Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden, and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson fpots of blood,
Within this bofom never enter'd yet

The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought',
And you have flander'd nature in my form;
Which, howfoever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. John. Doth Arthur live? O, hate thee to the
Peers,

Throw this report on their incenfed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience.
Forgive the comment that my paflion made
Upon thy feature, for my rage was blind;

The dreadful motion of a MURD'ROUS thought,] Nothing can be falfer than what Hubert here fays in his own vindication (yet it was the poet's purpofe that he fhould fpeak truth); for we find, from a preceding fcene, the motion of a murd rous thought bad entred into him, and that, very deeply and it was with difficulty that the tears, the intreaties, and the innocence of Arthur had diverted and fuppreffed it. Nor is the expreffion, in this reading, at all exact, it not being the neceffary quality of a murdrous thought to be dreadful, affrighting, or terrible: For it being commonly excited by the flattering views of intereft, pleafure, or revenge, the mind is often too much taken up with thofe ideas to attend, fteadily, to the confequences. We must conclude therefore that Shakespeare

wrote,

a MURDERER's thought. And this makes Hubert Speak

And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Prefented thee more hideous than thou art.
Oh, anfwer not, but to my closet bring
The angry Lords with all expedient hafte,
I conjure thee but flowly: run more faft.

SCENE V.

A Street before a Prifon.

Enter Arthur on the Walls, difguis'd.

Arıb. T

[Exeunt.

HE wall is high, and yet I will leap down. Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not! There's few or none do know me: if they did, This fhip-boy's femblance hath difguis'd me quite. I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it.

- If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand fhifts to get away:

As good to die, and go; as die, and ftay. [Leaps down.
Oh me! my Uncle's fpirit is in thefe ftones:
Heav'n take my foul,and England keep my bones! [Dies.

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.

Sal. Lords, I will meet him at St. Edmondsbury; It is our fafety; and we muft embrace

This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pemb. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal? Sal. The Count Melun, a noble Lord of France, Whofe private with me of the Dauphin's love Is much more gen'ral than thefe lines import. Bigot. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for 'twill be Two long days' journey, Lords, or ere we meet.

РОРЕ.

Whofe private, &c.- -] i, e. is much more ample than the whose private account, of the letters. Dauphin's affection to our caufe,

Enter

Enter Faulconbridge.

Faule. Once more to-day well met, diftemper'd
Lords;

The King by me requefts your prefence ftrait.
Sal. The King hath difpoffeft himself of us;
We will not line his thin, beftained cloak
With our pure honours: nor attend the foot,
That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks.
Return, and tell him fo; we know the worst.

Faulc. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were beft.

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reafon now '. Faulc. But there is little reafon in your grief, Therefore 'twere reafon, you had manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath it privilege. Faulc. 'Tis true, to hurt its mafter, no man elfe. Sal. This is the prifon: what is he lies here? [Seeing Arthur. Pemb. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!-

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Bigot. Or when he doom'd this beauty to the grave, Found it too precious, princely, for a grave.

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld, Or have you read, or heard, or could you think, Or do you almoft think, altho' you fee,

What you do fee? could thought, without this object,
Form fuch another? 'tis the very top,

The height, the creft, or creft unto the creft,
Of murder's arms; this is the bloodieft fhame,
The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft ftroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or ftaring rage,

7 To reason, in Shakespeare, is not so often to argue, as tɑ talk.

Presented

Prefented to the tears of foft remorse.

Pemb. All murders paft do ftand excus'd in this s And this fo fole, and fo unmatchable,

Shall give a holiness, a purity,

To the yet-unbegotten fins of time;
And prove a deadly blood-fhed but, a jest,
Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.

Faulc. 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?
We had a kind of light, what word ensue.
It is the fhameful work of Hubert's hand,
The practice and the purpose of the King:
From whofe obedience I forbid my foul,
Kneeling before this ruin of fweet life,
And breathing to this breathless excellence
The incenfe of a vow, a holy vow !
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor converfant with eafe and idleness,
Till I have fet a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge 9.
Pemb.

Bigot.

}Our fouls religiously confirm thy words.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte, in feeking you; Artbur doth live, the King hath fent for you. Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death.

-Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hub. I am no villain.

Sal. Muft I rob the law?

[Drawing bis Sword. Faule. Your fword is bright, Sir, put it up again. Sal. Not till I fheath it in a murd'rer's fkin.

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury; stand back, I fay; By heav'n, I think, my fword's as fharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence '; Left I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatnefs, and nobility. Bigot. Out, dunghill! dar'ft thou brave a Nobleman? Hub. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life againft an Emperor.

Sal. Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo2;

Yet, I am none.

Whose tongue foe'er speaks falfe,

Not truly speaks; who fpeaks not truly, lies.
Pemb. Cut him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I say.

Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you, Faulconbridge. Faulc. Thou wert better gaul the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or ftir thy foot, Or teach thy hafty spleen to do me fhame, I'll ftrike thee dead. Put up thy fword betime, Or I'll fo maul you, and your tosting-iron, That you fhall think, the devil is come from hell. Bigot. What will you do, renowned Falconbridge? Second a villain, and a murderer ?

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.

Bigot. Who kill'd this Prince?

Hub. 'Tis not an hour fince I left him well: I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep

true defence ;] Honeft defence; defence in a good caufe. 2 Do not prove me fo; Yet, I am none.--] Do not

make me a murderer by com. pelling me to kill you; I am bitherto not a murderer.

My