King John

SCENE 2

France. Plains near Angiers

Alarums, excursions. Enter the BASTARD with AUSTRIA'S head

 
  BASTARD. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;
    Some airy devil hovers in the sky
    And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there,
    While Philip breathes.
 

Enter KING JOHN, ARTHUR, and HUBERT

 
  KING JOHN. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up:
    My mother is assailed in our tent,
    And ta'en, I fear.
  BASTARD. My lord, I rescued her;
    Her Highness is in safety, fear you not;
    But on, my liege, for very little pains
    Will bring this labour to an happy end.
 

Exeunt

SCENE 3

France. Plains near Angiers

Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS

 
  KING JOHN. [To ELINOR] So shall it be; your Grace shall stay
      behind,
    So strongly guarded. [To ARTHUR] Cousin, look not sad;
    Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will
    As dear be to thee as thy father was.
  ARTHUR. O, this will make my mother die with grief!
  KING JOHN. [To the BASTARD] Cousin, 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.
  BASTARD. 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.
  ELINOR. Farewell, gentle cousin.
  KING JOHN. Coz, farewell.
 

Exit BASTARD

 
  ELINOR. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.
  KING 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
    Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
    Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say-
    But I will fit it with some better time.
    By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
    To say what good respect I have of thee.
  HUBERT. I am much bounden to your Majesty.
  KING JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,
    But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
    Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
    I had a thing to say-but let it go:
    The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
    Attended with the pleasures of the world,
    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 couldst see me without eyes,
    Hear me without thine cars, 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.
  HUBERT. So well that what you bid me undertake,
    Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
    By heaven, I would do it.
  KING JOHN. Do not I know thou wouldst?
    Good Hubert, 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 tread,
    He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
    Thou art his keeper.
  HUBERT. And I'll keep him so
    That he shall not offend your Majesty.
  KING JOHN. Death.
  HUBERT. My lord?
  KING JOHN. A grave.
  HUBERT. He shall not live.
  KING JOHN. Enough!
    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.
  ELINOR. My blessing go with thee!
  KING JOHN. [To ARTHUR] For England, cousin, go;
    Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
    With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!
 

Exeunt

SCENE 4

France. The FRENCH KING's camp

Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and attendants

 
  KING PHILIP. So by a roaring tempest on the flood
    A whole armado of convicted sail
    Is scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship.
  PANDULPH. Courage and comfort! All shall yet go well.
  KING PHILIP. 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?
  LEWIS. 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?
  KING PHILIP. 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 prithee, lady, go away with me.
  CONSTANCE. Lo now! now see the issue of your peace!
  KING PHILIP. Patience, good lady! Comfort, gentle Constance!
  CONSTANCE. 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 eyeballs 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!
  KING PHILIP. O fair affliction, peace!
  CONSTANCE. 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.
  PANDULPH. Lady, you utter madness and not sorrow.
  CONSTANCE. 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.
  KING PHILIP. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note
    In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
    Where but by a chance a silver drop hath fall'n,
    Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
    Do glue themselves in sociable grief,
    Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
    Sticking together in calamity.
  CONSTANCE. To England, if you will.
  KING PHILIP. Bind up your hairs.
  CONSTANCE. 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.
  PANDULPH. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
  CONSTANCE. He talks to me that never had a son.
  KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
  CONSTANCE. 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,
                                                   [Tearing her
hair]
    When there is such disorder in my wit.
    O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
    My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
    My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!
Exit
  KING PHILIP. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.
Exit
  LEWIS. 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.
  PANDULPH. 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?
  LEWIS. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
  PANDULPH. If you had won it, certainly you had.
    No, no; when Fortune means to men most good,
    She looks upon them with a threat'ning 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?
  LEWIS. As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
  PANDULPH. 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 boisterously maintain'd as gain'd,
    And he that stands upon a slipp'ry 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.
  LEWIS. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?
  PANDULPH. You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,
    May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
  LEWIS. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
  PANDULPH. 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 borne, 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 scope 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.
  LEWIS. May be he will not touch young Arthur's life,
    But hold himself safe in his prisonment.
  PANDULPH. 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 can
    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 topful of offence.
    For England go; I will whet on the King.
  LEWIS. Strong reasons makes strong actions. Let us go;
    If you say ay, the King will not say no.
 

