Lady. Haft thou deny'd thy felf a Faulconbridge ? ;
Baff. As faithfully as I deny the Devil.
Lady. King Richard Cordelion was thy Father;
By long and vehement Suit I was feduc'd
To make room for him in my Husband's Bed.
Heav'n lay not my Tranfgreffion to my charge;
Thou art the Iffue of my dear Offence,
Which was fo ftrongly urg'd paft my Defence.
Baft. Now, by this Light, were I to get again,
Madam, I would not with a better Father.
Some Sins do bear their Privilege on Earth,
And fo doth yours; your Fault was not your Folly;
Needs muft you lay your Heart at his Difpofe,
Subjected Tribute to commanding Love,
Against whofe Fury and unmatched Force,
The awlefs Lyon could not wage the Fight,
Nor keep his princely Heart from Richard's Hands,
He that per Force robs Lyons of their Hearts,
May easily win a Woman's; ay, my Mother,
With all my Heart I thank thee for my Father,
Who lives and dares but fay, thou didst not well
When I was got, I'll fend his Soul to Hell.
Come, Lady, I will fhew thee to my Kin,
And they fhall fay, when Richard me begot,
If thou hadst faid him nay, it had been Sin;
Who fays it was, he lyes; I fay 'twas not.
SCENE, before the Walls of Angiers,
Enter Philip King of France, Lewis the Dauphin, Auftria, Conftance, and Arthur.
Lewis. Before Angiers, well met brave Auftria,
Arthur, that great Fore-runner of thy Blood,
Richard that robb'd the Lion of his Heart,
And fought the holy Wars in Falestine,
By this brave Duke came early to his Grave;
And for amends to his Pofterity,
At our Importance hither is he come,
To fpread his Colours, Boy, in thy behalf;
And to rebuke the Ufurpation
Of thy unnatural Uncle, English John.
Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.
Arth. God fhall forgive you Cordelion's Death,
The rather that you give his Offspring Life,
Shadowing their Right under your Wings of War;
I give you welcome with a powerless Hand,
But with a Heart full of unftained Love,
Welcome before the Gates of Angiers, Duke.
Lewis. A noble Boy, who would not do thee right?
Auft. Upon thy Cheek lay I this zealous Kifs,
As Seal to this Indenture of my Love;
That to my home I will no more return,
Till Angiers, and the Right thou haft in France;
Together with that pale, that white-fac'd Shore,
Whofe Foot fpurns back the Ocean's roaring Tides,
And coops from other Lands her Iflanders,
Even 'till that England, hedg'd in with the Main,
That water-walled Bulwark, ftill fecure
And confident from foreign Purposes,
Even 'till that outmoft Corner of the West
Salute thee for her King; 'till then, fair Boy,
Will I not think of home, but follow Arms.
Conft. O take his Mother's Thanks, a Widow's Thanks, 'Till your ftrong Hand fhall help to give him Strength, To make a more Requital to your Love.
Auft. The Peace of Heav'n is theirs, who lift their Swords In such a juft and charitable War.
K, Philip. Well, then, to work, our Cannon fhall be bent
Against the Brows of this refifting Town;
Cail for our chiefeft Men of Difcipline,
To cull the Plots of beft Advantages.
We'll lay before this Town our Royal Bones,
Wade to the Market-Place in Frenchmens Blood,
But we will make it fubject to this Boy.
Conft. Stay for an Aniwer to your Embaffie,
Left unadvis'd you flain your Swords with Blood,
My Lord Chattilion may from England bring
That Right in Peace which here we urge in War,
And then we fhall repent each Drop of Blood,
That hot rafh hafte fo indirectly thed,
K. Philip. A Wonder, Lady! lo! upon thy Wish
Our Meffenger Chattilion, is arriv'd;
What England fays, fay briefly, gentle Lord,
We coldly paufe for thee. Chattilion speak.
Chat. Then turn your Forces from this paultry Siege,
And ftir them up against a mightier Task.
England, impatient of your juft Demands,
Hath put himself in Arms, the adverfe Winds,
Whofe Leifure I have ftaid, have given him time
To land his Legions all as foon as I.
His Marches are expedient to this Town,
His Forces ftrong, his Soldiers confident.
With him along is come the Mother-Queen;
An Ate stirring him to Blood and Strife.
With her her Neice, the Lady Blanch of Spain;
With them a Baftard of the King deceas'd,
And all th unfettled Humours of the Land;
Rafh, inconfiderate, fiery Volunteers,
With Ladies Faces, and fierce Dragons Spleens,
Have fold their Fortunes at their native Homes,
Bearing their Birthright proudly on their Backs,
To make a Hazard of new Fortunes here;
In brief, a braver Choice of dauntless Spirits
Than now the English Bottoms have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the fwelling Tide,
To do offence and fcathe in Chriftendom.
