Part 93

KING PHILIP. Patience, good lady! Comfort, gentle Constance!

CONSTANCE. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress, Death, death, O amiable, lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil’st, And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, O, come to me!

KING PHILIP. O fair affliction, peace!

CONSTANCE. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry. O, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world; And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.

PANDULPH. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

CONSTANCE. Thou art not holy to belie me so. I am not mad. This hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geoffrey’s wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost. I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then ’tis like I should forget myself. O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canoniz’d, cardinal; For, being not mad but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver’d of these woes, And teaches me to kill or hang myself. If I were mad, I should forget my son, Or madly think a babe of clouts were he. I am not mad; too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity.

KING PHILIP. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by a chance a silver drop hath fall’n, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity.

CONSTANCE. To England, if you will.

KING PHILIP. Bind up your hairs.

CONSTANCE. 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!” But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. 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, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, And so he’ll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him. Therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

PANDULPH. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

CONSTANCE. He talks to me that never had a son.

KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your child.

CONSTANCE. 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, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 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. I will not keep this form upon my head,

[_She unbinds her hair._]

When there is such disorder in my wit. O Lord! My boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!

[_Exit._]

KING PHILIP. I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her.

[_Exit._]

LOUIS. There’s nothing in this world can make me joy. Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s taste, That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

PANDULPH. Before the curing of a strong disease, 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?

LOUIS. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

PANDULPH. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threat’ning eye. ’Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost In this which he accounts so clearly won. Are not you griev’d that Arthur is his prisoner?

LOUIS. As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

PANDULPH. 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 England’s throne; and therefore mark. John hath seiz’d Arthur; and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins, The misplac’d John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand Must be boisterously maintain’d as gain’d. And he that stands upon a slipp’ry place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up. That John may stand, then, Arthur needs must fall. So be it, for it cannot be but so.

LOUIS. But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall?

PANDULPH. You, in the right of Lady Blanche your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

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

PANDULPH. 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 borne shall cool the hearts Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal, That none so small advantage shall step forth To check his reign, but they will cherish it; No natural exhalation in the sky, No scope of nature, no distemper’d day, No common wind, no customed event, But they will pluck away his natural cause And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs, Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven, Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

LOUIS. Maybe he will not touch young Arthur’s life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

PANDULPH. 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 Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot; And, O, what better matter breeds for you Than I have nam’d! 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, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the King. ’Tis wonderful 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.

LOUIS. Strong reasons makes strong actions. Let us go. If you say ay, the King will not say no.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT IV

SCENE I. Northampton. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Hubert and two Executioners.

HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot 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.

FIRST EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to’t.

[_Exeunt Executioners._]

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

Enter Arthur.

ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert.

HUBERT. Good morrow, little prince.

ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.

HUBERT. Indeed, I have been merrier.

ARTHUR. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I. Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son? No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HUBERT. [_Aside_.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead. Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today. 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.

HUBERT. [_Aside_.] His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur.

[_Showing a paper._]

[_Aside_.] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.— Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?

ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUBERT. Young boy, I must.

ARTHUR. And will you?

HUBERT. And I will.

ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkercher about your brows, The best I had, a princess wrought it me, And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head, And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer’d 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 man’s son would have lien still And ne’er 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 pleas’d that you must use me ill, Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you?

HUBERT. I have sworn to do it. And with hot irons must I burn them out.

ARTHUR. 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 And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ’d him. No tongue but Hubert’s.

HUBERT. [_Stamps_.] Come forth.

Enter Executioners with cords, irons, &c.

Do as I bid you do.

ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

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

ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist’rous-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, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to.

HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

FIRST EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.

[_Exeunt Executioners._]

ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours.

HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTHUR. Is there no remedy?

HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.

ARTHUR. 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! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me.

HUBERT. I can heat it, boy.

ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us’d In undeserv’d extremes. See else yourself. There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out And strew’d repentant ashes on his head.

HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTHUR. 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 compell’d to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office. Only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out.

ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All this while You were disguised.

HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead. I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee.

ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter King John, crowned, Pembroke, Salisbury and other Lords. The King takes his State.

