Fare you well; had you fuch a Lofs as I,
I could give better Comfort than you do
I will not keep this Form upon my Head,
When there is fuch 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.
K. Philip. I fear fome Outrage, and I'll follow her.
Lewis. There's nothing in this World can make me joy, Life is as tedious as a twice told Tale,
Vexing that dull Ear of a drowfie Man;
A bitter Shame hath spoil'd the sweet Words tafte,
That it yields nought but Shame and Bitterness.
Pand. Before the curing of a ftrong Disease,
Even in the Inftant of repair and health,
The Fit is ftrongeft: Evils that take Leave,
On their Departure, most of all fhew evil.
What have you loft by lofing of this Day?
Lewis. All Days of Glory, Joy, and Happiness.
Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had.
No, no; when Fortune means to Men moft good,
She looks upon them with a threatring Eye.
'Tis ftrange to think how much King John hath loft
In this, which he accounts fo clearly won.
Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his Prifoner?
Lewis. As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your Mind is all as youthful as your Blood.
Now hear me fpeak with a prophetick Spirit;
For even the Breath of what I mean to fpeak
Shall blow each Duft, each Straw, each little rub
Out of the Pa h which fhall directly lead
Thy Foot to England's Th one: And therefore mark.
John hath feiz'd Arthur, and it cannot be,
That whilft warm Life plays in that Infant's Veins,
The mifplac'd John fhould entertain an Hour,
A Minute, nay one quiet Breath of Reft.
A Scepter fnatch'd with an unruly Hand,
Must be as boyft'rously maintain'd as gain'd.
And he that ftands upon a flippery Place,
Makes nice of no vile Hold to ftay him up.
That John may ftand, then Arthur needs must fall,
So be it, for it cannot be but fo.
Lewis. But what fhall I gain by young Arthur's fall?
Pand. You, in the right of Lady Blanch
May then make all the Claim that Arthur did.
your Wife, Lewis. And lofe it, Life and all, as Arthur did.
Pand. How green you are, and fresh in this old World?
John lays you Plots; the Times confpire with you;
For he that fteeps his Safety in true Blood,
Shall find but bloody Safety and untrue.
This Act fo evilly born fhall cool the Hearts
Of all his People, and freeze up their Zeal,
That none fo fmall Advantage fhall ftep forth
To check his Reign, but they will cherish it,
No natural Exhalation in the Sky,
No Scope of Nature, no diftemper'd Day,
No common Wind, no customed Event,
But they will pluck away his natural Caufe,
And call them Meteois, Prodigies, and Signs,
Abortives, Prefages, and Tongues of Heav'n,
Plainly denouncing Vengeance upon John.
Lewis. May be he will not touch young Arthur's Life, But hold himself fafe in his Prifonment.
Pand. O, Sir, when he shall hear of your Approach,
If that young Arthur be not gone already,
Even at this News he dies; and then the Hearts
Of all his People fhall revolt from him,
And kifs the Lips of unacquainted Change,
And pick ftrong Matter of Revolt and Wrath,
Out of the bloody Fingers Ends of John.
Methinks I fee this Hurley all on foot;
And O, what better matter breeds for you,
Than I have nam'd. The Baftard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ranfacking 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 fide;
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 Difcontent.
Now that their Souls are top full of Offence,
For England go; I will whet on the King.
Lewis. Strong Reafon makes ftrong Actions; let us go, If you fay ay, the King will not fay no.
Enter Hubert and Executioner.
HEAT me thefe Irons hot, and look you ftand
Within the Arras; when I ftrike my Foot
Upon the Bofom of the Ground, rush forth
And bind the Boy, which you fhall find with me,
Faft to the Chair: Be heedful; hence, and watch.
Exe. I hope your Warrant will bear out the Deed!
Hub. Uncleanly Scruples, fear not you; look to't,
Young Lad come forth; I have to lay with you.
Enter Arthur.
Arth, Good Morrow, Hubert.
Hub. Good Morrow, little Prince.
Arth. As little Prince, having fo great a Title, To be more Prince, as may be. You are fad. Hub. Indeed I have been merrier.
Methinks no Body fhould be fad but I;
Yet I remember when I was in France,
Young Gentlemen would be as fad as Night,
Only for Wantonnefs; by my Chriftendom,
So I were out of Prifor, and kept Sheep,
I should be as merry as the Day is long:
And fo I would be here, but that I doubt
My Uncle practifes more Harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my Fault that I was Geffrey's Son?
No indeed is't not, and I would to Heav'n
I were your Son, fo you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his Innocent Prate
He will awake my Mercy, which lyes dead;
Therefore I will be fudden, and dispatch.
Arth. Are you fick, Hubert? you look pale to Day;
Infooth I would you were a little fick,
That I might fit all Night and watch with
J warrant I love you more than
Hub. His Words do take Poffeffion of my Bofom, Read here, young Arthur. How now foolish Rheume? Turning difpitious Torture cut of Door?
I must be brief, left Refolution drop
Out at mine Eyes in tender Womanish Tears.
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for fo foul Effect.
Muft you with hot Irons burn out both mine Eyes?
Hub. Young Boy, I must.
Arth. And will you?
Hub. And I will.
Arth. Have you the Heart? When your Head did but ake,
I knit my Handkerchief about your Brows,
(The best I had, a Princefs wrought it me)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my Hand, at Midnight held your Head;
And like the watchful Minutes, to the Hour,
Still and anon chear'd up the heavy Time,
Saying, what lack you? and, where lyes your Grief?
Or what good Love may I perform for you?
Many a poor Man's Son would have lain ftill,
And ne'er have fpoke a loving Word to you:
But you, at your fick Service had a Prince:
Nay, you may think my Love was crafty Love,
And call it Cunning. Do, and if you will,
If Heav'n be pleas'd, that you must use me ill,
Why then you muft. Will you put out mine Eyes?
Thefe Eyes that never did, nor never fhall
So much as frown on you.
Hub. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot Irons must I burn them out.
Arth. Ah, none but in this Iron Age would do it,
The Iron of it felf, though heat red hot,
Approaching near thefe Eyes, would drink my Tears,
And quench their fiery Indignation,
Even in the Matter of mi-e Innocence:
Nay, after that, confume away in Ruft,
But for containing Fire to harm mine Eye.
Are you more ftubborn hard, than hammer'd Iron ?
And if an Angel fhould have come to me,
And told me Hubert fhould put out mine Eyes,
I would not have believ'd him; no Tongue but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you do.
Arth. O fave me, Hubert, fave me; my Eyes are out
Even with the fierce Looks of thefe bloody Men.
Hub. Give me the Iron I fay, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas, what need you be fo boisterous rough.
I will not ftruggle, I mill ftand stone-still.
For Heav'n fake, Hubert, let me not be bound:
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive thefe Men away,
And I will fit as quiet as a Lamb.
I will not ftir, nor wince, nor fpeak a Word,
Nor look upon the Iron angerly:
Thruft but thefe Men away and I'll forgive you,
Whatever Torment you do put me to.
Hub. Go, ftand within; let me alone with him.
Exe. I am beft pleas'd to be from fuch a Deed.
Arth. Alas, I then have chide away my Friend,
He hath a ftern Look, but a gentle Heart;
Let him come back, that his Compaffion may
Give Life to yours.
Hub. Come, Boy, prepare your felf.
Arth. Is there no Remedy?
Hub. None, but to lofe your Eyes.
Arth. O Heav'n, that there were but a Moth in yours, A Grain, a Duft, a Gnat, a wandring Hair,
Any Annoyance in that precious Sense:
Then feeling what fmall things are boisterous there,
Your vile Intent muft needs feem horrible.
Hub. Is this your promife? Go too, hold your Tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the Utterance of a brace of Tongues,
Muft needs want pleading for a pair of Eyes:
Let me not hold my Tongue, let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my Tongue,
So I may keep mine Eyes. O fpare mine Eyes,
Though to no ufe, but ftill to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the Instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
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