BAST. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me
When gold and silver becks me to come on.
I leave your highness.-Grandame, I will pray
(If ever I remember to be holy)

For your fair safety; so I kiss your hand.
ELI. Farewell, gentle cousin.

K. JOHN.

Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard.

ELI. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. [She takes ARTHUR aside.

K. 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.

HUB. I am much bounden to your majesty.

K. JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to

say so yet:

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 one into the drowsy ear of night; (6)
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

c

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 broodeda 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.

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

K. 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.

HUB.

And I'll keep him so, That he shall not offend your majesty. K. JOHN. Death.

HUB.

K. JOHN.

HUB.

K. JOHN.

My lord!

I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee. Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee: Remember.- -Madam, fare you well:

Must by the hungry now be fed upon:] For now, Warburton proposed to read war; a substitution supported by the corresponding passage in the old play :

"Philip, I make thee chiefe in this affaire,
Ransacke the abbeis, cloysters, priories,
Convert their coyne unto my souldiers use."

Some better tune.] So the old copies. Pope altered tune to time; perhaps without necessity, for these words were often used, of old, as synonymes.

e Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,-] From a passage in the "Merchant of Venice," Act I. Sc. 1:

"Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh-."

I. at one time, thought keep a misprint of peep, that is, half close, which agrees, too, with the context:

"And strain their cheeks to idle merriment.

ELI. My blessing go with thee!

Keep, however, in the sense of occupy, may be right; for Biron, "Love's Labour 's Lost," Act IV. Sc. 3, says:

"Other slow arts entirely keep the brain."

d Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,-] Pope reads broad-eyed, an unobjectionable emendation, if any change were required, for broad-eyed and narrow-eyed are expressions repeatedly to be found in the old writers; but brooded for brooding, in allusion to the vigilance of birds on brood, conveys the very sense intended. So, in Massinger's play of "The City Madam," Act III. Sc. 3:

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

SCENE IV.-The same.

[Exeunt.

Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,
O, come to me!

Tent. Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.

K. PHI. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, A whole armado of convicted" sail Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship. [well. [well. PAND. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go K. PHI: 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?

LEW. What he hath won, that hath he fortified:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temperate order in so fierce a course,b
Doth want example. Who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this? [this praise,
K. PHI. Well could I bear that England had
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,

PAND. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
CONST. Thou art unholy* to belie me so.

I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance, I was Geffrey'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.

;

[note

K. PHI. Bind up those tresses: O, what love I
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by 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.

CONST. To England, if you will!a
K. PHI.
Bind up your hairs
CONST. Yes, that I will. And wherefore wil

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,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuff's 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
I will not keep this form upon my head,

a

do.

[Tearing off her head-dress. 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. K. PHI. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit. LEW. 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.
PAND. 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 shew evil :
What have you lost by losing of this day?

b

LEW. All days of glory, joy, and happiness. PAND. If you had won it, certainly, you had. 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 griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner?

LEW. As heartily, as he is glad he hath him. PAND. 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 sciz'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 as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:
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;

a I could give better comfort-] "This is a sentiment which great sorrow always dictates. Whoever cannot help himself casts his eyes on others for assistance, and often mistakes their inability for coldness."-JOHNSON.

b The sweet world's taste.-] For world's the old copies have words. The correction is Pope's.

They would be as a call-] An allusion to the reed, or pipe, termed a bird-call; or to the practice of bird-catchers, who, in laying their nets, place a caged bird over them, which they termi

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
LEW. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
PAND. 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.
LEW. May be, he will not touch young

life,

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Arthur's

PAND. 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; 't is wonderful
What may be wrought out of their discontent,
Now that their souls are topfull of offence.
For England go; I will whet on the king.
LEW. Strong reasons make strange actions.
Let us go;

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

[Exeunt.

Enter ARTHUR.

ARTH. Good morrow, Hubert.

HUB. Good morrow, little prince. ARTH. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be.-You are sad. HUB. Indeed, I have been merrier.

ARTH. 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: