Part 90

PORTER’S MAN. 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, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again— And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

ONE. [_Within_.] Do you hear, master porter?

PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.— Keep the door close, sirrah.

PORTER’S MAN. What would you have me do?

PORTER. What should you do, but knock ’em down by th’ 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.

PORTER’S MAN. 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 in’s 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 haberdasher’s 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 succour, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th’ broomstaff 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 ’em, I think, surely.

PORTER. 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.

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too. From all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves? You’ve made a fine hand, fellows! There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these Your faithful friends o’ th’ suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening.

PORTER. An’t please your honour, We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a-pieces, we have done. An army cannot rule ’em.

CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, If the King blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all By th’ heels, and suddenly, and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. You’re lazy knaves, And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound! They’re come already from the christening. Go break among the press, and find a way out To let the troops pass fairly, or I’ll find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.

PORTER. Make way there for the Princess!

PORTER’S MAN. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

PORTER. You i’ th’ camlet, get up o’ th’ rail! I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. The palace.

Enter Trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his marshal’s staff, Duke of 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, etc., 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.

GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth.

Flourish. Enter King and Guard.

CRANMER. [_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 May hourly fall upon ye!

KING. Thank you, good lord Archbishop. What is her name?

CRANMER. Elizabeth.

KING. Stand up, lord.

[_The King kisses the child._]

With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee, Into whose hand I give thy life.

CRANMER. Amen.

KING. My noble gossips, you’ve have been too prodigal. I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady, When she has so much English.

CRANMER. Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they’ll find ’em truth. This royal infant—heaven still move about her!— Though in her cradle, yet now promises 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 More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue 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 feared. 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, Her ashes new create another heir As great in admiration as herself, So shall she leave her blessedness to one, When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness, Who from the sacred ashes of her honour Shall star-like rise as great in fame as she was And so stand fixed. 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 children’s children Shall see this and bless heaven.

KING. Thou speakest wonders.

CRANMER. 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, A most unspotted lily, shall she pass to the ground, And all the world shall mourn her.

KING. O lord Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man. Never before This happy child did I get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleased me That when I am in heaven I shall desire To see what this child does and praise my Maker. I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, And you, 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. This little one shall make it holiday.

[_Exeunt._]

Epilogue

Enter Epilogue.

EPILOGUE. ’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’ve frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear, They’ll say ’tis naught—others, to hear the city Abused extremely and to cry “That’s witty!”— Which we have not done neither—that I fear All the expected good we’re like to hear For this play at this time is only in The merciful construction of good women, For such a one we showed ’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.

[_Exit._]

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN

Contents

ACT I Scene I. Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace.

ACT II Scene I. France. Before the walls of Angiers.

ACT III Scene I. France. The French King’s tent. Scene II. The same. Plains near Angiers Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. The French King’s tent.

ACT IV Scene I. Northampton. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace. Scene III. The same. Before the castle.

ACT V Scene I. Northampton. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. Near Saint Edmundsbury. The French Camp. Scene III. The same. The Field of Battle. Scene IV. The same. Another part of the same. Scene V. The same. The French camp. Scene VI. An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey. Scene VII. The orchard of Swinstead Abbey.

Dramatis Personæ

KING JOHN. PRINCE HENRY, son to King John; afterwards KING HENRY III. ARTHUR, Duke of Brittany, nephew to King John. EARL OF PEMBROKE. EARL OF ESSEX. EARL OF SALISBURY. ROBERT BIGOT, Earl of Norfolk. HUBERT DE BURGH, Chamberlain to the King. ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge. The BASTARD, PHILIP FAULCONBRIDGE, his half-brother, bastard son to King Richard I. JAMES GURNEY, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. PETER OF POMFRET, a prophet

KING PHILIP II., King of France. LOUIS, the Dauphin; son to King Philip II. DUKE OF AUSTRIA, also called Limoges. MELUN, a French lord. CHATILLION, Ambassador from France to King John. CARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope’s legate.

QUEEN ELEANOR, Mother to King John and Widow of King Henry II. CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur. BLANCHE OF SPAIN, Daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile, and Niece to King John. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, Mother to the Bastard and Robert Faulconbridge.

Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Executioners, Messengers and other Attendants.

SCENE: Sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.

ACT I

SCENE I. Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter King John, Queen Eleanor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury and others with Chatillion.

KING JOHN. Now, say, Chatillion, what would France with us?

CHATILLION. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrow’d majesty, of England here.

QUEEN ELEANOR. A strange beginning: “borrow’d majesty”!

KING JOHN. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

CHATILLION. Philip of France, in right and true behalf Of thy deceased brother Geoffrey’s son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poitiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur’s hand, Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

KING JOHN. What follows if we disallow of this?

CHATILLION. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

KING JOHN. Here have we war for war and blood for blood, Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

CHATILLION. Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth, The farthest limit of my embassy.

KING JOHN. 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 And sullen presage of your own decay.— An honourable conduct let him have. Pembroke, look to ’t. Farewell, Chatillion.

[_Exeunt Chatillion and Pembroke._]

QUEEN ELEANOR. What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world Upon the right and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

KING JOHN. Our strong possession and our right for us.

QUEEN ELEANOR. 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.

Enter a Sheriff, who whispers to Essex.

ESSEX. My liege, here is the strangest controversy, Come from the country to be judg’d by you, That e’er I heard. Shall I produce the men?

KING JOHN. Let them approach.

[_Exit Sheriff._]

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition’s charge.

Enter Robert Faulconbridge and Philip, his Bastard brother.

What men are you?

BASTARD. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, A soldier by the honour-giving hand Of Cœur-de-lion knighted in the field.

KING JOHN. What art thou?

ROBERT. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

KING JOHN. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems.

BASTARD. 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 o’er to heaven and to my mother. Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Out on thee, rude man! Thou dost shame thy mother And wound her honour with this diffidence.

BASTARD. I, madam? No, I have no reason for it; That is my brother’s plea, and none of mine; The which if he can prove, he pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year. Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land!

KING JOHN. A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

BASTARD. I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander’d me with bastardy. But whe’er I be as true begot or no, That still I lay upon my mother’s head; 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. If old Sir Robert did beget us both And were our father, and this son like him, O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!

KING JOHN. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!

QUEEN ELEANOR. He hath a trick of Cœur-de-lion’s face; The accent of his tongue affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son In the large composition of this man?

KING JOHN. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother’s land?

BASTARD. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that face would he have all my land: A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year!

ROBERT. My gracious liege, when that my father liv’d, Your brother did employ my father much—

BASTARD. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land. Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother.

ROBERT. And once dispatch’d him in an embassy To Germany, there with the emperor To treat of high affairs touching that time. Th’ advantage of his absence took the King And in the meantime sojourn’d at my father’s; Where how he did prevail I shame to speak; But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores Between my father and my mother lay, As I have heard my father speak himself, When this same lusty gentleman was got. Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d His lands to me, and took it, on his death That this my mother’s son was none of his; And if he were, he came into the world Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, My father’s land, as was my father’s will.

KING JOHN. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate; Your father’s 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 claim’d 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 brother’s, My brother might not claim him; nor your father, Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes; My mother’s son did get your father’s heir; Your father’s heir must have your father’s land.

ROBERT. Shall then my father’s will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his?

BASTARD. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me, as I think.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Whether hadst thou rather be: a Faulconbridge And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-lion, Lord of thy presence and no land besides?

BASTARD. Madam, and if my brother had my shape And I had his, Sir Robert’s his, like him; And if my legs were two such riding-rods, My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, 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 would not be Sir Nob in any case.

QUEEN ELEANOR. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune, Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me? I am a soldier and now bound to France.

BASTARD. Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my chance. Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear. Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

BASTARD. Our country manners give our betters way.

KING JOHN. What is thy name?

BASTARD. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun; Philip, good old Sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son.

KING JOHN. From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearest. Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great, Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet.

BASTARD. Brother by th’ mother’s side, give me your hand. My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, Sir Robert was away!

QUEEN ELEANOR. The very spirit of Plantagenet! I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so.

BASTARD. Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though? Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else o’er the hatch. Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, And have is have, however men do catch. Near or far off, well won is still well shot, And I am I, howe’er I was begot.

KING JOHN. 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.

BASTARD. Brother, adieu, good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i’ th’ way of honesty.

[_Exeunt all but the Bastard._]

A foot of honour better than I was, But many a many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. “Good den, Sir Richard!” “God-a-mercy, fellow!” And if his name be George, I’ll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men’s names: ’Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: “My dear sir,” Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin, “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, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po, It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself; For he is but a bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation, And so am I, whether I smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth, Which, though I will not practise to deceive, Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; 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?

Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney.

O me, ’tis my mother!—How now, good lady? What brings you here to court so hastily?

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave, thy brother? Where is he That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

BASTARD. My brother Robert, old Sir Robert’s son? Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man? Is it Sir Robert’s son that you seek so?

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend boy, Sir Robert’s son. Why scorn’st thou at Sir Robert? He is Sir Robert’s son, and so art thou.

BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip.

BASTARD. Philip?—sparrow!—James, There’s toys abroad. Anon I’ll tell thee more.

[_Exit Gurney._]

Madam, I was not old Sir Robert’s son. Sir Robert might have eat his part in me Upon Good Friday, and ne’er broke his fast. Sir Robert could do well—marry, to confess— Could … get me. Sir Robert could not do it. We know his handiwork. Therefore, good mother, To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour? What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

BASTARD. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. What! I am dubb’d! I have it on my shoulder. But, mother, I am not Sir Robert’s son. I have disclaim’d Sir Robert and my land; Legitimation, name, and all is gone. Then, good my mother, let me know my father— Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother?

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the devil.

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Cœur-de-lion was thy father. By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d To make room for him in my husband’s bed. Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! Thou art the issue of my dear offence, Which was so strongly urg’d, past my defence.

BASTARD. 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, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force The aweless lion could not wage the fight, Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand. He that perforce robs lions of their hearts May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother, With all my heart I thank thee for my father! Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well When I was got, I’ll send his soul to hell. Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin; 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.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. France. Before the walls of Angiers.

Enter, on one side, the Archduke of Austria and Forces; on the other, Philip King of France, Louis, Constance, Arthur and Forces.

LOUIS. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart And fought the holy wars in Palestine, By this brave duke came early to his grave. And, for amends to his posterity, At our importance hither is he come To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, And to rebuke the usurpation Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

ARTHUR. God shall forgive you Cœur-de-lion’s death The rather that you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war. I give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained love. Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.