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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
Into the purse of rich prosperity, [deep
As Lewis himself:--so, nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.-
Enter Pandulpho, 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
And tame the savage spirit of wild war, [up;
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
I am too high-born to be propertied, [back:
To be a secondary at control,

Or useful serving-man, and instrument,
To any sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars
Between this chastis'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 enterprise into my heart;
And come you now to tell me, John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that peace to
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, [me?
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
[borne,
Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome
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. [work.
Pand. You look but on the outside of this
Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return

Rome?

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 outlook 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 come, to learn how you have dealt for him;
And, as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.

Pand. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties;
He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.

Bast. By all the blood that ever fury breath'd, The youth says well.-Now, hear our English king;

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 and
trunks;

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 armèd 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.

Lew. There end thy brave, and turn thy
face in peace;
[well:
We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.

Pand.

Give me leave to speak.

Bast. No, I will speak.
Lew.
We will attend to neither.-
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war
Plead for our interest, and our being here.

Scene 3, 4.

KING JOHN.

Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten,
will cry out;

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
(Not trusting to this halting legate here, [hand
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.
Lew. Strike up your drums, to find this dan-
ger out.

Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do
[Exeunt.
not doubt.

SCENE III.-Near St. Edmund's-Bury.
A Field of Battle.

O,

Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert. K. John. How goes the day with us? tell me, Hubert. Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your ma[so long, jesty? K. John. This fever, that hath troubled me Lies heavy on me ;-O, my heart is sick! Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, conbridge,

sands.

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 St. 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,
Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
What in the world should make me now de-
Since I must lose the use of all deceit ? [ceive,
Why should I, then, be false, since it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,
He is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the east:

But even this night,-whose black contagious
breath

Already smokes about the burning crest Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,Paying the fine of rated treachery, If Lewis by your assistance win the day. Faul-Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, Commend me to one Hubert, with your king: Desires your majesty to leave the field, And send him word by me which way you go. The love of him,-and this respect besides, K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to For that my grandsire was an Englishman,[supply, Awakes my conscience to confess all this. the abbey there. From forth the noise and rumour of the field; Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence That was expected by the Dauphin here, Are wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts (now: In peace, and part this body and my soul Sal. We do believe thee :--and beshrew my With contemplation and devout desires. Of this most fair occasion, by the which But I do love the favour and the form [soul, We will untread the steps of damned flight; Leaving our rankness and irregular course, And, like a bated and retired flood, [look'd, Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erAnd calmly run on in obedience, Even to our ocean, to our great king John.— My arm shall give thee help to bear thee For I do see the cruel pangs of death [hence; flight, Right in thine eye.--Away, my friends! New

This news was brought to Richard but even
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.
K. John. Ah me! this tyrant fever burns me

up,

And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-Near St. Edmund's-Bury.

Another Part of the Field.
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.

[Exeunt, leading off Melun. And happy newness, that intends old right. SCENE V.-Near St. Edmund's-Bury. The French Camp.

Enter Lewis and his train.

Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set,

Sal. When we were happy we had other But stay'd, and made the western welkin blush,
[names. When the English measur'd backward their
Pem. It is the count Melun.
Wounded to death. I

Sal.

own ground,

In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;
And wound our tottering colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!
Enter a Messenger.

Than if you had at leisure known of this. [him? Bast. How did he take it? who did taste to Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king Yet speaks, and, peradventure, may recover. Bast. Whom didst thou leave to tend his Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin? majesty? [all come back, Lew. Here-what news? Hub. Why, know you not? the lords are Mess. The count Melun is slain: the Eng-And brought prince Henry in their company; At whose request the king hath pardon'd them, And they are all about his majesty. [heaven, Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty And tempt us not to bear above our power!I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide, These Lincoln washes have devoured them; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap'd. Away, before! conduct me to the king; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

lish lords,

By his persuasion, are again fallen off; [long,
And your supply, which you have wish'd so
Are cast away, and sunk, on Goodwin sands.
Lew. Ah, foul shrewd news!-Beshrew thy
very heart!

I did not think to be so sad to-night, [said,
As this hath made me.-Who was he, that
King John did fly an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary
powers?

Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.
Lew. Well; keep good quarter, and good
care to-night:

The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII.-The Orchard of Swinstead
Abbey.

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot.
P. Hen. It is too late: the life of all his
blood

SCENE VI.-An open Place in the Neighbour-(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwellingIs touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain

hood of Swinstead Abbey.

Enter the Bastard and Hubert, meeting.
Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak
quickly, or I shoot.

