One that neer dreamd a joy beyond his pleasure;


And to that woman, when she has done most,


Yet will I add an honour, a great patience.


Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.


My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,


Your master wed me to: nothing but death


Would I had never trod this English earth,


Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!


Ye have angels faces, but heaven knows your hearts.


What will become of me now, wretched lady!


Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes!


Shipwreckd upon a kingdom, where no pity,


No friend, no hope; no kindred weep for me;


Almost no grave allowd me: like the lily,


That once was mistress of the field and flourishd,


Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,


Yould feel more comfort: why should we, good lady,


Upon what cause, wrong you? alas, our places,


The way of our profession is against it:


We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow em.


For goodness sake, consider what you do;


Grow from the kings acquaintance, by this carriage.


So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits


They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.


A soul as even as a calm: pray, think us


Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.


Madam, youll find it so. You wrong your virtues


With these weak womens fears: a noble spirit,


Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you;


Beware you lose it not: for us, if you please


To trust us in your business, we are ready


To use our utmost  studies in your service.


Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me,


To make a seemly answer to such persons.


He has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers


While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,


Bestow your counsels on me: she now begs,


That little thought, when she set footing here,


She should have bought her dignities so dear.


SCENE II. Ante-chamber to KING HENRY VIIIs apartment.


Enter NORFOLK, SUFFOLK, SURREY, and Chamberlain


If you will now unite in your complaints,


And force them with a constancy, the cardinal


The offer of this time, I cannot promise


But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces,


To meet the least occasion that may give me


Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,


Have uncontemnd gone by him, or at least


What we can do to him, though now the time


Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot


Bar his access to the king, never attempt


Any thing on him; for he hath a witchcraft


His spell in that is out: the king hath found


The honey of his language. No, hes settled,


I should be glad to hear such news as this


The cardinals letters to the pope miscarried,


And came to the eye o the king: wherein was read,


How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness


To stay the judgment o the divorce; for if


It did take place, I do, quoth he, perceive


A creature of the queens, Lady Anne Bullen.


The king in this perceives him, how he coasts


And hedges his own way. But in this point


All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic


After his patients death: the king already


Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left


To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords,


In mind and feature: I persuade me, from her


Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall


There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose


Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius


Is stoln away to Rome; hath taen no leave;


Has left the cause o the king unhandled; and


Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal,


Have satisfied the king for his divorce,


Almost in Christendom: shortly, I believe,


His second marriage shall be publishd, and


Shall be calld queen, but princess dowager


A worthy fellow, and hath taen much pain


He did unseal them: and the first he viewd,


The French kings sister: he shall marry her.


Anne Bullen! No; Ill no Anne Bullens for him:


Theres more int than fair visage. Bullen!


To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!


To be her mistress mistress! the queens queen!


This candle burns not clear: tis I must snuff it;


Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous


A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to


Our cause, that she should lie i the bosom of


Our hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up


Hath crawld into the favour of the king,


I would twere something that would fret the string,


Enter KING HENRY VIII, reading of a schedule, and LOVELL


What piles of wealth hath he accumulated


To his own portion! and what expense by the hour


Seems to flow from him! How, i the name of thrift,


Does he rake this together! Now, my lords,


Stood here observing him: some strange commotion


Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;


Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,


Then lays his finger on his temple, straight


Springs out into fast gait; then stops again,


Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts


His eye against the moon: in most strange postures


There is a mutiny ins mind. This morning


There,--on my conscience, put unwittingly?


The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,


Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which


I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks


Some spirit put this paper in the packet,


And fixd on spiritual object, he should still


His thinkings are below the moon, not worth


King HENRY VIII takes his seat; whispers LOVELL, who goes to CARDINAL WOLSEY


You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory


Of your best graces in your mind; the which


You were now running oer: you have scarce time


To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span


To keep your earthly audit: sure, in that


To think upon the part of business which


I bear i the state; and nature does require


Her times of preservation, which perforce


I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,


And ever may your highness yoke together,


And tis a kind of good deed to say well:


And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you:


His said he did; and with his deed did crown


His word upon you. Since I had my office,


I have kept you next my heart; have not alone


Employd you where high profits might come home,


[Aside]             What should this mean?


[Aside]  The Lord increase this business!


The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me,


If what I now pronounce you have found true:


If you are bound to us or no. What say you?


My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,


Showerd on me daily, have been more than could


Beyond all mans endeavours: my endeavours


Yet filed with my abilities: mine own ends


Have been mine so that evermore they pointed


To the good of your most sacred person and


The profit of the state. For your great graces


Can nothing render but allegiant thanks,


My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty,


Which ever has and ever shall be growing,


Does pay the act of it; as, i the contrary,


The foulness is the punishment. I presume


That, as my hand has opend bounty to you,


My heart droppd love, my power raind honour, more


On you than any; so your hand and heart,


Your brain, and every function of your power,


Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,


That for your highness good I ever labourd


More than mine own; that am, have, and will be--


Though all the world should crack their duty to you,


And throw it from their soul; though perils did


Abound, as thick as thought could make em, and


Appear in forms more horrid,--yet my duty,


As doth a rock against the chiding flood,


Should the approach of this wild river break,


Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,


For you have seen him opent. Read oer this;


And after, this: and then to breakfast with


Exit KING HENRY VIII, frowning upon CARDINAL WOLSEY: the Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering


What sudden angers this? how have I reapd it?


Leapd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion


Upon the daring huntsman that has galld him;


Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;


This paper has undone me: tis the account


Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together


For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom,


And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence!


Fit for a fool to fall by: what cross devil


Made me put this main secret in the packet


I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this?


No new device to beat this from his brains?


I know twill stir him strongly; yet I know


A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune


Will bring me off again. Whats this? To the Pope!


The letter, as I live, with all the business


I writ tos holiness. Nay then, farewell!


I have touchd the highest point of all my greatness;


And, from that full meridian of my glory,


Re-enter to CARDINAL WOLSEY, NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, SURREY, and the Chamberlain


Hear the kings pleasure, cardinal: who commands you


Till you hear further from his highness.


Wheres your commission, lords? words cannot carry


Bearing the kings will from his mouth expressly?


Till I find more than will or words to do it,


I mean your malice, know, officious lords,


Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy:


As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton


Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin!


Follow your envious courses, men of malice;


You have Christian warrant for em, and, no doubt,


In time will find their fit rewards. That seal,


Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me;


Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,


During my life; and, to confirm his goodness,


Tied it by letters-patents: now, wholl take it?


Within these forty hours Surrey durst better


Thou scarlet sin, robbd this bewailing land


With thee and all thy best parts bound together,


Weighd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy!


Far from his succor, from the king, from all


That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him;


Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,


This talking lord can lay upon my credit,


His noble jury and foul cause can witness.


If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you


Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be,


Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou


My sword i the life-blood of thee else. My lords,


And from this fellow? if we live thus tamely,


Farewell nobility; let his grace go forward,


Of gleaning all the lands wealth into one,


Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion;


The goodness of your intercepted packets


You writ to the pope against the king: your goodness,


Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious.


My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble,


As you respect the common good, the state


Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen,


Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles


Collected from his life. Ill startle you


Worse than the scaring bell, when the brown wench


Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal.


