Here, after excursions, enter the HERALD OF FRANCE,

Zainab Irfan

Add To collaction

Here, after excursions, enter the HERALD OF FRANCE,

with trumpets, to the gates

FRENCH HERALD. You men of Angiers, open wide your gates

And let young Arthur, Duke of Britaine, in,

Who by the hand of France this day hath made

Much work for tears in many an English mother,

Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground;

Many a widow's husband grovelling lies,

Coldly embracing the discoloured earth;

And victory with little loss doth play

Upon the dancing banners of the French,

Who are at hand, triumphantly displayed,

To enter conquerors, and to proclaim

Arthur of Britaine England's King and yours.

Enter ENGLISH HERALD, with trumpet

ENGLISH HERALD. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:

King John, your king and England's, doth approach,

Commander of this hot malicious day.

Their armours that march'd hence so silver-bright

Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood.

There stuck no plume in any English crest

That is removed by a staff of France;

Our colours do return in those same hands

That did display them when we first march'd forth;

And like a jolly troop of huntsmen come

Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,

Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.

Open your gates and give the victors way.

CITIZEN. Heralds, from off our tow'rs we might behold

From first to last the onset and retire

Of both your armies, whose equality

By our best eyes cannot be censured.

Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows;

Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power;

Both are alike, and both alike we like.

One must prove greatest. While they weigh so even,

We hold our town for neither, yet for both.

Enter the two KINGS, with their powers, at several doors

KING JOHN. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

Say, shall the current of our right run on?

Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment,

Shall leave his native channel and o'erswell

With course disturb'd even thy confining shores,

Unless thou let his silver water keep

A peaceful progress to the ocean.

KING PHILIP. England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood

In this hot trial more than we of France;

Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear,

That sways the earth this climate overlooks,

Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,

We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear,

Or add a royal number to the dead,

Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss

With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

BASTARD. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory tow'rs

When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!

O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;

And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,

In undetermin'd differences of kings.

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?

Cry 'havoc!' kings; back to the stained field,

You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits!

Then let confusion of one part confirm

The other's peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death!

KING JOHN. Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

KING PHILIP. Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king?

CITIZEN. The King of England, when we know the King.

KING PHILIP. Know him in us that here hold up his right.

KING JOHN. In us that are our own great deputy

And bear possession of our person here,

Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

CITIZEN. A greater pow'r than we denies all this;

And till it be undoubted, we do lock

Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates;

King'd of our fears, until our fears, resolv'd,

Be by some certain king purg'd and depos'd.

BASTARD. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings,

And stand securely on their battlements

As in a theatre, whence they gape and point

At your industrious scenes and acts of death.

Your royal presences be rul'd by me:

Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,

Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend

Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town.

By east and west let France and England mount

Their battering cannon, charged to the mouths,

Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down

The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city.

I'd play incessantly upon these jades,

Even till unfenced desolation

Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.

That done, dissever your united strengths

And part your mingled colours once again,

Turn face to face and bloody point to point;

Then in a moment Fortune shall cull forth

Out of one side her happy minion,

To whom in favour she shall give the day,

And kiss him with a glorious victory.

How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?

Smacks it not something of the policy?

KING JOHN. Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,

I like it well. France, shall we knit our pow'rs

And lay this Angiers even with the ground;

Then after fight who shall be king of it?

BASTARD. An if thou hast the mettle of a king,

Being wrong'd as we are by this peevish town,

Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,

As we will ours, against these saucy walls;

And when that we have dash'd them to the ground,

Why then defy each other, and pell-mell

Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.

KING PHILIP. Let it be so. Say, where will you assault?

KING JOHN. We from the west will send destruction

Into this city's bosom.

AUSTRIA. I from the north.

KING PHILIP. Our thunder from the south

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

BASTARD. [Aside] O prudent discipline! From north to south,

Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth.

I'll stir them to it.-Come, away, away!

CITIZEN. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,

And I shall show you peace and fair-fac'd league;

Win you this city without stroke or wound;

Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds

That here come sacrifices for the field.

Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

KING JOHN. Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.

CITIZEN. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,

Is niece to England; look upon the years

Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid.

If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,

Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?

If zealous love should go in search of virtue,

Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?

If love ambitious sought a match of birth,

Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?

Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,

Is the young Dauphin every way complete-

If not complete of, say he is not she;

And she again wants nothing, to name want,

If want it be not that she is not he.

He is the half part of a blessed man,

Left to be finished by such as she;

And she a fair divided excellence,

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.

O, two such silver currents, when they join,

Do glorify the banks that bound them in;

And two such shores to two such streams made one,

Two such controlling bounds, shall you be, Kings,

To these two princes, if you marry them.

