DIALOGUE BETWEEN KING JOHN AND HUBERT.
King John.-Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love;
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,-
But I will fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Hubert.-I am much bounden to your majesty.
King 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,
To give me audience:-If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
Sound on into the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a churchyard 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 alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmfui 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.
Hubert.-So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it.
King 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.
Hubert. And I'll keep him so,
Scene Third. A Library. SIR EDWARD discovered at the writing ADAM WINTERTON allending.
Sir Edward.-Well bethought; send Walter to me.
I would employ him; he must ride for me
On business of much import.
That it should chance so! I have sent him forth
To Winchester, to buy me flannel hose,
For Winter's coming on.
Should fall so crossly.
Sir Edward.-Nay, nay do not fret,
'Tis better that my business cool, good Adam,
Than thy old limbs.-Is Wilfred waiting?
Here, in the hall, sir.
Sir Edward.-Send him in, I prithee.
Winterton.-I shall, sir. Heaven bless you! Heaven bless you!
Sir Edward.-Good morning, good old heart: [Rising.]'
Would fain look cheery in my house's gloom,
And, like a gay and sturdy evergreen,
Smiles in the midst of blast and desolation,
Where all around him withers. Well, well-withers.
Perish this frail and fickle frame!-this clay,
That, in its dross-like compound, doth contain
The mind's pure ore and essence. Oh! that mind,
That mind of man! that god-like spring of action!
That source whence learning, virtue, honor, flow!
Which lifts us to the stars-which carries us
O'er the swollen waters of the angry deep,
As swallows skim the air! That fame's sole fountain,
That doth transmit a fair and spotless name,
When the vile trunk is rotten! Give me that!
Oh! give me but to live in after-age,
Remembered and unsullied! Heaven and earth!
Let my pure flame of honor shine in story,
When I am cold in death, and the slow fire
That wears my vitals now will no more move me
Than 't would a corpse within a monument!
(My only commerce now,) will sometimes rouse me
Beyond my nature. I have been so warmed,
So heated by a well-turned rhapsody,
That I have seemed the hero of the tale,
So glowingly described. Draw me a man
Struggling for fame, attaining, keeping it,
Dead ages since, and the historian
Decking his memory, in polished phrase,—
And I can follow him through every turn,
Grow wild in his exploits, myself himself,
Until the thick pulsation of my heart
Wakes me, to ponder on the thing I am!
Enter the English host, GLOSTER, Bedford, Exeter, Salisbury, and WESTMORELAND.
Gloster-Where is the king?
Bedford. The king himself is rode to view their battle.
Westm'd.—Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.
Exeter.—There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.
Salisbury.-God's arm strike with us! 't is a fearful odds.
God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge:
If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
Then, joyfully;-my noble lord of Bedford,
My dear lord Gloster, and my good lord Exeter,
And my kind kinsman, warriors all,-adieu!
Bedford.-Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!
Exeter.-Farewell; kind lord; fight valiantly to-day:
And yet I do thee wrong, to mind thee of it,
For thou art fram'd for the firm truth of valour.
Bedford. He is as full of valour as of kindness;
Princely in both.
Westm'd.-O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!
What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland?-No, my fair cousin :
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
Gol's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from ine,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called--the feast of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day, and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say,-Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
And say, These wounds I had on Crispin's day.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in their mouths as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
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