How much, methinks, I could despise this man,


But that I am bound in charity against it!


Those articles, my lord, are in the kings hand:


And spotless shall mine innocence arise,


Some of these articles; and out they shall.


Now, if you can blush and cry guilty, cardinal,


I dare your worst objections: if I blush,


I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!


First, that, without the kings assent or knowledge,


You wrought to be a legate; by which power


You maimd the jurisdiction of all bishops.


Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else


Was still inscribed; in which you brought the king


Either of king or council, when you went


Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold


Without the kings will or the states allowance,


A league between his highness and Ferrara.


That, out of mere ambition, you have caused


Your holy hat to be stampd on the kings coin.


Then that you have sent innumerable substance--


By what means got, I leave to your own conscience--


To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways


You have for dignities; to the mere undoing


Of all the kingdom. Many more there are;


Which, since they are of you, and odious,


Press not a falling man too far! tis virtue:


His faults lie open to the laws; let them,


Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him


Lord cardinal, the kings further pleasure is,


Because all those things you have done of late,


By your power legatine, within this kingdom,


That therefore such a writ be sued against you;


To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,


Out of the kings protection. This is my charge.


And so well leave you to your meditations


How to live better. For your stubborn answer


About the giving back the great seal to us,


The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.


So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.


So farewell to the little good you bear me.


Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!


This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth


The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,


And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;


The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,


And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely


His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,


And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,


Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,


But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride


At length broke under me and now has left me,


Weary and old with service, to the mercy


Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.


Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:


I feel my heart new opend. O, how wretched


Is that poor man that hangs on princes favours!


There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,


That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,


More pangs and fears than wars or women have:


And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,


At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder


A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,


A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,


I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,


A load would sink a navy, too much honour:


O, tis a burthen, Cromwell, tis a burthen


Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!


I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.


Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.


The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen


Long in his highness favour, and do justice


For truths sake and his conscience; that his bones,


When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,


May have a tomb of orphans tears wept on em! What more?


Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,


This day was viewd in open as his queen,


There was the weight that pulld me down. O Cromwell,


The king has gone beyond me: all my glories


No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,


Or gild again the noble troops that waited


Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;


To be thy lord and master: seek the king;


That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him


What and how true thou art: he will advance thee;


Some little memory of me will stir him--


Thy hopeful service perish too: good Cromwell,


Neglect him not; make use now, and provide


Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forego


Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,


With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.


The king shall have my service: but my prayers


Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear


In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,


Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.


Lets dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;


And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,


And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention


Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,


Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,


And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,


Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;


A sure and safe one, though thy master missd it.


Mark but my fall, and that that ruind me.


Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:


By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,


The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?


Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;


Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,


To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:


Let all the ends thou aimst at be thy countrys,


Thy Gods, and truths; then if thou fallst,


Thou fallst a blessed martyr! Serve the king;


To the last penny; tis the kings: my robe,


I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!


Had I but served my God with half the zeal


I served my king, he would not in mine age


The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.


Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another


You come to take your stand here, and behold


Tis all my business. At our last encounter,


The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.


Tis very true: but that time offerd sorrow;


I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds--


As, let em have their rights, they are ever forward--


May I be bold to ask at what that contains,


Of those that claim their offices this day


The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims


To be high-steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk,


He to be earl marshal: you may read the rest.


I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs,


I should have been beholding to your paper.


But, I beseech you, whats become of Katharine,


The princess dowager? how goes her business?


Learned and reverend fathers of his order,


Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off


From Ampthill where the princess lay; to which


She was often cited by them, but appeard not:


And, to be short, for not appearance and


The kings late scruple, by the main assent


Of all these learned men she was divorced,


And the late marriage made of none effect


Since which she was removed to Kimbolton,


The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.


3. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace


5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then


6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold,


on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With


him, SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with


the dove, crowned with an earls coronet.


7. SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet


on his head, bearing a long white wand, as


high-steward. With him, NORFOLK, with the


rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head.


8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports;


under it, QUEEN ANNE in her robe; in her hair


richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each


9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of


gold, wrought with flowers, bearing QUEEN


10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain


They pass over the stage in order and state


A royal train, believe me. These I know:


And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod.


Thou hast the sweetest face I ever lookd on.


Our king has all the Indies in his arms,


And more and richer, when he strains that lady:


The cloth of honour over her, are four barons


Those men are happy; and so are all are near her.


I take it, she that carries up the train


Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.


Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed;


Exit procession, and then a great flourish of trumpets


God save you, sir! where have you been broiling?


Among the crowd i the Abbey; where a finger


Could not be wedged in more: I am stifled


Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen


To a prepared place in the choir, fell off


A distance from her; while her grace sat down


To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,


In a rich chair of state, opposing freely


Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman


That ever lay by man: which when the people


Had the full view of, such a noise arose


As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,


As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks--


Doublets, I think,--flew up; and had their faces


Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy


I never saw before. Great-bellied women,


That had not half a week to go, like rams


In the old time of war, would shake the press,


And make em reel before em. No man living


Could say This is my wife there; all were woven


At length her grace rose, and with modest paces


Came to the altar; where she kneeld, and saint-like


Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayd devoutly.


Then rose again and bowd her to the people:


She had all the royal makings of a queen;


The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems


Laid nobly on her: which performd, the choir,


With all the choicest music of the kingdom,


And with the same full state paced back again


You must no more call it York-place, thats past;


For, since the cardinal fell, that titles lost:


But tis so lately alterd, that the old name


Were those that went on each side of the queen?


Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,


Newly preferrd from the kings secretary,


Is held no great good lover of the archbishops,


However, yet there is no great breach; when it comes,


Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.


A man in much esteem with the king, and truly


A worthy friend. The king has made him master


Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which


Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests:


Something I can command. As I walk thither,


Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her gentleman usher, and PATIENCE, her woman


My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,


Willing to leave their burthen. Reach a chair:


So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease.


Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledst me,


That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?


Out of the pain you sufferd, gave no ear tot.


Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:


Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,


At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,


Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,


With all his covent, honourably received him;


To whom he gave these words, O, father abbot,


An old man, broken with the storms of state,


Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;


So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness


Pursued him still: and, three nights after this,


About the hour of eight, which he himself


Foretold should be his last, full of repentance,


Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,


His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.


So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!


Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,


Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion,


Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play;


His own opinion was his law: i the presence


He would say untruths; and be ever double


Both in his words and meaning: he was never,


His promises were, as he then was, mighty;


But his performance, as he is now, nothing:


Mens evil manners live in brass; their virtues


We write in water. May it please your highness


Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly


Was fashiond to much honour from his cradle.


He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;


Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading:


Lofty and sour to them that loved him not;


But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.


And though he were unsatisfied in getting,


Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam,


He was most princely: ever witness for him


Those twins Of learning that he raised in you,


Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,


Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;


The other, though unfinishd, yet so famous,


So excellent in art, and still so rising,


That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.


For then, and not till then, he felt himself,


And found the blessedness of being little:


Than man could give him, he died fearing God.


But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.


Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,


Now in his ashes honour: peace be with him!


Patience, be near me still; and set me lower:


I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,


Cause the musicians play me that sad note


I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating


She is asleep: good wench, lets sit down quiet,


For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience.


