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K. John. The King is moved, and answers not to this.

Const. O be removed from him, and answer well. Aust. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

Bast. Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

K. Phi. I am perplexed, and know not what to

say.

Pand. What canst thou say but will perplex

thee more,

If thou stand excommunicate and cursed?

K. Phi. Good reverend father, make my person

yours,

And tell me how you would bestow yourself.
This royal hand and mine are newly knit;
And the conjunction of our inward souls
Married in league, coupled and linked together
With all religious strength of sacred vows:
The latest breath that gave the sound of words,
Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,
Between our kingdoms and our royal selves.
And even before this truce, but new before
(No longer than we well could wash our hands,
To clap this royal bargain up of peace),--
Heaven knows they were besmeared and over-
stained

That is, to be the champion of our church.
What since thou swor'st, is sworn against thyself,
And may not be performed by thyself:
For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss,
Is not amiss when it is truly done;
And being not done where doing tends to ill,
The truth is then most done not doing it.
The better act of purposes mistook
Is to mistake again: though indirect,
Yet indirection thereby grows direct,

And falsehood falsehood cures; as fire cools fire
Within the scorchéd veins of one new burned.
It is religion that doth make vows kept;
But thou hast sworn against religion;

By what thou swear'st against the thing thou
swear'st;

And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth
Against an oath. The truth thou art unsure
To swear, swears only not to be forsworn:
Else what a mockery should it be to swear?
But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;
And most forsworn to keep what thou dost swear
Therefore thy latter vows, against thy first,
Is in thyself rebellion to thyself:
And better conquest never canst thou make
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts
Against those giddy loose suggestions:

With slaughter's pencil; where revenge did paint Upon which better part our prayers come in,
The fearful difference of incenséd kings.

And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,
So newly joined in love, so strong in both,
Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?
Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
As now again to snatch our palm from palm;
Unswear faith sworn; and on the marriage bed
Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,
And make a riot on the gentle brow
Of true sincerity?—O holy sir,

My reverend father, let it not be so:
Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose

Some gentle order; and then we shall be blessed
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.

Pand. All form is formless, order orderless,
Save what is opposite to England's love.
Therefore, to arms: be champion of our church!
Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,
A mother's curse, on her revolting son.
France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,
A cased lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

K. Phi. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.
Pand. So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;
And, like a civil war, sett'st oath to oath,

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow,
First made to heaven, first be to heaven performed!

If thou vouchsafe them: but if not, then know
The peril of our curses light on thee
So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,
But, in despair, die under their black weight.
Aust. Rebellion, flat rebellion!

Bast.

Will 't not be?

Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine?
Lew. Father, to arms!

Blanch. Upon thy wedding day;
Against the blood that thou hast married?
What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered men?
Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums
(Clamours of hell) be measures to our pomp?
O husband, hear me !-ah, alack, how new
Is husband in my mouth!-even for that name,
Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pro-

nounce,

Upon my knee I beg go not to arms
Against mine uncle.

Const. O, upon my knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom
Forethought by heaven.

Blanch. Now shall I see thy love. What

motive may

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?
Const. That which upholdeth him that thee

upholds;

His honour. O thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!

Lew. I muse your majesty doth seem so cold, When such profound respects do pull you on.

Pand. I will denounce a curse upon his head. K. Phi. Thou shall not need :-England, I'll fall from thee.

Const. O fair return of banished majesty!
Eli. O foul revolt of French inconstancy!
K. John. France, thou shalt rue this hour
within this hour.

Bast. Old time the clock-setter, that bald sexton, time,

Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue. Blanch. The sun's o'ercast with blood: fair

day, adieu!

Which is the side that I must go withal?
I am with both: each army hath a hand;
And in their rage, I having hold of both,
They whirl asunder, and dismember me.-
Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;
Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive.
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose :
Assuréd loss before the match be played!
Lew. Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lies.
Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there
my life dies.