This union shall do more than battery can

To our fast-closed gates; for at this match

With swifter spleen than powder can enforce,

The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope

And give you entrance; but without this match,

The sea enraged is not half so deaf,

Lions more confident, mountains and rocks

More free from motion-no, not Death himself

In mortal fury half so peremptory

As we to keep this city.

BASTARD. Here's a stay

That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death

Out of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed,

That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas;

Talks as familiarly of roaring lions

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?

He speaks plain cannon-fire, and smoke and bounce;

He gives the bastinado with his tongue;

Our ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his

But buffets better than a fist of France.

Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words

Since I first call'd my brother's father dad.

ELINOR. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;

Give with our niece a dowry large enough;

For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie

Thy now unsur'd assurance to the crown

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe

The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.

I see a yielding in the looks of France;

Mark how they whisper. Urge them while their souls

Are capable of this ambition,

Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath

Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse,

Cool and congeal again to what it was.

CITIZEN. Why answer not the double majesties

This friendly treaty of our threat'ned town?

KING PHILIP. Speak England first, that hath been forward first

To speak unto this city: what say you?

KING JOHN. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,

Can in this book of beauty read 'I love,'

Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen;

For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,

And all that we upon this side the sea-

Except this city now by us besieg'd-

Find liable to our crown and dignity,

Shall gild her bridal bed, and make her rich

In titles, honours, and promotions,

As she in beauty, education, blood,

Holds hand with any princess of the world.

KING PHILIP. What say'st thou, boy? Look in the lady's face.

LEWIS. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find

A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

The shadow of myself form'd in her eye;

Which, being but the shadow of your son,

Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow.

I do protest I never lov'd myself

Till now infixed I beheld myself

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

[Whispers with BLANCH]

BASTARD. [Aside] Drawn in the flattering table of her eye,

Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow,

And quarter'd in her heart-he doth espy

Himself love's traitor. This is pity now,

That hang'd and drawn and quarter'd there should be

In such a love so vile a lout as he.

BLANCH. My uncle's will in this respect is mine.

If he see aught in you that makes him like,

That anything he sees which moves his liking

I can with ease translate it to my will;

Or if you will, to speak more properly,

I will enforce it eas'ly to my love.

Further I will not flatter you, my lord,

That all I see in you is worthy love,

Than this: that nothing do I see in you-

Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge-

That I can find should merit any hate.

KING JOHN. What say these young ones? What say you, my niece?

BLANCH. That she is bound in honour still to do

What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

KING JOHN. Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?

LEWIS. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;

For I do love her most unfeignedly.

KING JOHN. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces,

With her to thee; and this addition more,

Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.

Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal,

Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

KING PHILIP. It likes us well; young princes, close your hands.

AUSTRIA. And your lips too; for I am well assur'd

That I did so when I was first assur'd.

KING PHILIP. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,

Let in that amity which you have made;

For at Saint Mary's chapel presently

The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd.

Is not the Lady Constance in this troop?

I know she is not; for this match made up

Her presence would have interrupted much.

Where is she and her son? Tell me, who knows.

LEWIS. She is sad and passionate at your Highness' tent.

KING PHILIP. And, by my faith, this league that we have made

Will give her sadness very little cure.

Brother of England, how may we content

This widow lady? In her right we came;

Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way,

To our own vantage.

KING JOHN. We will heal up all,

For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Britaine,

And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town

We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance;

Some speedy messenger bid her repair

To our solemnity. I trust we shall,

If not fill up the measure of her will,

Yet in some measure satisfy her so

That we shall stop her exclamation.

Go we as well as haste will suffer us

To this unlook'd-for, unprepared pomp.

Exeunt all but the BASTARD

BASTARD. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!

John, to stop Arthur's tide in the whole,

Hath willingly departed with a part;

And France, whose armour conscience buckled on,

Whom zeal and charity brought to the field

As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,

That broker that still breaks the pate of faith,

That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,

Who having no external thing to lose

But the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that;

That smooth-fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity,

Commodity, the bias of the world-

The world, who of itself is peised well,

Made to run even upon even ground,

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,

This sway of motion, this commodity,

Makes it take head from all indifferency,

From all direction, purpose, course, intent-

And this same bias, this commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,

Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France,

Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid,

From a resolv'd and honourable war,

To a most base and vile-concluded peace.

And why rail I on this commodity?

But for because he hath not woo'd me yet;

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand

When his fair angels would salute my palm,

But for my hand, as unattempted yet,

Like a poor beggar raileth on the rich.

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail

And say there is no sin but to be rich;

And being rich, my virtue then shall be

To say there is no vice but beggary.

Since kings break faith upon commodity,

Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. Exit

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ACT III. SCENE 1.

France. The FRENCH KING'S camp

Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY

CONSTANCE. Gone to be married! Gone to swear a peace!

False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends!

Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?

It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard;

Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again.