The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after  another, six personages, clad in white robes,  wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden  vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in  their hands. They first congee unto her, then  dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold  a spare garland over her head; at which the other  four make reverent curtsies; then the two that held  the garland deliver the same to the other next two,  who observe the same order in their changes, and  holding the garland over her head: which done,  they deliver the same garland to the last two, who  likewise observe the same order: at which, as it  were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs  of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven:  and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues


Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone,


And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?


No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop


Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces


Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?


And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel


I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly.


I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams


How much her grace is alterd on the sudden?


How long her face is drawn? how pale she looks,


Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,


I humbly do entreat your highness pardon;


My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying


A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.


Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow


You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,


My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.


The times and titles now are alterd strangely


With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,


First mine own service to your grace; the next,


The kings request that I would visit you;


Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me


And heartily entreats you take good comfort.


O my good lord, that comfort comes too late;


That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;


But now I am past an comforts here, but prayers.


When I shal l dwell with worms, and my poor name


Banishd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,


In which I have commended to his goodness


The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter;


The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!


Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding--


She is young, and of a noble modest nature,


I hope she will deserve well,--and a little


To love her for her mothers sake, that loved him,


Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition


Is, that his noble grace would have some pity


Have followd both my fortunes faithfully:


And now I should not lie, but will deserve


A right good husband, let him be a noble


And, sure, those men are happy that shall have em.


The last is, for my men; they are the poorest,


But poverty could never draw em from me;


That they may have their wages duly paid em,


If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life


These are the whole contents: and, good my lord,


By that you love the dearest in this world,


As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,


Stand these poor peoples friend, and urge the king


Out of this world; tell him, in death I blessd him,


For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,


My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,


You must not leave me yet: I must to bed;


Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench,


Let me be used with honour: strew me over


With maiden flowers, that all the world may know


I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,


Then lay me forth: although unqueend, yet like


A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.


SCENE I. London. A gallery in the palace.


Enter GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by LOVELL


Not for delights; times to repair our nature


To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!


I did, Sir Thomas: and left him at primero


Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. Whats the matter?


It seems you are in haste: an if there be


No great offence belongs tot, give your friend


Some touch of your late business: affairs, that walk,


As they say spirits do, at midnight, have


In them a wilder nature than the business


Much weightier than this work. The queens in labour,


Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,


Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says


Shes a good creature, and, sweet lady, does


Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;


And, let me tell you, it will neer be well,


Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, taket of me,


Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,


The most remarkd i the kingdom. As for Cromwell,


Beside that of the jewel house, is made master


O the rolls, and the kings secretary; further, sir,


Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,


With which the time will load him. The archbishop


Is the kings hand and tongue; and who dare speak


There are that dare; and I myself have ventured


To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,


Incensed the lords o the council, that he is,


That does infect the land: with which they moved


Have broken with the king; who hath so far


Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace


And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs


Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded


He be convented. Hes a rank weed, Sir Thomas,


And we must root him out. From your affairs


I hinder you too long: good night, Sir Thomas.


Many good nights, my lord: I rest your servant.


My minds not ont; you are too hard for me.


Nor shall not, when my fancys on my play.


Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?


I sent your message; who returnd her thanks


In the greatst humbleness, and desired your highness


To pray for her? what, is she crying out?


So said her woman; and that her sufferance made


Prithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember


The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone;


A quiet night; and my good mistress will


Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop,


[Aside]  This is about that which the bishop spake:


Tis his aspect of terror. Alls not well.


My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury.


Come, you and I must walk a turn together;


I have news to tell you: come, come, give me your hand.


Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak,


And am right sorry to repeat what follows


Grievous complaints of you; which, being considerd,


Have moved us and our council, that you shall


This morning come before us; where, I know,


You cannot with such freedom purge yourself,


But that, till further trial in those charges


Which will require your answer, you must take


Your patience to you, and be well contented


To make your house our Tower: you a brother of us,


It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness


And am right glad to catch this good occasion


Most throughly to be winnowd, where my chaff


And corn shall fly asunder: for, I know,


Theres none stands under more calumnious tongues


In us, thy friend: give me thy hand, stand up:


Prithee, lets walk. Now, by my holidame.


What manner of man are you? My lord, I lookd


You would have given me your petition, that


I should have taen some pains to bring together


Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,


The good I stand on is my truth and honesty:


If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies,


Will triumph oer my person; which I weigh not,


Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing


How your state stands i the world, with the whole world?


Your enemies are many, and not small; their practises


Must bear the same proportion; and not ever


The justice and the truth o the question carries


The due o the verdict with it: at what ease


Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt


To swear against you? such things have been done.


You are potently opposed; and with a malice


Of as great size. Ween you of better luck,


I mean, in perjured witness, than your master,


Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived


You take a precipice for no leap of danger,


They shall no more prevail than we give way to.


Keep comfort to you; and this morning see


You do appear before them: if they shall chance,


In charging you with matters, to commit you,


Fail not to use, and with what vehemency


The occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties


There make before them. Look, the good man weeps!


Hes honest, on mine honour. Gods blest mother!


None better in my kingdom. Get you gone,


[Within]                 Come back: what mean you?


Ill not come back; the tidings that I bring


Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels


Fly oer thy royal head, and shade thy person


I guess thy message. Is the queen deliverd?


Both now and ever bless her! tis a girl,


Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen


Acquainted with this stranger tis as like you


Give her an hundred marks. Ill to the queen.


An hundred marks! By this light, Ill ha more.


I will have more, or scold it out of him.


Said I for this, the girl was like to him?


I will have more, or else unsayt; and now,


While it is hot, Ill put it to the issue.


SCENE II. Before the council-chamber. Pursuivants, Pages,  and c.


I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman,


That was sent to me from the council, prayd me


To make great haste. All fast? what means this? Ho!


Your grace must wait till you be calld for.


[Aside]  This is a piece of malice. I am glad


Pray heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For certain,


This is of purpose laid by some that hate me--


God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice--


To quench mine honour: they would shame to make me


Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures


Must be fulfilld, and I attend with patience.


Enter the KING HENRY VIII and DOCTOR BUTTS at a window above


Ill show your grace the strangest sight--


I think your highness saw this many a day.


The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury;


Who holds his state at door, mongst pursuivants,


Tis well theres one above em yet. I had thought


They had parted so much honesty among em


At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer


A man of his place, and so near our favour,


To dance attendance on their lordships pleasures,


And at the door too, like a post with packets.


Let em alone, and draw the curtain close:


Enter Chancellor; places himself at the upper end  of the table on the left hand; a seat being left  void above him, as for CRANMERs seat. SUFFOLK,  NORFOLK, SURREY, Chamberlain, GARDINER, seat  themselves in order on each side. CROMWELL at lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door


Speak to the business, master-secretary:


The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury.


And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.


CRANMER enters and approaches the council-table


That chair stand empty: but we all are men,


Of our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty


And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us,


Have misdemeand yourself, and not a little,


Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling


The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains,


For so we are informd, with new opinions,


Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,


My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses


Pace em not in their hands to make em gentle,


But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur em,


Till they obey the manage. If we suffer,


To one mans honour, this contagious sickness,


Farewell all physic: and what follows then?


Commotions, uproars, with a general taint


Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,


My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress


Both of my life and office, I have labourd,


And with no little study, that my teaching


Might go one way, and safely; and the end


Was ever, to do well: nor is there living,


I speak it with a single heart, my lords,


A man that more detests, more stirs against,


Both in his private conscience and his place,


Pray heaven, the king may never find a heart


With less allegiance in it! Men that make


Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships,


That, in this case of justice, my accusers,


Be what they will, may stand forth face to face,


And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you.


My lord, because we have business of more moment,


We will be short with you. Tis his highness pleasure,


And our consent, for better trial of you,


From hence you be committed to the Tower;


You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,


More than, I fear, you are provided for.


Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;


You are always my good friend; if your will pass,


I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,


Tis my undoing: love and meekness, lord,


Become a churchman better than ambition:


Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,


Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,


I make as little doubt, as you do conscience


In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,


But reverence to your calling makes me modest.


Thats the plain truth: your painted gloss discovers,


To men that understand you, words and weakness.


My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,


By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,


Mens prayers then would seek you, not their fears.


Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,


I take it, by all voices, that forthwith


There to remain till the kings further pleasure


Be known unto us: are you all agreed, lords?


But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?


Would you expect? you are strangely troublesome.


I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords;


Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it


To a most noble judge, the king my master.


Tis the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all,


When ye first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,


The king will suffer but the little finger


How much more is his life in value with him?


Against this man, whose honesty the devil


Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!


Enter KING, frowning on them; takes his seat


Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven


In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;


Not only good and wise, but most religious:


One that, in all obedience, makes the church


The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen


His royal self in judgment comes to hear


The cause betwixt her and this great offender.


You were ever good at sudden commendations,


Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not


To hear such flattery now, and in my presence;


They are too thin and bare to hide offences.


To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel,


And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;


But, whatsoeer thou takest me for, Im sure


Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest


He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:


Than but once think this place becomes thee not.


I had thought I had had men of some understanding


And wisdom of my council; but I find none.


Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,


This good man,--few of you deserve that title,--


This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy


At chamber--door? and one as great as you are?


Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission


Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye


Power as he was a counsellor to try him,


Not as a groom: theres some of ye, I see,


Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;


My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace


To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed


Concerning his imprisonment, was rather,


If there be faith in men, meant for his trial,


And fair purgation to the world, than malice,


Take him, and use him well, hes worthy of it.


I will say thus much for him, if a prince


Am, for his love and service, so to him.


Make me no more ado, but all embrace him:


Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of


I have a suit which you must not deny me;


That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,


You must be godfather, and answer for her.


The greatest monarch now alive may glory


That am a poor and humble subject to you?


Come, come, my lord, yould spare your spoons: you


shall have two noble partners with you; the old


Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will


Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,


Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.


Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart:


Of thee, which says thus, Do my Lord of Canterbury


A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.


Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long


To have this young one made a Christian.


As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;


So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.


Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man


Youll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you


take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves,


Good master porter, I belong to the larder.


Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is


this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree


staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to


em. Ill scratch your heads: you must be seeing


christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here,


Pray, sir, be patient: tis as much impossible--


Unless we sweep em from the door with cannons--


On May-day morning; which will never be:


We may as well push against Powles, as stir em.


As much as one sound cudgel of four foot--


You see the poor remainder--could distribute,


I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,


To mow em down before me: but if I spared any


That had a head to hit, either young or old,


And that I would not for a cow, God save her!


I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.


What should you do, but knock em down by the


dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have


we some strange Indian with the great tool come to


court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a


fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian


conscience, this one christening will beget a


thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.


The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a


fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a


brazier by his face, for, o my conscience, twenty


of the dog-days now reign ins nose; all that stand


about him are under the line, they need no other


penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on


the head, and three times was his nose discharged


against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to


blow us. There was a haberdashers wife of small


wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked


porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a


combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once,


and hit that woman; who cried out Clubs! when I


might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to


her succor, which were the hope o the Strand, where


she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my


place: at length they came to the broom-staff to


me; I defied em still: when suddenly a file of


boys behind em, loose shot, delivered such a shower


of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in,


and let em win the work: the devil was amongst


These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,


and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but


the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of


Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure.


I have some of em in Limbo Patrum, and there they


are like to dance these three days; besides the


running banquet of two beadles that is to come.


They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,


As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,


These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows:


Theres a trim rabble let in: are all these


Your faithful friends o the suburbs? We shall have


Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,


When they pass back from the christening.


We are but men; and what so many may do,


If the king blame me fort, Ill lay ye all


By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads


Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;


And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when


Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;


Theyre come already from the christening:


Go, break among the press, and find a way out


To let the troop pass fairly; or Ill find


A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.


Stand close up, or Ill make your head ache.


Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord  Mayor, Garter, CRANMER, NORFOLK with his marshals  staff, SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing great  standing-bowls for the christening-gifts; then  four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the  Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child  richly habited in a mantle,  and c., train borne by a  Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the  other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks


Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous


life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty


Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VIII and Guard


[Kneeling] And to your royal grace, and the good queen,


My noble partners, and myself, thus pray:


All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,


Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,


With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!


My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:


I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,


For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter


Let none think flattery, for theyll find em truth.


This royal infant--heaven still move about her!--


Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,


Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be--


But few now living can behold that goodness--


A pattern to all princes living with her,


And all that shall succeed: Saba was never


Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,


That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,


With all the virtues that attend the good,


Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,


Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:


She shall be loved and feard: her own shall bless her;


Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,


And hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with her:


In her days every man shall eat in safety,


Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing


The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:


God shall be truly known; and those about her


From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,


And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.


Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when


The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,


So shall she leave her blessedness to one,


When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,


Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,


And so stand fixd: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,


That were the servants to this chosen infant,


Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:


Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,


His honour and the greatness of his name


Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish,


And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches


To all the plains about him: our childrens children


She shall be, to the happiness of England,


An aged princess; many days shall see her,


And yet no day without a deed to crown it.


Would I had known no more! but she must die,


She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,


To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.


Thou hast made me now a man! never, before


This oracle of comfort has so pleased me,


To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.


I thank ye all. To you, my good lord mayor,


And your good brethren, I am much beholding;


I have received much honour by your presence,


And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:


Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye,


She will be sick else. This day, no man think


Has business at his house; for all shall stay:


Tis ten to one this play can never please


All that are here: some come to take their ease,


And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,


We have frighted with our trumpets; so, tis clear,


Theyll say tis naught: others, to hear the city


Abused extremely, and to cry Thats witty!


Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,


The merciful construction of good women;


For such a one we showd em: if they smile,


And say twill do, I know, within a while


All the best men are ours; for tis ill hap,


If they hold when their ladies bid em clap.


Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, PEMBROKE, ESSEX, SALISBURY, and others, with CHATILLON


Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?


Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France


Philip of France, in right and true behalf


Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim


To this fair island and the territories,


To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,


Which sways usurpingly these several titles,


And put these same into young Arthurs hand,


The proud control of fierce and bloody war,


To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.


Here have we war for war and blood for blood,


Controlment for controlment: so answer France.


Then take my kings defiance from my mouth,


Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:


Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France;


For ere thou canst report I will be there,


The thunder of my cannon shall be heard:


So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath


Pembroke, look to t. Farewell, Chatillon.


How that ambitious Constance would not cease


Till she had kindled France and all the world,


This might have been prevented and made whole


Which now the manage of two kingdoms must


Our strong possession and our right for us.


Your strong possession much more than your right,


Or else it must go wrong with you and me:


So much my conscience whispers in your ear,


Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear.


My liege, here is the strangest controversy


That eer I heard: shall I produce the men?


Born in Northamptonshire and eldest son,


The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.


Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?


You came not of one mother then, it seems.


Most certain of one mother, mighty king;


That is well known; and, as I think, one father:


But for the certain knowledge of that truth


I put you oer to heaven and to my mother:


Of that I doubt, as all mens children may.


Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother


And wound her honour with this diffidence.


That is my brothers plea and none of mine;


The which if he can prove, a pops me out


At least from fair five hundred pound a year:


Heaven guard my mothers honour and my land!


A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born,


But that I am as well begot, my liege,--


Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!--


Compare our faces and be judge yourself.


And were our father and this son like him,


I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!


Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!


And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak,


What doth move you to claim your brothers land?


Because he hath a half-face, like my father.


With half that face would he have all my land:


A half-faced groat five hundred pound a year!


My gracious liege, when that my father lived,


Your brother did employ my father much,--


Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land:


Your tale must be how he employd my mother.


To treat of high affairs touching that time.


The advantage of his absence took the king


And in the mean time sojournd at my fathers;


Where how he did prevail I shame to speak,


But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores


As I have heard my father speak himself,


His lands to me, and took it on his death


That this my mothers son was none of his;


Full fourteen weeks before the course of time.


Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine,


My fathers land, as was my fathers will.


Your fathers wife did after wedlock bear him,


And if she did play false, the fault was hers;


Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands


That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,


Who, as you say, took pains to get this son,


Had of your father claimd this son for his?


In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept


This calf bred from his cow from all the world;


In sooth he might; then, if he were my brothers,


My brother might not claim him; nor your father,


Being none of his, refuse him: this concludes;


My mothers son did get your fathers heir;


Your fathers heir must have your fathers land.


Shall then my fathers will be of no force


To dispossess that child which is not his?


Than was his will to get me, as I think.


Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge


And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,


Lord of thy presence and no land beside?


And I had his, sir Roberts his, like him;


And if my legs were two such riding-rods,


My arms such eel-skins stuffd, my face so thin


That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose


Lest men should say Look, where three-farthings goes!


And, to his shape, were heir to all this land,


Would I might never stir from off this place,


I would give it every foot to have this face;


I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune,


Brother, take you my land, Ill take my chance.


Your face hath got five hundred pound a year,


Yet sell your face for five pence and tis dear.


Nay, I would have you go before me thither.


Our country manners give our betters way.


Philip, good old sir Roberts wifes eldest son.


From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearst:


Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great,


Brother by the mothers side, give me your hand:


My father gave me honour, yours gave land.


Now blessed by the hour, by night or day,


Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though?


Something about, a little from the right,


In at the window, or else oer the hatch:


Who dares not stir by day must walk by night,


Near or far off, well won is still well shot,


Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy desire;


A landless knight makes thee a landed squire.


Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed


For France, for France, for it is more than need.


Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee!


Good den, sir Richard!--God-a-mercy, fellow!--


And if his name be George, Ill call him Peter;


For new-made honour doth forget mens names;


For your conversion. Now your traveller,


He and his toothpick at my worships mess,


And when my knightly stomach is sufficed,


My picked man of countries: My dear sir,


I shall beseech you--that is question now;


And then comes answer like an Absey book:


O sir, says answer, at your best command;


At your employment; at your service, sir;


No, sir, says question, I, sweet sir, at yours:


And so, ere answer knows what question would,


It draws toward supper in conclusion so.


And fits the mounting spirit like myself,


Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the ages tooth:


Which, though I will not practise to deceive,


For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.


But who comes in such haste in riding-robes?


What woman-post is this? hath she no husband


That will take pains to blow a horn before her?


O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady!


What brings you here to court so hastily?


Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he,


That holds in chase mine honour up and down?


Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?


Sir Roberts son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,


Sir Roberts son: why scornst thou at sir Robert?


James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?


Theres toys abroad: anon Ill tell thee more.


Sir Robert might have eat his part in me


Upon Good-Friday and neer broke his fast:


Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess,


Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it:


We know his handiwork: therefore, good mother,


Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,


That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?


What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?


Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like.


What! I am dubbd! I have it on my shoulder.


I have disclaimd sir Robert and my land;


Then, good my mother, let me know my father;


Some proper man, I hope: who was it, mother?


Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?


King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father:


To make room for him in my husbands bed:


Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge!


Which was so strongly urged past my defence.


Now, by this light, were I to get again,


Madam, I would not wish a better father.


Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,


And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:


Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,


The aweless lion could not wage the fight,


Nor keep his princely heart from Richards hand.


He that perforce robs lions of their hearts


With all my heart I thank thee for my father!


Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well


When I was got, Ill send his soul to hell.


And they shall say, when Richard me begot,


If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin:


Who says it was, he lies; I say twas not.


Enter AUSTRIA and forces, drums, etc. on one side:  on the other KING PHILIP and his power; LEWIS, ARTHUR, CONSTANCE and attendants


Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,


Richard, that robbd the lion of his heart


By this brave duke came early to his grave:


To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf,


Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.


God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lions 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 unstained love:


Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.


A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?


Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France,


Together with that pale, that white-faced shore,


Whose foot spurns back the oceans roaring tides


And coops from other lands her islanders,


Even till that England, hedged in with the main,


Even till that utmost corner of the west


Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,


Will I not think of home, but follow arms.


O, take his mothers thanks, a widows thanks,


Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength


The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords


Well then, to work: our cannon shall be bent


Against the brows of this resisting town.


Call for our chiefest men of discipline,


Well lay before this town our royal bones,


Wade to the market-place in Frenchmens blood,


But we will make it subject to this boy.


Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood:


My Lord Chatillon may from England bring,


That right in peace which here we urge in war,


And then we shall repent each drop of blood


What England says, say briefly, gentle lord;


We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.


Then turn your forces from this paltry siege


And stir them up against a mightier task.


England, impatient of your just demands,


Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds,


Whose leisure I have stayd, have given him time


His forces strong, his soldiers confident.


With him along is come the mother-queen,


An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife;


With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain;


With them a bastard of the kings deceased,


And all the unsettled humours of the land,


With ladies faces and fierce dragons spleens,


Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,


Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,


In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits


Than now the English bottoms have waft oer


Did nearer float upon the swelling tide,


The interruption of their churlish drums


Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,


To parley or to fight; therefore prepare.


How much unlookd for is this expedition!


Let them be welcome then: we are prepared.


Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, Lords, and forces


Peace be to France, if France in peace permit


Our just and lineal entrance to our own;


If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,


Whiles we, Gods wrathful agent, do correct


Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven.


From France to England, there to live in peace.


England we love; and for that Englands sake


With burden of our armour here we sweat.


This toil of ours should be a work of thine;


But thou from loving England art so far,


That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king


Look here upon thy brother Geffreys face;


These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:


This little abstract doth contain that large


Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time


Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.


That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,


And this his son; England was Geffreys right


And this is Geffreys: in the name of God


How comes it then that thou art calld a king,


When living blood doth in these temples beat,


Which owe the crown that thou oermasterest?


From whom hast thou this great commission, France,


From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts


To look into the blots and stains of right:


That judge hath made me guardian to this boy:


And by whose help I mean to chastise it.


Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?


Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,


That thou mayst be a queen, and cheque the world!


As thine was to thy husband; and this boy


Than thou and John in manners; being as like


It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.


Theres a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.


Theres a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.


One that will play the devil, sir, with you,


You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,


Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard;


Ill smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right;


Sirrah, look tot; i faith, I will, i faith.


But, ass, Ill take that burthen from your back,


Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.


What craker is this same that deafs our ears


With this abundance of superfluous breath?


Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.


Women and fools, break off your conference.


England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,


Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?


My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.


Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;


And out of my dear love Ill give thee more


Than eer the coward hand of France can win:


Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will


I would that I were low laid in my grave:


I am not worth this coil thats made for me.


His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.


Now shame upon you, whether she does or no!


His grandams wrongs, and not his mothers shames,


Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,


Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee;


Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed


Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!


Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!


Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp


Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eldst sons son,


Thy sins are visited in this poor child;


That he is not only plagued for her sin,


But God hath made her sin and her the plague


And with her plague; her sin his injury,


All punishd in the person of this child,


Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will:


Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:


These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak


Whose title they admit, Arthurs or Johns.


Trumpet sounds. Enter certain Citizens upon the walls


Who is it that hath warnd us to the walls?


You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects--


You loving men of Angiers, Arthurs subjects,


Our trumpet calld you to this gentle parle--


For our advantage; therefore hear us first.


These flags of France, that are advanced here


Before the eye and prospect of your town,


Have hither marchd to your endamagement:


The cannons have their bowels full of wrath,


And ready mounted are they to spit forth


Their iron indignation gainst your walls:


All merciless proceeding by these French


Confronts your citys eyes, your winking gates;


And but for our approach those sleeping stones,


By this time from their fixed beds of lime


Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made


For bloody power to rush upon your peace.


But on the sight of us your lawful king,


Have brought a countercheque before your gates,


To save unscratchd your citys threatened cheeks,


Behold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle;


And now, instead of bullets wrappd in fire,


They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke,


And let us in, your king, whose labourd spirits,


Forwearied in this action of swift speed,


Crave harbourage within your city walls.


When I have said, make answer to us both.


Lo, in this right hand, whose protection


Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet,


And king oer him and all that he enjoys:


In warlike march these greens before your town,


To that owes it, namely this young prince:


And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,


Save in aspect, hath all offence seald up;


Our cannons malice vainly shall be spent


Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven;


With unhackd swords and helmets all unbruised,


We will bear home that lusty blood again


Which here we came to spout against your town,


And leave your children, wives and you in peace.


But if you fondly pass our profferd offer,


Tis not the roundure of your old-faced walls


Can hide you from our messengers of war,


Though all these English and their discipline


Were harbourd in their rude circumference.


Then tell us, shall your city call us lord,


In that behalf which we have challenged it?


In brief, we are the king of Englands subjects:


For him, and in his right, we hold this town.


Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.


That can we not; but he that proves the king,


To him will we prove loyal: till that time


Have we rammd up our gates against the world.


Doth not the crown of England prove the king?


Twice fifteen thousand hearts of Englands breed,--


As many and as well-born bloods as those,--


Stand in his face to contradict his claim.


Till you compound whose right is worthiest,


We for the worthiest hold the right from both.


Then God forgive the sin of all those souls


Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,


Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and eer since


Sits on his horseback at mine hostess door,


I would set an ox-head to your lions hide,


Up higher to the plain; where well set forth


Speed then, to take advantage of the field.


Command the rest to stand. God and our right!


Here after excursions, enter the Herald of France, with trumpets, to the gates


You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,


And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,


Who by the hand of France this day hath made


Much work for tears in many an English mother,


Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground;


And victory, with little loss, doth play


Arthur of Bretagne Englands king and yours.


Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:


King John, your king and Englands doth approach,


Their armours, that marchd hence so silver-bright,


Hither return all gilt with Frenchmens blood;


There stuck no plume in any English crest


Our colours do return in those same hands


That did display them when we first marchd forth;


And, like a troop of jolly huntsmen, come


Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,


Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes:


Open your gates and gives the victors way.


Heralds, from off our towers we might behold,


From first to last, the onset and retire


Blood hath bought blood and blows have answered blows;


Strength matchd with strength, and power confronted power:


One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even,


We hold our town for neither, yet for both.


Re-enter KING JOHN and KING PHILIP, with their powers, severally


France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?


Say, shall the current of our right run on?


Whose passage, vexd with thy impediment,


Shall leave his native channel and oerswell


With course disturbd even thy confining shores,


England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood,


In this hot trial, more than we of France;


Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear,


That sways the earth this climate overlooks,


Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,


Well put thee down, gainst whom these arms we bear,


Gracing the scroll that tells of this wars loss


With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.


When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!


O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;


The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;


And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,


Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?


Cry, havoc! kings; back to the stained field,


You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits!


The others peace: till then, blows, blood and death!


Speak, citizens, for England; whos your king?


The king of England; when we know the king.


Know him in us, that here hold up his right.


Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.


A greater power then we denies all this;


Our former scruple in our strong-barrd gates;


Kingd of our fears, until our fears, resolved,


Be by some certain king purged and deposed.


By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings,


And stand securely on their battlements,


As in a theatre, whence they gape and point


At your industrious scenes and acts of death.


Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend


Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town:


By east and west let France and England mount


Their battering cannon charged to the mouths,


Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawld down


The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city:


That done, dissever your united strengths,


And part your mingled colours once again;


Turn face to face and bloody point to point;


Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth


To whom in favour she shall give the day,


How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?


Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,


I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers


And lay this Angiers even to the ground;


Then after fight who shall be king of it?


Being wronged as we are by this peevish town,


As we will ours, against these saucy walls;


And when that we have dashd them to the ground,


Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.


Let it be so. Say, where will you assault?


Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.


O prudent discipline! From north to south:


Austria and France shoot in each others mouth:


Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,


And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league;


Win you this city without stroke or wound;


Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,


That here come sacrifices for the field:


Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.


Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.


That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,


Is niece to England: look upon the years


Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid:


If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,


Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?


If zealous love should go in search of virtue,


Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?


If love ambitious sought a match of birth,


Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?


Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,


Is the young Dauphin every way complete:


And she again wants nothing, to name want,


Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.


O, two such silver currents, when they join,


Do glorify the banks that bound them in;


And two such shores to two such streams made one,


Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings,


To these two princes, if you marry them.


This union shall do more than battery can


To our fast-closed gates; for at this match,


With swifter spleen than powder can enforce,


The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,


And give you entrance: but without this match,


Lions more confident, mountains and rocks


More free from motion, no, not Death himself


That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death


Out of his rags! Heres a large mouth, indeed,


That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas,


He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce;


Our ears are cudgelld; not a word of his


But buffets better than a fist of France:


Zounds! I was never so bethumpd with words


Since I first calld my brothers father dad.


Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;


Give with our niece a dowry large enough:


For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie


That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe


The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.


I see a yielding in the looks of France;


Mark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls


Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath


This friendly treaty of our threatend town?


Speak England first, that hath been forward first


If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,


Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen:


For Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,


Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich


Holds hand with any princess of the world.


What sayst thou, boy? look in the ladys face.


Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow:


Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.


Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!


Hangd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!


Himself loves traitor: this is pity now,


That hangd and drawn and quartered, there should be


If he see aught in you that makes him like,


That any thing he sees, which moves his liking,


I can with ease translate it to my will;


Further I will not flatter you, my lord,


Than this; that nothing do I see in you,


Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge,


What say these young ones? What say you my niece?


What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.


Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?


Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,


Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces,


With her to thee; and this addition more,


Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.


Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal,


Command thy son and daughter to join hands.


It likes us well; young princes, close your hands.


And your lips too; for I am well assured


Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,


The rites of marriage shall be solemnized.


Is not the Lady Constance in this troop?


I know she is not, for this match made up


Her presence would have interrupted much:


Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.


She is sad and passionate at your highness tent.


And, by my faith, this league that we have made


Which we, God knows, have turnd another way,


For well create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne


And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town


We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance;


John, to stop Arthurs title in the whole,


And France, whose armour conscience buckled on,


Whom zeal and charity brought to the field


With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,


That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith,


That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,


Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,


But the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that,


That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity,


The world, who of itself is peised well,


Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,


Makes it take head from all indifferency,


From all direction, purpose, course, intent:


This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,


Clappd on the outward eye of fickle France,


Hath drawn him from his own determined aid,


To a most base and vile-concluded peace.


But for because he hath not wood me yet:


Not that I have the power to clutch my hand,


When his fair angels would salute my palm;


Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.


Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.


Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!


False blood to false blood joind! gone to be friends!


Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?


It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard:


Be well advised, tell oer thy tale again:


I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word


Thou shalt be punishd for thus frighting me,


Oppressd with wrongs and therefore full of fears,


And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,


With my vexd spirits I cannot take a truce,


But they will quake and tremble all this day.


What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?


What means that hand upon that breast of thine?


Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,


Like a proud river peering oer his bounds?


Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?


Then speak again; not all thy former tale,


But this one word, whether thy tale be true.


As true as I believe you think them false


That give you cause to prove my saying true.


O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,


Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die,


Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?


France friend with England, what becomes of me?


Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight:


This news hath made thee a most ugly man.


What other harm have I, good lady, done,


But spoke the harm that is by others done?


As it makes harmful all that speak of it.


If thou, that bidst me be content, wert grim,


Ugly and slanderous to thy mothers womb,


Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,


Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,


Patchd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,


I would not care, I then would be content,


For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou


Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown.


But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy,


Nature and Fortune joind to make thee great:


Of Natures gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,


And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O,


She is corrupted, changed and won from thee;


She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,


And with her golden hand hath pluckd on France


To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,


And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.


France is a bawd to Fortune and King John,


That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!


Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?


Envenom him with words, or get thee gone


And leave those woes alone which I alone


Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee:


For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.


To me and to the state of my great grief


Let kings assemble; for my griefs so great


That no supporter but the huge firm earth


Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.


Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILLIP, LEWIS, BLANCH, QUEEN ELINOR, the BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and Attendants


Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day


Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,


Turning with splendor of his precious eye


The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:


The yearly course that brings this day about


What hath this day deserved? what hath it done,


Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,


Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child


Pray that their burthens may not fall this day,


Lest that their hopes prodigiously be crossd:


But on this day let seamen fear no wreck;


No bargains break that are not this day made:


This day, all things begun come to ill end,


Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!


By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause


To curse the fair proceedings of this day:


Resembling majesty, which, being touchd and tried,


Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;


You came in arms to spill mine enemies blood,


But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:


The grappling vigour and rough frown of war


And our oppression hath made up this league.


Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings!


A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!


Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,


Set armed discord twixt these perjured kings!


War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war


That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!


Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!


Thou Fortunes champion that dost never fight


To teach thee safety! thou art perjured too,


And soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou,


A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear


Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,


Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend


Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength,


And dost thou now fall over to my fores?


Thou wear a lions hide! doff it for shame,


And hang a calfs-skin on those recreant limbs.


O, that a man should speak those words to me!


Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life.


We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.


Why thou against the church, our holy mother,


So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce


This, in our foresaid holy fathers name,


Can task the free breath of a sacred king?


Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England


Add thus much more, that no Italian priest


But as we, under heaven, are supreme head,


Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,


Without the assistance of a mortal hand:


So tell the pope, all reverence set apart


Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.


Though you and all the kings of Christendom


Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,


Dreading the curse that money may buy out;


And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,


Who in that sale sells pardon from himself,


Though you and all the rest so grossly led


This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish,


Against the pope and count his friends my foes.


Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate.


And blessed shall he be that doth revolt


And meritorious shall that hand be calld,


That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!


There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.


Theres law and warrant, lady, for my curse.


And for mine too: when law can do no right,


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?


And raise the power of France upon his head,


Lookst thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.


Look to that, devil; lest that France repent,


And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.


And hang a calfs-skin on his recreant limbs.


Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because--


Philip, what sayst thou to the cardinal?


What should he say, but as the cardinal?


Or the light loss of England for a friend:


O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee here


The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,


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!


The king is moved, and answers not to this.


O, be removed from him, and answer well!


Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.


Hang nothing but a calfs-skin, most sweet lout.


I am perplexd, and know not what to say.


What canst thou say but will perplex thee more,


Good reverend father, make my person yours,


And tell me how you would bestow yourself.


This royal hand and mine are newly knit,


Married in league, coupled and linked 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


Heaven knows, they were besmeard and over-staind


With slaughters pencil, where revenge did paint


The fearful difference of incensed kings:


And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,


So newly joind 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,


Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose


Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest


To do your pleasure and continue friends.


Therefore to arms! be champion of our church,


Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,


France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,


Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.


I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.


And like a civil war setst oath to oath,


Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow


First made to heaven, first be to heaven performd,


That is, to be the champion of our church!


What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself


For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss


And being not done, where doing tends to ill,


The truth is then most done not doing it:


And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire


Within the scorched veins of one new-burnd.


It is religion that doth make vows kept;


By what thou swearst against the thing thou swearst,


And makest an oath the surety for thy truth


Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure


To swear, swears only not to be forsworn;


Else what a mockery should it be to swear!


But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;


And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.


Therefore thy later vows against thy first


And better conquest never canst thou make


Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts


Upon which better part our prayers come in,


If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know


So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,


But in despair die under their black weight.


Will not a calfs-skin stop that mouth of thine?


Against the blood that thou hast married?


What, shall our feast be kept with slaughterd men?


Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,


Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp?


Is husband in my mouth! even for that name,


Which till this time my tongue did neer pronounce,


Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,


Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom


Now shall I see thy love: what motive may


Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?


That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,


His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!


When such profound respects do pull you on.


Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee.


France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.


Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,


Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.


The suns oercast with blood: fair day, adieu!


Which is the side that I must go withal?


And in their rage, I having hold of both,


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 fortunes thrive:


Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.


There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.


France, I am burnd up with inflaming wrath;


That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,


The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France.


Thy rage sham burn thee up, and thou shalt turn


To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:


No more than he that threats. To arms lets hie!


SCENE II. The same. Plains near Angiers.


Alarums, excursions. Enter the BASTARD, with AUSTRIAS head


Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;


And pours down mischief. Austrias head lie there,


Her highness is in safety, fear you not:


Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter KING JOHN,  QUEEN ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT, and Lords


[To QUEEN ELINOR]  So shall it be; your grace shall


Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will


O, this will make my mother die with grief!


[To the BASTARD]  Cousin, away for England!


And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags


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,


For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.


Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.


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:


But I will fit it with some better time.


To say what good respect I have of thee.


Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,


But thou shalt have; and creep time neer so slow,


Yet it shall come from me to do thee good.


The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,


Attended with the pleasures of the world,


To give me audience: if the midnight bell


Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,


If this same were a churchyard where we stand,


And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs,


Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick,


Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,


Making that idiot, laughter, keep mens eyes


And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,


Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,


Hear me without thine ears, and make reply


Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words;


Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,


I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:


But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well;


And, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well.


So well, that what you bid me undertake,


Though that my death were adjunct to my act,


Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye


On yon young boy: Ill tell thee what, my friend,


And wheresoer this foot of mine doth tread,


He lies before me: dost thou understand me?


I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;


Well, Ill not say what I intend for thee:


Ill send those powers oer to your majesty.


With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!


Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, CARDINAL PANDULPH, and Attendants


Is scatterd and disjoind from fellowship.


Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.


What can go well, when we have run so ill?


Arthur taen prisoner? divers dear friends slain?


Oerbearing interruption, spite of France?


What he hath won, that hath he fortified:


So hot a speed with such advice disposed,


Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,


Doth want example: who hath read or heard


Well could I bear that England had this praise,


So we could find some pattern of our shame.


Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;


Holding the eternal spirit against her will,


Lo, now I now see the issue of your peace.


Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!


But that which ends all counsel, true redress,


Thou odouriferous stench! sound rottenness!


Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,


And ring these fingers with thy household worms


And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust


Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest


And buss thee as thy wife. Miserys love,


No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:


O, that my tongue were in the thunders mouth!


Then with a passion would I shake the world;


Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.


My name is Constance; I was Geffreys wife;


For then, tis like I should forget myself:


O, if I could, what grief should I forget!


For being not mad but sensible of grief,


Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:


Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note


In the fair multitude of those her hairs!


Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,


Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends


Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?


I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud


O that these hands could so redeem my son,


As they have given these hairs their liberty!


And will again commit them to their bonds,


And, father cardinal, I have heard you say


That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:


If that be true, I shall see my boy again;


For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,


There was not such a gracious creature born.


And chase the native beauty from his cheek


When I shall meet him in the court of heaven


I shall not know him: therefore never, never


You hold too heinous a respect of grief.


You are as fond of grief as of your child.


Grief fills the room up of my absent child,


Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,


Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,


Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;


Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?


Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,


I could give better comfort than you do.


My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!


I fear some outrage, and Ill follow her.


Theres nothing in this world can make me joy:


And bitter shame hath spoild the sweet worlds taste


That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.


Even in the instant of repair and health,


The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,


On their departure most of all show evil:


What have you lost by losing of this day?


No, no; when Fortune means to men most good,


She looks upon them with a threatening eye.


Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost


In this which he accounts so clearly won:


Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?


Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.


Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;


For even the breath of what I mean to speak


Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,


Out of the path which shall directly lead


Thy foot to Englands throne; and therefore mark.


John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be


That, whiles warm life plays in that infants veins,


The misplaced John should entertain an hour,


One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.


Must be as boisterously maintaind as gaind;


And he that stands upon a slippery place


Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:


That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;


But what shall I gain by young Arthurs fall?


You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,


May then make all the claim that Arthur did.


And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.


How green you are and fresh in this old world!


John lays you plots; the times conspire with you;


For he that steeps his safety in true blood


Shall find but bloody safety and untrue.


This act so evilly born shall cool the hearts


Of all his people and freeze up their zeal,


That none so small advantage shall step forth


To cheque his reign, but they will cherish it;


But they will pluck away his natural cause


And call them meteors, prodigies and signs,


Abortives, presages and tongues of heaven,


May be he will not touch young Arthurs life,


But hold himself safe in his prisonment.


O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,


If that young Arthur be not gone already,


Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts


And kiss the lips of unacquainted change


And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath


And, O, what better matter breeds for you


Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge


Is now in England, ransacking the church,


Offending charity: if but a dozen French


Were there in arms, they would be as a call


To train ten thousand English to their side,


Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,


What may be wrought out of their discontent,


Now that their souls are topful of offence.


For England go: I will whet on the king.


Strong reasons make strong actions: let us go:


If you say ay, the king will not say no.


Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand


Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,


And bind the boy which you shall find with me


Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.


I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.


Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look tot.


Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.


As little prince, having so great a title


To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.


Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,


I should be as merry as the day is long;


And so I would be here, but that I doubt


No, indeed, ist not; and I would to heaven


I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.


[Aside]  If I talk to him, with his innocent prate


Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.


Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:


In sooth, I would you were a little sick,


That I might sit all night and watch with you:


I warrant I love you more than you do me.


[Aside]  His words do take possession of my bosom.


Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.


Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?


Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?


Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,


The best I had, a princess wrought it me,


And with my hand at midnight held your head,


And like the watchful minutes to the hour,


Still and anon cheerd up the heavy time,


Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief?


Or What good love may I perform for you?


Many a poor mans son would have lien still


And neer have spoke a loving word to you;


But you at your sick service had a prince.


Nay, you may think my love was crafty love


And call it cunning: do, an if you will:


If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,


Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?


These eyes that never did nor never shall


And with hot irons must I burn them out.


Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!


The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,


Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears


But for containing fire to harm mine eye.


Are you more stubborn-hard than hammerd iron?


And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,


I would not have believed him,--no tongue but Huberts.


Re-enter Executioners, with a cord, irons,  and c


O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out


Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.


Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.


Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough?


I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.


For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!


Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,


I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,


Thrust but these men away, and Ill forgive you,


Go, stand within; let me alone with him.


I am best pleased to be from such a deed.


He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:


Let him come back, that his compassion may


O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,


A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,


Then feeling what small things are boisterous there,


Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.


Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.


Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues


Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:


Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert;


Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,


So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes.


Though to no use but still to look on you!


No, in good sooth: the fire is dead with grief,


In undeserved extremes: see else yourself;


There is no malice in this burning coal;


The breath of heaven has blown his spirit out


But with my breath I can revive it, boy.


An if you do, you will but make it blush


And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:


Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes;


And like a dog that is compelld to fight,


Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.


All things that you should use to do me wrong


That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,


Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.


Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye


For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:


With this same very iron to burn them out.


O, now you look like Hubert! all this while


Your uncle must not know but you are dead;


Ill fill these dogged spies with false reports:


And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,


That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,


Silence; no more: go closely in with me:


Enter KING JOHN, PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and other Lords


Here once again we sit, once again crownd,


And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.


This once again, but that your highness pleased,


Was once superfluous: you were crownd before,


And that high royalty was neer pluckd off,


The faiths of men neer stained with revolt;


With any longd-for change or better state.


Therefore, to be possessd with double pomp,


To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,


To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,


But that your royal pleasure must be done,


This act is as an ancient tale new told,