The Interruption of their churlish Dums
Cuts off more Circumftance; they are at hand,
To parly or to fight, therefore prepare.
K. Philip. How much unlock'd for is this Expedition! Auft. By how much unexpected, by so much
We must awake, endeavour for Defence,
For Courage mounteth with Occafion:
Let them be welcome then, we are prepar'd.
Enter King of England, Baftard, Elinor, Blanch, Pembroke, and others.
K. John. Peace be to France, if France in Peace permit
Our juft and lineal Entrance to our own;
If, not bleed France, and Peace afcend to Heav'n.
Whilft we, God's wrathful Agent, do correct
Their proud Contempt that beats his Peace to Heav'n.
K. Philip. Peace be to England, if that War return
From France to England, there to live in Peace.
England we love, and for that England's fake
With burthen of our Armour here we fweat;
This Toil of ours fhould be a Work of thine;
But thou from loving England art fo far,
That thou haft under-wrought its lawful King,
Cut off the Sequence of Pofterity,
Out-faced Infant State, and done a Rape
Upon the Maiden-Virtue of the Crown.
Look here upon thy Brother Geffry's Face,
Thefe Eyes, thefe Brows, were moulded out of his;
This little Abstract doth conrain that large
Which dy'd in Geffrey; and the Hand of time.
Shall draw this brief into as large a Volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder Brother born,
And this his Son, England was Geffrey's Right,
And this is Geffrey's; in the Name of God,
How comes it then that thou art call'd a King,
When living Blood doth in these Temples beat,
Which owe the Clown that thou o'er-maftereft?
K. John. From whom haft thou this great Commiffion To draw my Answer from thy Articles?
K. Phil. From that fupernal Judge that ftirs good Thoughts In any Breaft of ftrong Authority,
To look into the Blots and Stains of Right,
That Judge hath made me Guardian to this Boy,
Under whofe Warrant I impeach thy Wrong,
And by whofe Help I mean to chaftife it.
K. John. Alack, thou doft ufurp Authority.
K. Philip. Excufe it is to beat ufurping down.
Eli. Who is it that thou doft call Ufurper, France?
Conft. Let me make Anfwer: Thy ufurping Son.
Eli. Out Infolent, thy Baftard fhall be King,
That thou may'ft be a Queen, and check the World!
Conft. My Bed was ever to thy Son as true,
As thine was to thy Husband, and this Boy,
Liker in Feature to his Father Geffrey,
Than thou and John, in Manners being as like
As Rain to Water, or Devil to his Dam.
My Boy a Bastard! By my. Soul I think
His Father never was fo true begot;
It cannot be, and if thou wert his Mother.
Eli. There's a good Mother, Boy, that blots thy Father. Conft. There's a good Grandam, Boy,
That would blot thee.
Auft. Peace.
Baft. Hear the Crier.
Auft. What the Devil art thou?
Baft. One that will play the Devil, Sir, with you,
And a may catch your Hide and you alone.
You are the Hare, of whom the Proverb goes,
Whose Valour plucks dead Lions by the Beard,
I'll fimoak your Skin-Coat, and I catch you right;
Sirrah, look to't, i'faith I will, i'faith.
Blanch. O well did he become that Lion's Robe,
That did difrobe the Lion of that Robe.
Baft. It lyes as fightly on the Back of him,
As great Alcide's Shoes upon an Afs;
But, Afs, I'll take that Burthen from your Back,
Or lay on that shall make your Shoulders crack.
Auft. What Cracker is this fame that deafs our Ears
With this abundance of fuperfluous Breath?
King Lewis, determine what we fhall do freight.
Lewis. Women and Fools break off Conference.
your
King John, this is the very Sum of all;
England, and Ireland, Angiers, Tourain, Main,
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee:
Wilt thou refign them, and lay down thy Arms?
K. John. My Life as foon. I do defie thee, France.
Arthur of Britain, yield thee to my Hand,
And out of my dear Love I'll give thee more,
Than e'er the Coward-Hand of France can win;
Submit thee, Boy.
Eli. Come to thy Grandam, Child.
Conft. Do, Child, go to it Grandam, Child,
Give Grandam Kingdom, and it Grandam will
Give it a Plum, a Cherry and a Fig,
There's a good Grandam.
Arth. Good my Mother, Peace,
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