Part 92

KING PHILIP. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently The rites of marriage shall be solemniz’d. 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.

LOUIS. She is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent.

KING PHILIP. And, by my faith, this league that we have made Will give her sadness very little cure.— Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came; Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way, To our own vantage.

KING JOHN. We will heal up all; For we’ll create young Arthur Duke of Brittany, And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance. Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity. I trust we shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, To this unlook’d-for, unprepared pomp.

[_Exeunt all but the Bastard. The Citizens retire from the walls._]

BASTARD. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part; And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear 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, Who having no external thing to lose But the word “maid,” cheats the poor maid of that, That smooth-fac’d gentleman, tickling commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world, The world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent. And this same bias, this commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aid, From a resolv’d and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for because he hath not woo’d me yet. Not that I have the power to clutch my hand When his fair angels would salute my palm; But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee!

[_Exit._]

ACT III

SCENE I. France. The French King’s tent.

Enter Constance, Arthur and Salisbury.

CONSTANCE. Gone to be married? Gone to swear a peace? False blood to false blood join’d? Gone to be friends? Shall Louis have Blanche, and Blanche those provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advis’d, tell o’er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but say ’tis so. I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man. Believe me, I do not believe thee, man. I have a king’s oath to the contrary. Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress’d with wrongs, and therefore full of fears, A widow, husbandless, subject to fears, A woman, naturally born to fears, And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce, But they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering o’er 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.

SALISBURY. As true as I believe you think them false That give you cause to prove my saying true.

CONSTANCE. O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die, And let belief and life encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting fall and die. Louis marry Blanche? 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.

SALISBURY. What other harm have I, good lady, done, But spoke the harm that is by others done?

CONSTANCE. Which harm within itself so heinous is, As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

ARTHUR. I do beseech you, madam, be content.

CONSTANCE. If thou, that bid’st me be content, wert grim, Ugly, and sland’rous to thy mother’s womb, Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch’d 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 join’d to make thee great. Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O, She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from thee; She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, And with her golden hand hath pluck’d 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 Am bound to underbear.

SALISBURY. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the Kings.

CONSTANCE. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee. I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief Let kings assemble; for my grief’s so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up. Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

[_Seats herself on the ground._]

Enter King John, King Philip, Louis, Blanche, Eleanor, Bastard, Austria and attendants.

KING PHILIP. ’Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day Ever in France shall be kept festival. To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold. The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holy day.

CONSTANCE. [_Rising_.] A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserv’d? What hath it done That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury. Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burdens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d. But on this day let seamen fear no wrack; 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!

KING PHILIP. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day. Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty?

CONSTANCE. You have beguil’d me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d 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 Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur’d kings! A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord ’twixt these perjur’d kings! Hear me, O, hear me!

AUSTRIA. Lady Constance, peace!

CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to me a war. O Limoges, O Austria, thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune’s champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur’d too, And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp, and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, 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 foes? Thou wear a lion’s hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me!

BASTARD. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA. Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy life.

BASTARD. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

KING JOHN. We like not this. Thou dost forget thyself.

KING PHILIP. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope.

Enter Pandulph.

PANDULPH. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do in his name religiously demand Why thou against the church, our holy mother, So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see. This, in our foresaid holy father’s name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

KING JOHN. What earthy name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, To charge me to an answer, as the pope. Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; But as we under God are supreme head, So, under Him, that great supremacy, Where we do reign, we will alone uphold Without th’ assistance of a mortal hand. So tell the pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp’d authority.

KING PHILIP. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

KING JOHN. 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, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that sale sells pardon from himself; Though you and all the rest, so grossly led, This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish, Yet I alone, alone do me oppose Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.

PANDULPH. Then, by the lawful power that I have, Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate; And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life.

CONSTANCE. O, lawful let it be That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father Cardinal, cry thou amen To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

PANDULPH. There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

CONSTANCE. And for mine too. When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong. Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

PANDULPH. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, And raise the power of France upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Look’st thou pale, France? Do not let go thy hand.

CONSTANCE Look to that, devil, lest that France repent And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

AUSTRIA. King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

BASTARD. And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because—

BASTARD. Your breeches best may carry them.

KING JOHN. Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal?

CONSTANCE. What should he say, but as the cardinal?

LOUIS. Bethink you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, Or the light loss of England for a friend. Forgo the easier.

BLANCHE. That’s the curse of Rome.

CONSTANCE. O Louis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

BLANCHE. The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith, But from her need.

CONSTANCE. O, if thou grant my need, Which only lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle: That faith would live again by death of need. O then tread down my need, and faith mounts up; Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down!

KING JOHN. The King is mov’d, and answers not to this.

CONSTANCE. O, be remov’d from him, and answer well!

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

BASTARD. Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout.

KING PHILIP. I am perplex’d, and know not what to say.

PANDULPH. What canst thou say but will perplex thee more, If thou stand excommunicate and curs’d?

KING PHILIP. Good reverend father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled and link’d together With all religious strength of sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; And even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our hands To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and overstain’d With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings. And shall these hands, so lately purg’d of blood, So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet? Play fast and loose with faith? So jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from palm, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose Some gentle order, and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure and continue friends.

