LOUIS.
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.
LOUIS.
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. The same. 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 rescu’d 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. The same.
[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.
Cousin [To the BASTARD], 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.
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.
[She takes Arthur aside.]
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,