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Upon the spot of this enforced cause —
To grace the gentry of a land remote,
And follow unacquainted colours here ?
What, here? O nation, that thou couldst re-

move! That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thy

self, And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, Where these two Christian armies might com

bine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly!

Lew. A noble temper dost thou show in this ; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom si Doth make an earthquake of nobility. 0, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew, That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. My heart hath melted at a lady's tears, Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, 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 the 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 of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come ; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as

deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Lewis himself ; so, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.

Enter PANDULPH. 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 threatening colours now wind up, And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That, like a lion fostered 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

back. I am too high-born to be propertied, 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

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 ye now to tell me John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that peace to
I, by the honour of my marriage-bod,
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

Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome

borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action ? Is 't not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, 100 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 roi !" 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. Pand. You look but on the outside of this

work. Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return 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. 126 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,










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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 armed 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 aery towers,
To souse annoyance that comes

near his nest.

150 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 needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. Lew. There end thy brave, and turn thy face

in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee

We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.

Give me leave to speak.
Bast. No, I will speak.

We will attend to neither. 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. 170 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 used 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 our drums, to find this dan

ger out. Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

(Eseunt. 180 SCENE III. (The field of battle.] Alarums. Enter King John and HUBERT. K. John. How goes the day with us? 0,

Hubert. Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your Maj

esty? K. John. This fever, that hath troubled me

so long, Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick!

Enter a MESSENGER. Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faul

conbridge, 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 wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin

Sands. This news was brought to Richard but even 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. 15 Set on toward Swinstead. To my litter straight. Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.

(Exeunt. SCENE IV. (Another part of the field.] 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

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. 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 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 is By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he And I with him, and many moe with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love. Sal. May this be possible ? May this be

trne? 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 de

ceive, 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 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





tell me,



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


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Already smokes about the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,
Even this ill night, your breathing shall ex-

Paying the fine of rated treachery,
Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert with your king. 40
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, 45
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 damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o'er

look'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. Away, my friends! New

flight; And happy newness, that intends old right.

[Ereunt (leading off Melun). SCENE V. (The French camp.]

Enter LEWIS and his train. Lew. The sun of heaven methought was

loath to set, But stay'd and made the western welkin blush, When English measure backward their own

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 tott'ring colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin ?

Here: what news ? Mess. The Count Melun is slain ; the Eng

lish lords By his persuasion are again fallen off, And your supply, which you have wish'd so

long, 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 As this hath made me. Who was he that said King John did Ay 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


SCENE VI. (An open place in the neighbourhood

of Swinstead Abbey.) Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, severally. 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 ? Hub. What's that to thee? Bast.

Why may not I demand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? Hubert, I think? Hub.

Thou hast a perfect thought. I will upon all hazards well believe Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue Who art thou ?

Bast. Who thou wilt; and if thon please, Thou may'st befriend me so much as to think 10 I come one way of the Plantagenets. Hub. Unkind remembrance ! thou and eye

less night Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon

me, That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should scape the true acquaintance of mine 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 ? 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. 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 Than if you had at leisure known of this. Bast. How did he take it? Who did taste to

him? Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King 30 Yet speaks and peradventure may recover. Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his Maj

esty? Hub. Why, know you not the lords are all

come back, And brought Prince Henry, in their company? At whose request the King hath pardon'd

them, And they are all about his Majesty. Bast. "Withhold thine indignation, mighty

heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night.






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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. (Exeunt.
SCENE VII. (The orchard at Swinstead Abbey.]
P. Hen. It is too late. The life of all his

blood Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain, Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling

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

Enter PEMBROKE. Pem. His Highness yet doth speak, and

holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard

here. Doth he still rage ?

(Exit Attendants.] Pem.

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

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

wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last

hold, Confound themselves. 'T is strange that death

should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own'death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. Sal. Be of good comfort, Prince ; for you

are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

KING John is brought in.
K. John, Ay, marry, now my soul hath el-

bow-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.
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

my tears, That might relieve you! 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 upreprievable condemned blood.

Enter the BASTARD. Bast. O, I am scalded with my violent mo

tion And spleen of speed to see your Majesty! 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.
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 module of confounded royalty.

Bast. _The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where Heaven He knows how we shall answer

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. My liege! my lord ! But now a king, now thus. P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so

stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what

stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay? Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay be

hind To do the office for thee of revenge, 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, Where be your powers ? Show now your

mended faiths, 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.

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.



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Sal. Nay, 't is in a manner done already ; For many carriages he hath despatch'd To the sea-side, and put his cause and quar

rel 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. Bast. Let it be so ; and you, my noble

prince, With other princes that may best be spar'd, Shall wait upon your father's funeral. P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be in

terr'd ;
For so he will'd it.

Thither shall 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

To rest without a spot for evermore.

P. Hen. I have a kind soul that would give And knows not how to do it but with tears. 109

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. Now these her princes are come home again, 116 Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make

us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.



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