Exeunt

ACT IV. SCENE 1

England. A castle

Enter HUBERT and EXECUTIONERS

 
  HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
    Within the arras. When I strike my foot
    Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth
    And bind the boy which you shall find with me
    Fast to the chair. Be heedful; hence, and watch.
  EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
  HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you. Look to't.
 

Exeunt EXECUTIONERS

 
    Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.
 

Enter ARTHUR

 
  ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert.
  HUBERT. Good morrow, little Prince.
  ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a tide
    To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.
  HUBERT. Indeed I have been merrier.
  ARTHUR. Mercy on me!
    Methinks no body should be sad but I;
    Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
    Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
    Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
    So I were out of prison and kept sheep,
    I should be as merry as the day is long;
    And so I would be here but that I doubt
    My uncle practises 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, ist not; and I would to heaven
    I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
  HUBERT. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
    He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
    Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.
  ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day;
    In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
    That I might sit all night and watch with you.
    I warrant I love you more than you do me.
  HUBERT. [Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom. -
    Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a
paper]
      [Aside] How now, foolish rheum!
    Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
    I must be brief, lest resolution drop
    Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. -
    Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
  ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
    Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
  HUBERT. Young boy, I must.
  ARTHUR. And will you?
  HUBERT. And I will.
  ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
    I knit my handkerchief about your brows-
    The best I had, a princess 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 cheer'd up the heavy time,
    Saying 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'
    Or 'What good love may I perform for you?'
    Many a poor man's son would have lyen still,
    And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
    But you at your sick service had a prince.
    Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
    And call it cunning. Do, an if you will.
    If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
    Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes,
    These eyes that never did nor never shall
    So much as frown on you?
  HUBERT. I have sworn to do it;
    And with hot irons must I burn them out.
  ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!
    The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
    Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears,
    And quench his fiery indignation
    Even in the matter of mine innocence;
    Nay, after that, consume away in rust
    But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
    Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
    An if an angel should have come to me
    And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
    I would not have believ'd him-no tongue but Hubert's.
  HUBERT. [Stamps] Come forth.
 

Re-enter EXECUTIONERS, With cord, irons, etc.

 
    Do as I bid you do.
  ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out
    Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
  HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
  ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
    I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
    For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
    Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away,
    And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
    I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
    Nor look upon the iron angrily;
    Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
    Whatever torment you do put me to.
  HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
  EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.
 

Exeunt EXECUTIONERS

 
  ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend!
    He hath a stern look but a gentle heart.
    Let him come back, that his compassion may
    Give life to yours.
  HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
  ARTHUR. Is there no remedy?
  HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes.
  ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,
    A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
    Any annoyance in that precious sense!
    Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
    Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
  HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.
  ARTHUR. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
    Must 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, spare mine eyes,
    Though to no use but still to look on you!
    Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold
    And would not harm me.
  HUBERT. I can heat it, boy.
  ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
    Being create for comfort, to be us'd
    In undeserved extremes. See else yourself:
    There is no malice in this burning coal;
    The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
    And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.
  HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
  ARTHUR. An if you do, you will but make it blush
    And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert.
    Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes,
    And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight,
    Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
    All things that you should use to do me wrong
    Deny their office; only you do lack
    That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,
    Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
  HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye
    For all the treasure that thine uncle owes.
    Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
    With this same very iron to burn them out.
  ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All this while
    You were disguis'd.
  HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu.
    Your uncle must not know but you are dead:
    I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports;
    And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure
    That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
    Will not offend thee.
  ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.
  HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me.
    Much danger do I undergo for thee.
 

Exeunt