Not painted with the crimson fpots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter'd yet
The dreadful motion of a murd'rer's thought.
And you have flander'd nature in my form,
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,
Than to be butcher of a guiltless 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
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
Oh, answer not, but to my closet bring
The angry Lords with all expedient haste :
I conjure thee but flowly; run more fast.
SCENE V.
Enter Arthur on
Arth. The wall is high,
A Street before a Prifon.
the Walls, difguis'd.
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 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 fhifts to get away;
As good to die, and go; as die, and stay.
Oh me! my uncle's fpirit is in these stones:
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 must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.
Pemb. 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 than thefe gen'ral lines import.
Bigot. To-morrow morning let us meet him then.
i. e. Whofe private account of the Dauphin's affection to our cauíc is much more ample than the letters.
Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for 'twill be Two long days journey, Lords, or ere we meet, Enter Bastard.
Baft. Once more to-day well met, diftemper'd Lords; The King by me requefts your presence ftrait.
Sal. The King hath difpoffeft himself of us; We will not line his thin beftained cloke. With our pure 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. Baft. What e'er you think, good words I think were beft. Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reafon now. Baft. But there is little reafon in your grief, Therefore 'twere reafon you had manners now, Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath its privilege. Baft. 'Tis true, to hurt its mafter, no man elfe, Sal. This is the prifon: what is he lyes here?
[Seeing Arthur. Pemb, Oh 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 glaive, 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 almoft think, although 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 bloodiest fhame,
The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft ftroak,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath or ftaring rage
Prefented 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 blood-shed but a jeft,
Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.
Baft. 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!
Never to taste the pleafures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor converfant with ease and idleness,
'Till I have fet a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.
Pemb. Bigot. Our fouls religiously confirm thy words
SCENE VI. Enter Hubert.
Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte, in seeking you;
Artbur doth live, the King hath fent for you.
Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death;
Avant, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!
Baft. Your fword is bright, Sir, put it up again.
Sal. Not 'till I fheath it in a murd'rer's fkin.
Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, ftand back, I fay, By heav'n I think my fword's as fharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget your felf, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Left I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatnefs, and nobility.
Bigot. Out, dunghil, 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 murd'rer.
Hub. Do not prove me fo;
Yet, I am none. Whofe tongue foe'er speaks false, Not truly speaks who speaks not truly, lies.
Pemb. Qut him to pieces.
Baft. Keep the peace, I fay.
Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you, Faulconbridge,
Baft. 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 shame,
I'll ftrike thee dead. Put up thy fword betime,
Or I'll fo maul you, and your tofting-iron,
That you shall think the devil is come from hell.
Bigot. What will you 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 thofe cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without fuch rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it feem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocence.
Away with me, all you whose fouls abhor
Th' uncleanly favour of a flaughter-house,
For I am ftifled with the smell of fin.
Bigot. Away tow'rd Bury, to the Dauphin there.
Pemb. There tell the King he may enquire us out.
Baft. 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, Sir.
Baft. Ha? I'll tell thee what,
Thou'rt damp'd fo black nay, nothing is fo 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
Baft. If thou didst but confent
To this moft cruel act, do but defpair;
And if thou want'ft a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twifted from her womb
Will ftrangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on or would't thou drown thy felf
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it fhall 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 ftealing that sweet breath
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.
Baft. Go, bear him in thine arms.
I am amaz'd, methinks, and lofe my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this worlds
How eafie doft thou take all England up!
From forth this morfel of dead royalty
The life, the right, and truth of all this realm
Are fled to heav'n; and England now is left
To tug and scramble, and to part by th' teeth
The un-owed intereft of proud-fwelling state.
Now for the bare-pickt bone of Majesty
Doth dogged war briftle his angry creft,
And fnarleth in the gentle eyes of peace.
Now pow'rs from home and difcontents at home
Meet in one line; and vaft confufion waits
(As doth a raven on a fick, fall'n beast)
The imminent decay of wrefted pomp.
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 at hand,
And heav'n it felf doth frown upon the land.
ACT V. SCENE I.
The Court of England.
Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants.
HUS I have yielded up into your hand
The circle of my glory. [Giving the Crown.
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