Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard 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 trickling 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's 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 this bosom pour my thought.
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,
I'd do it.

K. John. Do I not know thou wouldst?

Good Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

On yon 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 trace,
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.

Hub. And I will keep him so

That he shall not offend your majesty.

Hubert. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night:

Four fix'd; and the fifth did whirl about

The other four, in wonderous motion.

King John. Five moons?

Hub. Old men and +beldams in the streets

Do prophesy on it +dangerously:

Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;

And he that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist,
While he, that hears, makes fearful action
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,
The while his iron did on the anvil cool,

With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,)
Told of many thousand warlike French,
That were tembattled and ran'k in Kent;
Another lean, unwash'd +artificer,

Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.

K. John. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?

Thy hand hath murder'd him. I had mighty cause

To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

Hub. Had none, my lord? Why, did you not provoke me?

K. John. It is the curse of Kings, to be attended

By slaves that take their humors for a warrant

To break within the bloody house of life;

And on the winking of authority,

To understand a law; to know the meaning

Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns

More upon humor than advis'd respect.

Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

K. John. Oh, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal

Witness against us to damnation!

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,

Makes ill deeds done! Hadst not thou been by,

A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
+Quoted and sign'd to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind:
But, taking note of thy +abhorred aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody +villainy,
Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death

And thou, to be endeared to a king,

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

Hub. My lord.

K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause, When I spoke darkly of what I propos'd;

Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,

And bid me tell my tale in express words;

Deep shame had made me dumb, made me break off,

And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again *parley with sin;
Yea, without stop didst let thy heart consent,
And, consequently, thy rude hand to act

The deed, which both our tongues hold vile to name:
Out of my sight, and never see me more!

My nobles leave me; and my state is brav'd,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers;
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns

Between my conscience and my cousin's death.

Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace between your soul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter'd yet

The dreadful notion of a murderous thought,
And you have slander'd nature in my form;
Which, however rude texteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. John. Doth Arthur live? Oh, haste thee to the peers, Throw this report on their incensed rage,

And make them tame to their obedience!
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,
And foul, timaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more thideous than thou art.
O, answer not; but to my closet bring
The angry lords, with all expedient haste;
I conjure thee but slowly run more fast.

Characters.-SWIPES, a brewer; CURRIE, a saddler; FRANK MILLINGTON, and 'SQUIRE DRAWL.

Swipes. A sober occasion, this, brother Currie. Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end?

Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes; and those who live the longest, outlive the most.

Swipes. True, true; but since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed?

Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. 'Squire Drawl told me she read every word of the will aloud, and never signed her name better. Swipes. Had you any hint from the 'Squire, what *disposition she made of her property?

Cur. Not a whisper; the 'Squire is as close as an underground tomb: but one of the witnesses hinted to me, that she had cut off her graceless nephew, Frank, without a shilling. Swipes. Has she, good soul, has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife.

Cur. And I in my own right; and this is no doubt the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. 'Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your beer-barrels. But here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. [Enter FRANK MILLINGTON.] Your servant, young gentleman. So your benefactress has left you, at last.

Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington.

Frank. It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better, had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value.

Cur. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.

Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer's boy, if you were not too old.

Cur. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight rein.

Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly, as I shall mine I shall retire. [Going: he meets 'SQUIRE

submissively. DRAWL.]

'Squire. Stop, stop, young man. We must have your presence. Good morning, gentlemen; you are early on the ground.

Cur. I hope the 'Squire is well today.

'Squire. Pretty comfortable, for an invalid.

Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs again.

'Squire. No, I believe not. But since the heirs at law ́are all convened, I shall now proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.

Swipes. [While the 'Squire is breaking the seal.] It is a trying thing, to leave all one's possessions, 'Squire, in this

manner.

Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy, when I look around and see every thing but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say, "all is vanity."

'Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. [He puts on his spectacles, and begins to read slowly.] *Imprimis; whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt-Street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly-Court, saddler." [The 'Squire takes off his spectacles, to wipe them.]

Swipes. Generous creature! Kind soul! I always loved her. Cur. She was good, she was kind;—and, brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I'll take the mansion-house.

Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie. My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it.

Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes. And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did I not lend her a new chaise, every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence