Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
Apt, liable to be employ’d in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death;
And thou, to be endeared to a king,
Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.
HUBERT.
My lord,—
KING JOHN.
Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause,
When I spake darkly what I purpos’d,
Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face,
As bid me tell my tale in express words,
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me:
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again parley with sin;
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,
And consequently thy rude hand to act
The deed which both our tongues held vile to name.—
Out of my sight, and never see me more!
My nobles leave me; and my state is brav’d,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers;
Nay, in the body of the fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns
Between my conscience and my cousin’s death.
HUBERT.
Arm you against your other enemies,
I’ll make a peace between your soul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter’d yet
The dreadful motion of a murderous thought;
And you have slander’d nature in my form,—
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
KING JOHN.
Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers,
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience!
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
O, answer not; but to my closet bring
The angry lords with all expedient haste:
I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 3. The same. Before the castle.
[Enter ARTHUR, on the Walls.]
ARTHUR.
The wall is high, and yet will I leap down:—
Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!—
There’s few or none do know me: if they did,
This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguis’d me quite.
I am afraid; and yet I’ll venture it.
If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I’ll find a thousand shifts to get away:
As good to die and go, as die and stay.
[Leaps down.]
O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones:—
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
[Dies.]
[Enter PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.]
SALISBURY.
Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmunds-Bury;
It is our safety, and we must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.
PEMBROKE.
Who brought that letter from the cardinal?
SALISBURY.
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.
Tomorrow morning let us meet him then.
SALISBURY.
Or rather then set forward; for ‘twill be
Two long days’ journey, lords, or e’er we meet.
[Enter the BASTARD.]
BASTARD.
Once more to-day well met, distemper’d lords!
The king by me requests your presence straight.
SALISBURY.
The King hath dispossess’d himself of us.
We will not line his thin bestained cloak
With our pure honours, nor attend the foot
That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks.
Return and tell him so: we know the worst.
BASTARD.
Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best.
SALISBURY.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
BASTARD.
But there is little reason in your grief;
Therefore ‘twere reason you had manners now.
PEMBROKE.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
BASTARD.
‘Tis true,—to hurt his master, no man else.
SALISBURY.
This is the prison:—what is he lies here?
[Seeing Arthur.]
PEMBROKE.
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
SALISBURY.
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.
SALISBURY.
Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,
Or have you read or heard, or could you think?
Or do you almost think, although you see,
That you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another? This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever