again.

Sal. Not till I fheath it in a murd'rer's skin.

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury; ftand back, I fay; By heav'n, I think, my fword's as sharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget yourself,

Nor tempt

the danger of my true defence (1);

Left I, by marking of your rage, forget

Your worth, your greatnefs, and nobility.

Bigot. Out, dunghill! dar'ft thou brave a Nobleman? Hub. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life againft an Emperor.

Sal. Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo (2);

Yet, I am none. Whose tongue foe'er fpeaks falfe,
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly lies.
Pemb. Cut him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I fay.

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

If thou but frown on me, or ftir thy foot,

Or teach thy hafty fpleen to do me fhame,
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy fword betime,
Or I'll fo maul you, and your tofting-iron,
That you fhall think, the devil is come from hell.
Bigot. What will you do, renowned Faulconbride?
Second a villain, and a murderer ?

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.

Pigot. 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.

(1) true defence;] Honeft defence; defence in a good caufe. (2) Do not prove me fa;

Yet, I am none. Do not make me a murderer by compelling me to kill you; I am bitbertò not a murderer.

Sal.