Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage,
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

Bast. 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?

And this, so sole and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,

To the yet unbegotten sin of times;

And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,

Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand;
The practice, and the purpose, of the king:
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,
And breathing to his breathless excellence

The incense of a vow, a holy vow,
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
Till I have set a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.

Pem. Big. Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Enter HUBERT.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur doth live: the king hath sent for you. Sal. O! he is bold, and blushes not at death.Avaunt, thou hateful villain! get thee gone. Hub. I am no villain. Sal.

Must I rob the law? [Drawing his sword. Bast. Your sword is bright, sir: put it up again. Sal. Not till I sheath it in a murderer's skin. Hub. Stand back, lord Salisbury; stand back, I say: By heaven, I think, my sword's as sharp as yours. I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;

Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

Big. Out, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a nobleman? Hub. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor.

Sal. Thou art a murderer.

Hub.
Do not prove me so;
Yet, I am none. Whose tongue soe'er speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly lies.
Pem. Cut him to pieces.
Bast.
Keep the peace, I say.
Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.
Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime,
Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron,
That you shall think the devil is come from hell.
Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulcon-
bridge?

Second a villain, and a murderer ?
Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.

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 later 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 these giddy loose suggestions:

Upon which better part our prayers come in,
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 slaughter'd 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 pronounce,
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
Fore-thought 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 shalt not need.-England, I'll fall from thee.

Const. O, fair return of banish'd 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 may'st win;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou may'st 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 ;
Assured loss, before the match be play'd.
Lew. Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lies.
Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there
my life dies.

gether.

K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance to[Exit Bastard. France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath; A rage, whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu'd 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.

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; imprisoned angels
Set 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, gentle cousin.
K. John.

Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard. Eli. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. [She 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

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 could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful 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.

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 would'st? Good Hubert! Hubert-Hubert, throw thine eye On yond' 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,

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember.-Madam, fare you well:
I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.
Eli. My blessing go with thee!
K. John.
For England, cousin: gc.
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
With all true duty.-On toward Calais, ho! [Exeunt.

Enter King PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.

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

Is scatter'd, and disjoin'd 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 dispos'd, 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 th' eternal spirit against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.—
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

Const. Lo now, 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 detestable bones; And put my eye-balls 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, 'tis 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 canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd 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 glue 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,
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 sorrow's cure! [Erit.
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 spoil'd 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 show 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 griev'd, that Arthur is his prisoner?
Lew. As heartily, 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 shall directly lead Thy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark. John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be, That whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins, The misplac'd John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre, snatch'd with an unruly hand, Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd; 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 Arthur'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 distemper'd day,

No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, presages, 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 nam'd.-The bastard Faulconbridge
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. 'Tis wonderful,
What may be wrought out of their discontent :
Now that their souls are topfull of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew. Strong reasons make strange actions. Let us go:

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