K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance together.[Exit Bastard. France, I am burned up with inflaming wrath; A rage whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France. K. Phi. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

K. John. No more than he that threats.-To arms let's hie! [Exeunt.

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behind,

K. John. So shall it be: your grace shall stay
[TO ELINOR.
So strongly guarded.-Cousin, look not sad:
[To ARTHUR.
Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will
As dear be to thee as thy father was.
Arth. O, this will make my mother die with grief!
K. John. Cousin [To the Bastard], away for
England; haste before:

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags
Of hoarding abbots; angels imprisoned
Set thou at liberty. The fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon :
Use our commission in his utmost force.
Bast. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive

me back,

When gold and silver becks me to come on.
I leave your highness.—Grandam, I will pray
(If ever I remember to be holy)

For your fair safety: so I kiss your hand.
Eli. Farewell, my gentle cousin.
K. John. Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard.
Eli. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.
[Takes ARTHUR aside.
K. 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 ashamed
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Iub. I am much bounden to your majesty.
K. 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

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But ah, I will not:-yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.
Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it.

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst? 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?

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SCENE IV. The same. The French King's Tent.

Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPHI, and Attendants.

K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, A whole armado of convicted sail

Is scattered and disjoined from fellowship!

Pand. Courage and comfort: all shall yet go well.

K. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so ill?

Are we not beaten is not Angiers lost:
Arthur ta'en prisoner: divers dear friends slain :
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified.
So hot a speed with such advice disposed,
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,
Doth want example. Who hath read or heard
Of any kindred action like to this?

K Phi. Well could I bear that England had this praise,

So we could find some pattern of our shame

Enter CONSTANCE.

Look who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.—
I pr'y thee, lady, go away with me.

Const. Lonow; now see the issue of your peace!
K. Phi. Patience, good lady: comfort, gentle
Constance!

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress: Death, death !—O amiable lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity,. And I will kiss thy détestable bones, And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself! Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st, And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love, O come to me!

K. Phi.

O fair affliction, peace.
Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry.
O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world,
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern invocation.
Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so.

I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost.
I am not mad: I would to heaven I were!
For then 't is like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!—
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canonised, cardinal:
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be delivered of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself.
If I were mad I should forget my son,
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he.
I am not mad: too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity!

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses.-O what love
I note

In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief:
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const. To England, if you will.
K. Phi.

Bind up your hairs.

Const. Yes, that I will: and wherefore will I

do it?

I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud,
"O that these hands could so redeem my son
As they have given these hairs their liberty!"
But now I envy at their liberty,
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.-
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven.
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never,
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me, that never had a son!
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.—

I will not keep this form upon my head. [Tearing off her head-dress. When there is such disorder in my wit. O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! [Exit. K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit.

Lew. There's nothing in this world can make me joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste,

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest evils that take leave,
On their departure most of all shew evil.
What have you lost by losing of this day?
Lew. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had.
No, no: when fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
"Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won!
Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?
Lew. As lieartily as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your
blood.

Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit:
For even the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shail directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne: and therefore mark.
John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplaced John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.
A sceptre, snatched with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintained as gained:
And he that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
That John may stand, then, Arthur needs must fall:
So be it, for it cannot be but so.

Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arti ue's
fall?

Pand. You, in the right of lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did. Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. Pand. How green you are, and fresh in this old world!

John lays you plots: the times conspire with

you:

For he that steeps his safety in true blood,
Shall find but bloody safety and untrue.
This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal ;
That none so small advantage shall step forth,
To check his reign, but they will cherish it:
No natural exhalation in the sky,

No

scape of nature, no distempered day,
No common wind, no customéd event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, présages, and tongues of heaven,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lew. May be he will not touch young Arthur's
life,

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand. O sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies: and then the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers'-ends of John. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot: And O, what better matter breeds for you Than I have named!-The bastard Falconbridge Is now in England, ransacking the church, Offending charity: if but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side; Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the King: 't is wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent. Now that their souls are topful of offence, For England go: I will whet on the King.

Lew. Strong reasons make strong actions. Let

us go:

If you say ay, the King will not say no. [Exeunt

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