KING JOHN. Here once again we sit, once again crown’d, And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

PEMBROKE. This “once again,” but that your highness pleas’d, Was once superfluous. You were crown’d before, And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any long’d-for change or better state.

SALISBURY. Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

PEMBROKE. But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told, And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable.

SALISBURY. In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured; And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion’d robe.

PEMBROKE. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch’d.

SALISBURY. To this effect, before you were new-crown’d, We breath’d our counsel; but it pleas’d your highness To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d, Since all and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

KING JOHN. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess’d you with, and think them strong; And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear, I shall indue you with. Meantime but ask What you would have reform’d that is not well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you your requests.

PEMBROKE. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, To sound the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily request Th’ enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument: If what in rest you have in right you hold, Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth The rich advantage of good exercise? That the time’s enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it be our suit That you have bid us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

KING JOHN. Let it be so. I do commit his youth To your direction.

Enter Hubert.

Hubert, what news with you?

[_Taking him apart._]

PEMBROKE. This is the man should do the bloody deed. He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine. The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Doth show the mood of a much troubled breast; And I do fearfully believe ’tis done What we so fear’d he had a charge to do.

SALISBURY. The colour of the King doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set. His passion is so ripe it needs must break.

PEMBROKE. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.

KING JOHN. We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead. He tells us Arthur is deceas’d tonight.

SALISBURY. Indeed, we fear’d his sickness was past cure.

PEMBROKE. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was, Before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answer’d either here or hence.

KING JOHN. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me? Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

SALISBURY. It is apparent foul-play; and ’tis shame That greatness should so grossly offer it. So thrive it in your game, and so, farewell.

PEMBROKE. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury. I’ll go with thee And find th’ inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this isle Three foot of it doth hold. Bad world the while! This must not be thus borne; this will break out To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt.

[_Exeunt Lords._]

KING JOHN. They burn in indignation. I repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achiev’d by others’ death.

Enter a Messenger.

A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks? So foul a sky clears not without a storm. Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

MESSENGER. From France to England. Never such a power For any foreign preparation Was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learn’d by them; For when you should be told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arriv’d.

KING JOHN. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk? Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of it?

MESSENGER. My liege, her ear Is stopp’d with dust. The first of April died Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died Three days before. But this from rumour’s tongue I idly heard; if true or false I know not.

KING JOHN. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion! O, make a league with me, till I have pleas’d My discontented peers! What! Mother dead? How wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those powers of France That thou for truth giv’st out are landed here?

MESSENGER. Under the Dauphin.

KING JOHN. Thou hast made me giddy With these in tidings.

Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret.

Now, what says the world To your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is full.

BASTARD. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head.

KING JOHN. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz’d Under the tide, but now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

BASTARD. How I have sped among the clergymen The sums I have collected shall express. But as I travaill’d hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied; Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams, Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear. And here’s a prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heels; To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Your highness should deliver up your crown.

KING JOHN. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

PETER OF POMFRET. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

KING JOHN. Hubert, away with him; imprison him. And on that day at noon, whereon he says I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d. Deliver him to safety, and return, For I must use thee.

[_Exit Hubert with Peter._]

O my gentle cousin, Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arriv’d?

BASTARD. The French, my lord. Men’s mouths are full of it. Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d tonight On your suggestion.

KING JOHN. Gentle kinsman, go And thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to will their loves again. Bring them before me.

BASTARD. I will seek them out.

KING JOHN. Nay, but make haste, the better foot before! O, let me have no subject enemies When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from them to me again.

BASTARD. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.

[_Exit Bastard._]

KING JOHN. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman! Go after him; for he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he.

MESSENGER. With all my heart, my liege.

[_Exit._]

KING JOHN. My mother dead!

Enter Hubert.

HUBERT. My lord, they say five moons were seen tonight— Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion.

KING JOHN. Five moons!

HUBERT. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously. Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths. And when they talk of him, they shake their heads And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent. Another lean unwash’d artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death.

KING JOHN. Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death? Thy hand hath murder’d him. I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

HUBERT. No had, my lord! Why, did you not provoke me?

KING JOHN. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And, on the winking of authority To understand a law, to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns More upon humour than advis’d respect.

HUBERT. Here is your hand and seal for what I did.