Oh me, my Uncle's Spirit is in thefe Stones;
Heav'n take my Soul, and England take my Bones.
Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.
Sal.. Lords, I will meet him at St. Edmonsbury;.
It is our Safety, and we muft embrace
This gentle Offer of the perilous time.
Pemb. Who brought that Letter from the Cardinal?
Sal. The Count Melun, a noble Lord of France,
Whose private with me of the Dauphin's Love,
Is much more general than these Lines import.
Bigot. To Morrow Morning let us meet him then.
Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for 'twill be
Two long Day's Journey, Lords, or e'er we meet.
Enter Baftard.
Baft. Once more to Day well met, diftemper'd Lords, The King by me requests your Prefence ftraight.
Sal. The King hath dipoffeft himself of us;
We will not line his thin beftained Clake
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
Baft. What e'er you think, good Words I think were Sal. Our Griefs, and not our Manners, reafon now. Baft. But there is little Reafon in your Grief, Therefore 'twere Reafon you had Manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, Impatience hath his Privilege. Baft. 'Tis true, to hurt his Mafter, no Man elfe. Sal. This is the Prifon: What is he lyes here? (Beauty; Pemb. Oh Death, made proud with pure and princely The Earth had not a hole to hide this Deed.
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 a Grave; 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 almoft think, although you fee,
That you do fee? Could Thought, without this Object,
Form fuch another? This is the very Top,
The Heighth, the Creft, or Creft unto the Creft
Of Murders Arms; this is the bloodiest Shame,
The wildeft Savagery, the vileft Stroak
That ever wall-ey'd Wrath, or ftaring Rage
Prefented to the Tears of foft Remorfe.
Pemb. All Murders paft, do ftand excus'd in this;
And this fo fole, and fo unmatchable,
Shall give a Holiness, a Purity,
To the yet unbegotten Sin of times;
And prove a deadly blood-fhed, but a Jeft,
Exampled by this heinous Spectacle.
Baft. 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 Practife, and the Purpose of the King:
From whofe Obedience I forbid my Soul,
Kneeling before this Ruin of fweet Life,
And breathing to this breathlefs Excellence,
The Incenfe of a Vow, a holy Vow;
Never to taste the Pleasures 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. Bigo. Our Souls religioufly confirm thy Words.
Enter Hubert.
Hub. Lords, I am hot with Hafte, in feeking you; Arthur doth live, the King hath fent for you. Sal. Oh he is bold, and blushes not at Death; Avant thou hateful Villain, get thee gone. Hub. I am no Villain.
Baft. Your Sword is bright, Sir, put it up again. Sal. Not 'till I fheath it in a Murderer's Skin. Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, ftand back, I fay, By Heav'n, I think my Sword's as fharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget your self, Nor tempt the Danger of my true Defence; Left I, by marking of your Rage, forget Your Worth, your Greatnefs, and Nobility.
Bigot. Out Dunghil, 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 Murderer.
Hub. Do not prove me fo;
Yet I am none. Whofe Tongue foe'er fpeaks falfe,
Not truly speaks; who fpeaks not truly, lies.
Pemb. Cut him to Pieces.
Baft. Keep the Peace, I fay.
Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you Faulconbridge.
Baft. Thou wert better gaul the Devil, Salisbury.
If thou but frown on me, or ftir thy Foot,
Or teach thy hafty Spleen to do me Shame,
I'll ftrike thee dead. Put up thy Sword betime,
Or I'll fo maul you, and your tofting-Iron,
That you fhall think the Devil is come from Hell.
Bigot. What wilt thou 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 Rheume;
And he long traded in it, makes it seem
Like Rivers of Remorfe and Innocency.
Away with me, all you whofe Souls abhor
Th'uncleanly Savour of a Slaughter-Houfe,
For I am ftifled with the Smell of Sin.
Bigot. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there.
Pemb. There tell the King he mayenquire us out.[Ex.Lords.
Baft. Here's a good World; knew you of this fair Work?
Beyond the infinite and boundless Reach of Mercy,
Ifthou didst this Deed of Death, thou art damn'd; Hubert.
Hub. Do but hear me, Sir,
Baft. Ha? I'll tell thee what,
Thou'rt damn'd as black, 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 Soul.
Baft. If thou didst but confent
To this moft cruel Act, do but defpair,
And if thou want'ft a Cord, the fmalleft Thread
That ever Spider twisted from her Womb
Will ferve to ftrangle thee: A Rufh will be a Beam
To hang thee on: Or would'ft thou drown thy felf,
Put but a little Water in a Spoon,
And it fhail 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 Sin of Thought,
Be guilty of the ftealing that fweet Breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous Clay,
Let Hell want Pains enough to torture me.
I left him well.
Baft. Go, bear him in thine Arms..
I am amaz'd methinks, and lofe my Way
Among the Thorns, and Dangers of this World.
How eafie doft thou take all Engiand 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 fcramble, and to part by th' Teeth
The unowed Intereft of proud fwelling State:
Now for the bare-pickt Bone of Majefty,
Doth dogged War briftle his angry Creft,
And fnarleth in the gentle Eyes of Peace:
Now Powers from home, and Difontents at home
Meet in one Line; and vaft Confufion waits,
As doth a Raven on a fick-fallen Beaft,
The imminent Decay of wrefted Pomp.
Now happy he, whofe Cloak and Center can
Hold out this Tempeft. Bear away that Child,
And follow me with speed; I'll to the King:
A thousand Bufineffes are brief at Hand,
And Heav'n it felf doth frown upon the Land,
Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants.
The Circle of my Glory.
HUS I have yielded up into your Hand
From this my Hand, as holding of the Pope,
Your Soveraign Greatness and Authority.
K. John. Now keep your holy Word, go meet the French,
And from his Holinefs ufe all your Power
To stop their Marches 'fore we are enflam'd.
Our difcontented Counties do revolt;
Our People quarrel with Obedience,
Swearing Allegiance, and the love of Soul
To ftranger-Blood, to foreign Royalty;
This Inundation of diftemper'd Humour,
Refts by you only to be qualify'd.
Then paufe not; for the prefent Time's fo fick,
That prefent Med'cine must be miniftred,
Or Overthrow incurably infues.
Pand. It was my Breath that blew this Tempest up, Upon your stubborn Usage of the Pope:
But fince you are a gentle Convertite,
My Tongue fhall hush again this Storm of War,
And make fair Weather in your bluftring 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.
K. John. Is this Afcenfion-Day? Did not the Prophet
Say, that before Afcenfion-Day at Noon,
My Crown I should give off? even fo I have:
I did fuppose it should be on Constraint,
But, Heav'n be thank'd, it is but voluntary.
Boft. All Kent hath yielded, nothing there holds out But Dover-Caftle: London hath receiv'd,
Like a kind Hoft, the Dauphin and his Powers.
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