PANDULPH. All form is formless, order orderless, Save what is opposite to England’s love. Therefore to arms! Be champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse, A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

KING PHILIP. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

PANDULPH. So mak’st thou faith an enemy to faith, And like a civil war sett’st oath to oath, Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d, That is, to be the champion of our church. What since thou swor’st is sworn against thyself And may not be performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss when it is truly done; And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth is then most done not doing it. The better act of purposes mistook Is to mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d. It is religion that doth make vows kept, But thou hast sworn against religion By what thou swear’st against the thing thou swear’st, And mak’st 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 latter vows against thy first Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions, Upon which better part our prayers come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know The peril of our curses light on thee, So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, But in despair die under the black weight.

AUSTRIA. Rebellion, flat rebellion!

BASTARD. Will’t not be? Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine?

LOUIS. Father, to arms!

BLANCHE. Upon thy wedding-day? Against the blood that thou hast married? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? O husband, hear me! Ay, alack, how new Is “husband” in my mouth! Even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle.

CONSTANCE. O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom Forethought by heaven!

BLANCHE. Now shall I see thy love. What motive may Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

CONSTANCE. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, His honour. O, thine honour, Louis, thine honour!

LOUIS. I muse your majesty doth seem so cold, When such profound respects do pull you on.

PANDULPH. I will denounce a curse upon his head.

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

CONSTANCE. O fair return of banish’d majesty!

QUEEN ELEANOR. O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

KING JOHN. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

BASTARD. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, Is it as he will? Well, then, France shall rue.

BLANCHE. The sun’s o’ercast with blood. Fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both, each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive. Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose; Assured loss before the match be play’d.

LOUIS. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.

BLANCHE. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

KING JOHN. Cousin, go draw our puissance together.

[_Exit Bastard._]

France, I am burn’d up with inflaming wrath; A rage whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu’d blood, of France.

KING PHILIP. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

KING JOHN. No more than he that threats. To arms let’s hie!

[_Exeunt severally._]

SCENE II. The same. Plains near Angiers

Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Bastard with Austria’s head.

BASTARD. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot; Some airy devil hovers in the sky And pours down mischief. Austria’s head lie there, While Philip breathes.

Enter King John, Arthur and Hubert.

KING JOHN. Hubert, keep this boy.—Philip, make up. My mother is assailed in our tent, And ta’en, I fear.

BASTARD. My lord, I rescu’d her; Her highness is in safety, fear you not. But on, my liege; for very little pains Will bring this labour to an happy end.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. The same.

Alarums, Excursions, Retreat. Enter King John, Eleanor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert and Lords.

KING JOHN. [_To Eleanor_] So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind So strongly guarded. [_To Arthur_] Cousin, look not sad. Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will As dear be to thee as thy father was.

ARTHUR. O, this will make my mother die with grief!

KING JOHN. [_To the Bastard_] Cousin, away for England! Haste before, And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags Of hoarding abbots; imprison’d angels Set at liberty. The fat ribs of peace Must by the hungry now be fed upon. Use our commission in his utmost force.

BASTARD. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back When gold and silver becks me to come on. I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray, If ever I remember to be holy, For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Farewell, gentle cousin.

KING JOHN. Coz, farewell.

[_Exit Bastard._]

QUEEN ELEANOR. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

[_She takes Arthur aside._]

KING JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, We owe thee much! Within this wall of flesh There is a soul counts thee her creditor, And with advantage means to pay thy love. And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, But I will fit it with some better tune. By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham’d To say what good respect I have of thee.

HUBERT. I am much bounden to your majesty.

KING JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne’er so slow, Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say, but let it go. The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton and too full of gauds To give me audience. If the midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, Sound on into the drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, Had bak’d thy blood and made it heavy, thick, Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes; Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, Hear me without thine ears, and make reply Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 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 lov’st me well.

HUBERT. So well that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I would do it.

KING JOHN. Do not I know thou wouldst? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy. I’ll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my way; And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me. Dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper.

HUBERT. And I’ll keep him so That he shall not offend your majesty.

KING JOHN. Death.

HUBERT. My lord?

KING JOHN. A grave.

HUBERT. He shall not live.

KING JOHN. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee. Well, I’ll not say what I intend for thee. Remember. Madam, fare you well. I’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty.

QUEEN ELEANOR. My blessing go with thee!

KING JOHN. For England, cousin, go. Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. The same. The French King’s tent.

Enter King Philip, Louis, Pandulph and Attendants.

KING PHILIP. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood A whole armado of convicted sail Is scattered and disjoin’d from fellowship.

PANDULPH. Courage and comfort! All shall yet go well.

KING PHILIP. What can go well, when we have run so ill. Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur ta’en prisoner? Divers dear friends slain? And bloody England into England gone, O’erbearing interruption, spite of France?

LOUIS. What he hath won, that hath he fortified. So hot a speed with such advice dispos’d, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, Doth want example. Who hath read or heard Of any kindred action like to this?

KING PHILIP. Well could I bear that England had this praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame.

Enter Constance.

Look who comes here! A grave unto a soul; Holding th’ eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. I prithee, lady, go away with me.

CONSTANCE. Lo, now, now see the issue of your peace!