Bast. A friend.-What art thou?
Hub.
Of the part of England.
Bast. Whither dost thou go? [demand
Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not I
Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?
Bast. Hubert, I think?
Hub.

Thou hast a perfect thought:
I will, upon all hazards, well believe
Thou art my friend, that knowest my tongue so
Who art thou?
[well.
Bast. Who thou wilt: an if thou please,
Thou mayest befriend me so much as to think
I come one way of the Plantagenets.

ear.

house)

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.
Enter Pembroke.

Pem. His highness yet doth speak; and holds
That, being brought into the open air, [belief,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
P. Hen. Let him be brought into the or-
chard here.-
[Exit Bigot.
Doth he still rage?

Pem.

He is more patient
Than when you left him; even now he sung.
P. Hen. Ó, vanity of sickness! fierce ex-

tremes

In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them insensible; and his siege is now
Against the mind, the which he pricks and
wounds

With many legions of strange fantasies, [hold,
Which, in their throng and press to that last
Confound themselves. "Tis strange that death
should sing.

Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and eyeless night, [me, Have done me shame :-brave soldier, pardon That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should 'scape the true acquaintance of mine [news abroad? Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, To find you out. [of night, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, Bast. Brief, then; and what's the news? And from the organ pipe of frailty sings Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,

Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.
Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill
I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. [news:
Hub. The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:
I left him almost speechless; and broke out
To acquaint you with this evil, that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time,

His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you To set a form upon that indigest, [are born Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Re-enter Bigot, and Attendants who bring in King John in a chair.

K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;

It would not out at windows, nor at doors.

There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust: 1
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment: and against this fire
Do I shrink up.
P. Hen.

How fares your majesty? K. John. Poison'd,-ill-fare; -dead, forsook, cast off;

And none of you will bid the winter come,
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north

To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips, And comfort me with cold :-I do not ask you much,

I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

P. Hen, O, that there were some virtue in
That might relieve you!
[my tears,
K. John.
The salt in them is hot.-
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.

Enter the Bastard.

Bast. O, I am scalded with my violent moAnd spleen of speed to see your majesty. [tion, K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:

The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;
And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should
Are turned to one thread, one little hair : [sail,
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou seest is but a clod,
And model of confounded royalty.
Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where, heaven he knows, how we shall an-
swer him;

For, in a night, the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood.

[The King dies. Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.[thus. My liege my lord!-But now a king,-now P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop.

And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.-
Now, now, you stars, that move in your right
spheres,
[mended faiths;
Where be your powers? Show now your
And instantly return with me again,
To push destruction, and perpetual shame,
Out of the weak door of our fainting land.
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be
sought;

The Dauphin rages at our very heels. [as we:
Sal. It seems you know not, then, so much
The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,
Who half an hour since came from the Dau-
phin,

And brings from him such offers of our peace
As we with honour and respect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bast. He will the rather do it, when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath despatch'd To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal: With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. [prince, Bast. Let it be so and you, my noble With other princes that may best be spar'd, Shall wait upon your father's funeral. P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be inFor so he will'd it. [terr'd;

Bast. Thither shal! it, then; And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee, I do bequeath my faithful services, And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore.

P. Hen. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks,

And knows not how to do it, but with tears.

Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.-This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. [stay, Now these, her princes, are come home again, What surety of the world, what hope, what Come the three corners of the world in arms, When this was now a king, and now is clay? And we shall shock them: nought shall make Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay be-|

us rue,

To do the office for thee of revenge [hind If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeunt.

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K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd
Lancaster,

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mow-
Gaunt. I have, my liege.
[bray?

K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,

If he appeal the duke on ancient malice :
Or worthily, as a good subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?
Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that
'argument,-

On some apparent danger seen in him,
Aim'd at your highness,-no inveterate malice.
K. Rich. Then call them to our presence;
face to face,

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Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap, Add an immortal title to your crown!

K. Rich. We thank you both; yet one but flatters us,

As well appeareth by the cause you come ; Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? [speech!)

Boling. First, (heaven be the record to my In the devotion of a subject's love, Tendering the precious safety of my prince, And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this princely presence.Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, And mark my greeting well; for what I speak, My body shall make good upon this earth, Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so, and too bad to live, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. Once more, the more to aggravate the note, With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat, And wish, (so please my sovereign,) ere I move, What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may prove.

[zeal:

Nor. Let not my cold words here accuse my 'Tis not the trial of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain ; The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this : Yet can I not of such tame patience boast, As to be hush'd, and nought at all to say: [me First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs

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