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, (126)
Thinking his(127) voice an armèd Englishman ;-
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No: know(128) the gallant monarch is in arms;
And, like an eagle o'er his aery, 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 chang'd,(129)
Their neelds(130) to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lou. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;

We hold our time too precious to be spent

With such a brabbler.

Pand.

Give me leave to speak.

Bast. No, I will speak.

We will attend to neither.

Lou.

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war

Plead for our interest and our being here.

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 hand

Not trusting to this halting legate here,

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.

Lou. Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.
Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

SCENE III. The same. A field of battle.

Alarums. Enter King JOHN and HUBERT.

[Exeunt.

K. John. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.
Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

K. John. This fever, that hath troubled me so long,
Lies heavy on me ;-0, my heart is sick!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Falconbridge, Desires your majesty to leave the field,

And send him word by me which way you go.

K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.
Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great supply,

That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are(131) wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.
This news was brought to Richard but even now:
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John. Ay 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. The same. Another part of the same.

Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and BIGOT.

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, Falconbridge, 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.
Sal. When we were happy we had other names.
Pem. It is the Count Melun.

Sal.

Wounded to death.

Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, (132)

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(133) 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 Saint 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,

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?

What in the world should make me now deceive,

Since I must lose the use of all deceit?

Why should I, then, be false, since it is true

That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Louis 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

Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,-
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire,
Paying the fine of rated treachery,
Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Louis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your king:
The love of him, and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an Englishman,-

;

Awakes my conscience to confess all this.

In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumour of the field;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires.

Sal. We do believe thee:-and beshrew my soul
But I do love the favour and the form

Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damnèd flight;
And, like a bated and retirèd flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,
Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd,
And calmly run on in obedience,

Even to our ocean, to our great King John.—

My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;

For I do see the cruel pangs of death

Right in thine eye. (134)—Away, my friends! New flight;

And happy newness, that intends old right.

[Exeunt, leading off Melun.

SCENE V. The same. The French camp.

Enter Louis and his Train.

Lou. The sun of heaven methought was loth to set, But stay'd, and made the western welkin blush, When th' English measur'd backward their own ground(135) 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 tattering colours clearly up,(136)

Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Lou.

Here: what news?

Mess. The Count Melun is slain; the English lords,

By his persuasion, are again fall'n off';

And your supply, which you have wish'd so long,
Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

Lou. Ah, foul shrewd news!-beshrew thy very heart!—I did not think to be so sad to-night

As this hath made me.-Who was he that said

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.

Lou. 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.

SCENE VI. An open place near Swinstead Abbey.

Enter, severally, the Bastard and HUBERT.

Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.
Bast. A friend.—What art thou?

Hub.

Bast. Whither dost thou go?

Hub. What's that to thee?

Bast.

Of the part of England.

Why may not I demand

Thou hast a perfect thought:

Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?

Hubert I think ?(137)

Hub.

I will, upon all hazards, well believe

Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well.

Who art thou?

Bast.

Who thou wilt: an if thou please,

Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless(138) night Have done me shame :-brave soldier, pardon me,

That any accent breaking from thy tongue

Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?
Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,

To find you out.

Bast.

Brief, then; and what's the news?