Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will

As dear be to thee as thy father was.

Arth. O, this will make my mother die with grief!

K. John. [To the Bastard.] Cousin, away for England!

haste before:

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots; imprison'd angels
Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon :

Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bast. 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.

Eli. Farewell, gentle cousin.

K. John.

Coz, farewell.

Eli. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

1Ο

[Exit Bastard.

K. 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

20

To say what good respect I have of thee.

K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,

30

Hub. I am much bounden to your majesty.

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 ear 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

angels: gold coins with the effigy of St. Michael on them.

40

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 ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of broad-eyed 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.
Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act
By heaven, I would do it.

K. 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.

Hub.

And I'll keep him so,

Death.

That he shall not offend your majesty.

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60

K. John.

Enough.

Hubert, I love thee;

I could be merry now.

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.
Eli. My blessing go with thee!

K. John.

For England, cousin, go:

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!

SCENE IV. The same. The French KING'S tent.

Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.

K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

A whole armado of convicted sail

Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.

Pand. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. K. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so ill? Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?

2 convicted

70

[Exeunt.

possibly conquered, overcome; but not improbably S. meant convented, and perhaps so wrote

Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

Lew. What 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?

K. Phi. 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 the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

I prithee, lady, go away with me.

Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace.

K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance ! Const. 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!

K. Phi. O fair affliction, peace!
Const. 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.

Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Const. 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!

ΤΟ

20

330

40

42 modern. S.'s use of this word, before remarked upon, is difficult to explain, and even to understand. Here it seems to be equivalent to common or commonplace.

For then, 't is 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 canonized, 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.

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note

In the fair multitude of those her hairs!

Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,

Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glue themselves in sociable grief,

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const. To England, if you will.

K. Phi.

Bind up your hairs.

Const. 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.

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60

70

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,

80

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.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me that never had a son.

K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

90

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,
When there is such 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. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.
Lew. 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.
Pand. 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?
Lew. All days of glory, joy and happiness.
Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had.
No, no; when Fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening 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?
Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your
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 as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd;

blood.

100

[Exit.

[Erit.

110

120

130

166 Exit Constance. S.'s Constance is so ideally beautiful an embodiment of that noblest kind of woman, in whom maternity rises from an instinct to a grand passion, and her words give such a poignant and pathetic utterance to love and grief, that it is an ungrateful task to say that the real Constance was a woman of unrestrained passions, easily consoled by one man for the loss of another, ambitious, revengeful, and not a loving mother. Nor was Arthur S.'s sweet, unselfish boy.