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?
LOUIS.
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 Louis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here
In likeness of a new uptrimmed 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 bless’d
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