Bigot. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for 'twill be Two long days' journey, Lords, or e'er we meet. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faule. Once more to-day well met, distemper'd Lords; The King by me requests your prefence trait.

Sal. The King hath difpoffefs'd 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 reason you had manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath its 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 The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. [beauty! 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 glaive, 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 almost think, although 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 bloodiest shame,
The wildest favag'ry; the vileft ftroke,

That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage,

Prefented to the tears of foft remorse.

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

Shall give a holinefs, a purity,

To the yet-unbegotten fins of time;

And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,

Exampled

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 would enfue.
It is the fhameful work of Hubert's hand?
The practice and the purpofe 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 pleafures 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.
Pemb.
Bigot. S

}

Our fouls religiously confirm thy words,

SCENE

VI. Enter Hubert.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte in seeking you; Arthur 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 his fword.

Faulc. 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 your's 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 against an Emperor,

Sal. Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo;

Yet I am none. Whofe tongue foe'er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lyes.

X x 2

Pemb

Pemb. Cut him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I fay.

Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you, Faulconbridge. Faule. Thou wert better gaul the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,

Or teach thy hafty fpleen to do me shame,
I'll ftrike thee dead. Put up thy fword betime,
Or I'll fo maul you, and your tofting-iron,
That you fhall think the devil is come from hell.
Bigot. What will you do, renowned Faulconbridge?
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
My date of life out, for his fweet life's lofs.

Sal. Truft not thofe cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without fuch a rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocence.
Away with me, all you whofe fouls abhor
Th' uncleanly favour of a flaughter-house,
For I am ftifled with the fmell of fin.

Bigot. Away towr'd Bury, to the Dauphin there. Pemb. There, tell the King, he may inquire us out. [Exeunt Lords:

Faulc. Here's a good world; knew you of this fair

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

Hub. Do but hear me, Sir.

Faule. Ha! I'll tell thee what,

Thou'rt damn'd fo black

[work?

nay, nothing is fo black;

Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer.

There is not yet fo ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

Hub. Upon my foul

Faulc. If thou didft but confent

To this most cruel act, do but despair,

And if thou want'ft a cord, the smallest thread

That

That ever spider twisted from her womb,"
Will ftrangle thee; a rush will be a beam

1

To hang thee on: or would't thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a fpoon,
And it fhall be as all the ocean,
Enough to ftifle fuch a villain up.
I do fufpect thee very grievously.

Hub. If I in act, confent, or fin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that fweet breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.

Faulc. Go bear him in thine arms.

I am amaz'd, methinks, and lofe my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
How eafy doft thou take all England up!
From forth this morfel of dead royalty,
The life, the right, and truth of all this realm
Is fled to heav'n; and England now is left
To tug and scramble, and to part by th' teeth
The un-owed intereft of proud-fwelling state.
Now for the bare-pick'd bone of Majesty,
Doth dogged War bristle his angry creft,
And fnarleth in the gentle eyes of Peace.
Now pow'rs from home and difcontents at home
Meet in one line: and vaft confusion waits
(As doth a raven on a fick, fall'n beast)
The imminent decay of wrested pomp.
Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can
Hold out his tempeft. Bear away the child,
And follow me with fpeed; I'll to the King;
A thousand businesses are brief at hand,
And heav'n itself doth frown upon the land.

[Exeunt.

ACT

SCENE I.

A CT

V."

The court of England.

Enter King John, Pandulph, and attendants.

K. John. Hus I have yielded up into your hand The circle of my glory.

Pand. Take again

[Giving the crown.

From this my hand, as holding of the Pope,

Your fovereign greatnefs and authority.

K. John. Now keep your holy word; go meet the
French,

And from his Holiness use all your power
To top the marches 'fore we are inflam'd.
Our difcontented counties do revolt;
Our people quarrel with obedience;
Swearing allegiance, and the love of foul,
To ftranger blood, to foreign royalty;
This inundation of mistemper'd humour
Rets by you only to be qualify'd.

Then pause not; for the prefent time's fo fick,
That prefent medicine must be ministred,

Or overthrow incurable enfues.

Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempeft up, Upon your ftubborn ufage of the Pope:

But fince you are a gentle convertite,

My tongue fhall hush again this ftorm of war;
And make fair weather in your bluft'ring land.
On this Afcenfion-day, remember well,

Upon your oath of service to the Pope,

Go I to make the French lay down their arms.

[Exit.

K. John. Is this Afcenfion-day? did not the prophet

Say, that before Afcenfion-day at noon

My crown I fhould give off? Even so I have.
I did fuppofe it fhould be on constraint;

But, heav'n be thank'd, it is but voluntary.

Enter Faulconbridge.

Faule. All Kent hath yielded, nothing there holds out But Dover caftle: London hath receiv'd,