As to my ample hope was promised
Before I drew this gallant head of war,
And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world,
To outlook conquest, and to win renown
Even in the jaws of danger and of death.—

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?
Enter the Bastard, attended.

[Trumpet sounds.

Bast. According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience. I am sent to speak :
My holy lord of Milan, from the king

I come, to learn how you have dealt for him!
And, as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.

Pand. The dauphin is too wilful opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties;
He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms.

Bast. By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
The youth says well:-Now hear our English king;
For thus his royalty doth speak in me.
He is prepar'd; and reason too, he should:
This apish and unmannerly approach,

This harness'd masque, and unadvised revel,
This unhair'd sauciness,' and boyish troops,
The king doth smile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.

That hand which had the strength, even at your door,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;
To crouch in litter of your stable planks;

To lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and trunks ;
To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake,
Even at the crying of your nation's crow,
Thinking this voice an armed Englishman;—
Shall that victorious hand be feeble here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No: Know the gallant monarch is in arms;
And like an eagle o'er his aiery towers,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.-
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neros, ripping up the womb

Of your dear mother England, blush for shame :

(1) This unhaired sauciness, i.e. this sauciness of a beardless boy.

For your own ladies, and pale-visag'd maids,
Like Amazons, come tripping after drums;
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,
Their neelds to lances, and their gentle hearts

To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lew. There end thy brave,1 and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;

We hold our time too precious to be spent

With such a brabbler.

Pand.

Give me leave to speak.

We will attend to neither :

Bast. No, I will speak.

Lew.

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war

Plead for our interest, and our being here.

Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten : Do but start

An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder: for at hand
(Not trusting to this halting legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lew. Strike up our drums to find this danger out.
Bast. And thou shalt find it, dauphin, do not doubt.

SCENE III.-The same. A Field of Battle.

Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT.

[Exeunt.

K. John. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert. Hub. Badly, I fear: How fares your majesty?

K. John. This fever that hath troubled me so long, Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge, Desires your majesty to leave the field,

And send him word by me which way you go.

K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great supply,

(1) End thy brave, i. e. cease from thy bravado.

That was expected by the dauphin here,
Are wrack'd three nights ago on Goodwin sands.
This news was brought to Richard but even now:
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John. Ah me! this tyrant fever burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on towards Swinstead: to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.

SCENE IV.-The same.

[Exeunt.

Another part of the same.

Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and others.
Sal. I did not think the king so stor'd with friends.
Pem. Up once again; put spirit in the French:
If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,

In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

Pem. They say, king John, sore sick, hath left the field.
Enter MELUN, wounded and led by Soldiers.

Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England here.
Sal. When we were happy we had other names.
Pem. It is the count Melun.

Sal.

Wounded to death.

Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

And welcome home again discarded faith.

Seek out king John, and fall before his feet;
For, if the French be lords of this loud day,
He1 means to recompense the pains you take
By cutting off your heads: Thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at Saint Edmund's-Bury ;
Even on that altar where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

Sal. May this be possible? may this be true?
Mel. Have I not hideous death within my view,
Retaining but a quantity of life

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?

What in the world should make me now deceive,
Since I must lose the use of all deceit?
Why should I then be false; since it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,

(1) He. The Dauphin is here meant.

He is forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the east:

But even this night,-whose black contagious breath
Already smokes about the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,-
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire;
Paying the fine of rated treachery,1

Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your king;
The love of him,-and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an Englishman,-
Awakes my conscience to confess all this,
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumour of the field;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires.

Sal. We do believe thee,-And beshrew my soul
But I do love the favour and the form
Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damned flight;
And, like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd,
And calmly run on in obedience,

Even to our ocean, to our great king John.

My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence ;
For I do see the cruel pangs of death

Right in thine eye.-Away, my friends!

And happy newness, that intends old right.

New flight;

[Exeunt, leading off MELUN.

SCENE V.-The same. The French Camp.

Enter LEWIS and his Train.

Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was loth to set,
But stay'd and made the western welkin blush,
When the English measur'd backward their own ground,
In faint retire: O, bravely came we off

When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;

And wound our tottering colours clearly up,

Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

(1) Paying the fine of rated treachery, i.e. the dauphin has rated your treachery at a certain fine, namely, your lives.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Where is my prince, the dauphin?

Lew.

Here:-What news?

Mess. The count Melun is slain; the English lords,

By his persuasion, are again fallen off:

And your supply, which you have wish'd so long,

Are cast away, and sunk, on Goodwin sands.

Lew. Ah, foul shrewd news!-Beshrew thy very heart!

I did not think to be so sad to-night

As this hath made me.-Who was he that said,

King John did fly an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lew. Well; keep good quarter and good care to-night;

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.—An open Place in the Neighbourhood of Swinstead

Abbey.

Enter the Bastard and HUBERT, meeting.

Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot. Bast. A friend.-What art thou?

Hub.

Bast. Whither dost thou go?
Hub.

Of the part of England.

What's that to thee?

Hubert, I think.

Why may I not demand of thine affairs,
As well as thou of mine?

Bast.

Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought:

I will, upon all hazards, well believe

Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well:

Who art thou?

Bast.

Who thou wilt: an if thou please,

Thou may'st befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and eyeless night,1 Have done me shame :-Brave soldier, pardon me,

That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,

Should 'scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,

To find you out.

Bast.

Brief, then; and what's the news?

(1) Eyeless night, i.e. night with no moon shining. Pindar in one of his odes calls the moon the eye of the night,