It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so;

I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word

Is but the vain breath of a common man:

Believe me I do not believe thee, man;

I have a king's oath to the contrary.

Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,

For I am sick and capable of fears,

Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;

A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;

A woman, naturally born to fears;

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,

With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,

But they will quake and tremble all this day.

What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?

Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?

What means that hand upon that breast of thine?

Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,

Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?

Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?

Then speak again-not all thy former tale,

But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

SALISBURY. As true as I believe you think them false

That give you cause to prove my saying true.

CONSTANCE. O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,

Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;

And let belief and life encounter so

As doth the fury of two desperate men

Which in the very meeting fall and die!

Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?

France friend with England; what becomes of me?

Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight;

This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

SALISBURY. What other harm have I, good lady, done

But spoke the harm that is by others done?

CONSTANCE. Which harm within itself so heinous is

As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

ARTHUR. I do beseech you, madam, be content.

CONSTANCE. If thou that bid'st me be content wert grim,

Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,

Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,

Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,

Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,

I would not care, I then would be content;

For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou

Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.

But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy,

Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great:

Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,

And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O!

She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee;

Sh' adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,

And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France

To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,

And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.

France is a bawd to Fortune and King John-

That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!

Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?

Envenom him with words, or get thee gone

And leave those woes alone which I alone

Am bound to under-bear.

SALISBURY. Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

CONSTANCE. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee;

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud,

For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

To me, and to the state of my great grief,

Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great

That no supporter but the huge firm earth

Can hold it up. [Seats herself on the ground]

Here I and sorrows sit;

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILIP, LEWIS, BLANCH,

ELINOR, the BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and attendants

KING PHILIP. 'Tis true, fair daughter, and this blessed day

Ever in France shall be kept festival.

To solemnize this day the glorious sun

Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,

Turning with splendour of his precious eye

The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold.

The yearly course that brings this day about

Shall never see it but a holiday.

CONSTANCE. [Rising] A wicked day, and not a holy day!

What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done

That it in golden letters should be set

Among the high tides in the calendar?

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,

This day of shame, oppression, perjury;

Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child

Pray that their burdens may not fall this day,

Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd;

But on this day let seamen fear no wreck;

No bargains break that are not this day made;

This day, all things begun come to ill end,

Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!

KING PHILIP. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause

To curse the fair proceedings of this day.

Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty?

CONSTANCE. You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit

Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,

Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn;

You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,

But now in arms you strengthen it with yours.

The grappling vigour and rough frown of war

Is cold in amity and painted peace,

And our oppression hath made up this league.

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings!

A widow cries: Be husband to me, heavens!

Let not the hours of this ungodly day

Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,

Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings!

Hear me, O, hear me!

AUSTRIA. Lady Constance, peace!

CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to me a war.

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame

That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!

Thou little valiant, great in villainy!

Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!

Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight

But when her humorous ladyship is by

To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur'd too,

And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,

A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear

Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,

Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,

Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend

Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength,

And dost thou now fall over to my foes?

Thou wear a lion's hide! Doff it for shame,

And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me!

BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA. Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.

BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

KING JOHN. We like not this: thou dost forget thyself.

Enter PANDULPH

KING PHILIP. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope.

PANDULPH. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!

To thee, King John, my holy errand is.

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,

And from Pope Innocent the legate here,

Do in his name religiously demand

Why thou against the Church, our holy mother,

So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce

Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop

Of Canterbury, from that holy see?

This, in our foresaid holy father's name,

Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

KING JOHN. What earthly name to interrogatories

Can task the free breath of a sacred king?

Thou canst not, Cardinal, devise a name

So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous,

To charge me to an answer, as the Pope.

Tell him this tale, and from the mouth of England

Add thus much more, that no Italian priest

Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;

But as we under heaven are supreme head,

So, under Him that great supremacy,

Where we do reign we will alone uphold,

Without th' assistance of a mortal hand.

So tell the Pope, all reverence set apart

To him and his usurp'd authority.

KING PHILIP. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

KING JOHN. Though you and all the kings of Christendom

Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,

Dreading the curse that money may buy out,

And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself-

Though you and all the rest, so grossly led,

This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish;

Yet I alone, alone do me oppose

Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes.

PANDULPH. Then by the lawful power that I have

Thou shalt stand curs'd and excommunicate;

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

From his allegiance to an heretic;

And meritorious shall that hand be call'd,

Canonized, and worshipp'd as a saint,

That takes away by any secret course

Thy hateful life.

CONSTANCE. O, lawful let it be

That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!

Good father Cardinal, cry thou 'amen'

To my keen curses; for without my wrong

There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

PANDULPH. There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

CONSTANCE. And for mine too; when law can do no right,

Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong;

Law cannot give my child his kingdom here,

For he that holds his kingdom holds the law;

Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong,

How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

PANDULPH. Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

Let go the hand of that arch-heretic,

And raise the power of France upon his head,

Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

ELINOR. Look'st thou pale, France? Do not let go thy hand.

CONSTANCE. Look to that, devil, lest that France repent

And by disjoining hands hell lose a soul.

AUSTRIA. King Philip, listen to the Cardinal.

BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,

Because-

BASTARD. Your breeches best may carry them.

KING JOHN. Philip, what say'st thou to the Cardinal?

CONSTANCE. What should he say, but as the Cardinal?

LEWIS. Bethink you, father; for the difference

Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome

Or the light loss of England for a friend.

Forgo the easier.

BLANCH. That's the curse of Rome.

CONSTANCE. O Lewis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here

In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

BLANCH. The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,

But from her need.

CONSTANCE. O, if thou grant my need,

Which only lives but by the death of faith,

That need must needs infer this principle-

That faith would live again by death of need.

O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up:

Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down!

KING JOHN. The King is mov'd, and answers not to this.

CONSTANCE. O be remov'd from him, and answer well!

AUSTRIA. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

BASTARD. Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

KING PHILIP. I am perplex'd and know not what to say.

PANDULPH. What canst thou say but will perplex thee more,

If thou stand excommunicate and curs'd?

KING PHILIP. Good reverend father, make my person yours,

And tell me how you would bestow yourself.

This royal hand and mine are newly knit,

And the conjunction of our inward souls

Married in league, coupled and link'd together

With all religious strength of sacred vows;

The latest breath that gave the sound of words

Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,

Between our kingdoms and our royal selves;

And even before this truce, but new before,

No longer than we well could wash our hands,

To clap this royal bargain up of peace,

Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and overstain'd

With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint

The fearful difference of incensed kings.

And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood,

So newly join'd in love, so strong in both,

Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?

Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,

Make such unconstant children of ourselves,

As now again to snatch our palm from palm,

Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed

Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,

And make a riot on the gentle brow

Of true sincerity? O, holy sir,

My reverend father, let it not be so!

Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose,

Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest

To do your pleasure, and continue friends.

PANDULPH. All form is formless, order orderless,

Save what is opposite to England's love.

Therefore, to arms! be champion of our church,

Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse-

A mother's curse-on her revolting son.

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,

A chafed lion by the mortal paw,

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

KING PHILIP. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

PANDULPH. So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;

And like. a civil war set'st oath to oath.

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow

First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd,

That is, to be the champion of our Church.

What since thou swor'st is sworn against thyself

And may not be performed by thyself,

For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss

Is not amiss when it is truly done;

And being not done, where doing tends to ill,

The truth is then most done not doing it;

The better act of purposes mistook

Is to mistake again; though indirect,

Yet indirection thereby grows direct,

And falsehood cures, as fire cools fire

Within the scorched veins of one new-burn'd.

It is religion that doth make vows kept;

But thou hast sworn against religion

By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st,

And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth

Against an oath; the truth thou art unsure

To swear swears only not to be forsworn;

Else what a mockery should it be to swear!

But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;

And most forsworn to keep what thou dost swear.

Therefore thy later vows against thy first

Is in thyself rebellion to thyself;

And better conquest never canst thou make

Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts

Against these giddy loose suggestions;

Upon which better part our pray'rs come in,

If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know

The peril of our curses fight on thee

So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,

But in despair die under the black weight.

AUSTRIA. Rebellion, flat rebellion!

BASTARD. Will't not be?

Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine?

LEWIS. Father, to arms!

BLANCH. Upon thy wedding-day?

Against the blood that thou hast married?

What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered men?

Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,

Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp?

O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new

Is 'husband' in my mouth! even for that name,

Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,

Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms

Against mine uncle.

CONSTANCE. O, upon my knee,

Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,

Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

Forethought by heaven!

BLANCH. Now shall I see thy love. What motive may

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

CONSTANCE. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

His honour. O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!

LEWIS. I muse your Majesty doth seem so cold,

When such profound respects do pull you on.

PANDULPH. I will denounce a curse upon his head.

KING PHILIP. Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee.

CONSTANCE. O fair return of banish'd majesty!

ELINOR. O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

KING JOHN. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

BASTARD. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,

Is it as he will? Well then, France shall rue.

BLANCH. The sun's o'ercast with blood. Fair day, adieu!

Which is the side that I must go withal?

I am with both: each army hath a hand;

And in their rage, I having hold of both,

They whirl asunder and dismember me.

Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;

Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;

Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;

Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive.

Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose:

Assured loss before the match be play'd.

LEWIS. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.

BLANCH. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

KING JOHN. Cousin, go draw our puissance together.

Exit BASTARD

France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath,

A rage whose heat hath this condition

That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France.

KING PHILIP. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire.

Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

KING JOHN. No more than he that threats. To arms let's hie!

Exeunt severally

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

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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