"Of dang'rous majesty; when, perchance, it frowns More upon humour, than advis'd refpect."

Hub. Here is your hand and feal for what I did. K. John. Oh, when the laft account 'twixt heav'n and earth

Is to be made, then fhall this hand and feal

Witnefs againft us to damnation.

"How oft the fight of means to do ill deeds, "Makes deeds ill done? for hadft not thou been by, "A fellow by the hand of Nature mark'd, "Quoted, and fign'd to do a deed of fhame, "This murther had not come into my mind." But taking note of thy abhorr'd afpect, Finding thee fit for bloody villany, Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death. And thou, to be endeared to a King, Mad'ft it no confcience to deftroy a Prince. Hub. My Lord

K. John. "Hadit thou but shook thy head, or made a "When I fpake darkly what I purposed;

"Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, "Or bid me tell my tale in exprefs words;

[paufe,

"Deep fhame had ftruck me dumb, made me break

off,

"And thofe thy fears might have wrought fears in But thou didst understand me by my figns,

And didft in figns again parley with fin

n;

Yea, without ftop, didft let thy heart confent,

And confequently thy rude hand to act

[me.".

The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name.Out of my fight, and never see me more!

My Nobles leave me, and my ftate is brav'd,

Ev'n at my gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs;

Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hoftility and civil tumult reigns,'

Between my confcience, and my coufin's death.

Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,

I'll make a peace between your foul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden, and an innocent hand,

Not painted with the crimfon fpots of blood.
Within this bofom never enter'd yet

The dreadful motion of a murderer's thought,
And you have flander'd nature in my form;
Which, how foever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. John. Doth Arthur live? O hafte thee to the Peers, Throw this report on their incenfed rage, And make them tame to their obedience. Forgive the comment that my paffion made Upon thy feature, for my rage was blind; And foul imaginary eyes of blood Prefented thee more hideous than thou art. Oh, answer not, but to my closet bring The angry Lords with all expedient hafte. I conjure thee but flowly run more fast.

SCENE

V.

[Exeunt.

A ftreet before a prison.

Enter Arthur on the walls difguis'd.

Arth. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down.
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not!
There's few or none do know me: if they did,
This fhip-boy's femblance hath disguis'd me quite.
I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it.

If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:

As good to die, and go; as die, and ftay. [Leaps down.
Oh me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones :
Heav'n take my foul, and England keep my bones!

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bigot.

[Dies.

Sal. Lords, I will meet him at St Edmondsbury; It is our fafety; and we muft embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pemb. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal? Sal. The Count Melun, a Noble Lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love Is much more gen'ral than these lines import *.

tie. whofe private account, of the Dauphin's affection to ⚫ur caufe, is much more ample than the letters. Mr Pope.

Bigot. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for 'twill be Two long days' journey, Lords, or e'er we meet. Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc. Once more to-day well met, diftemper'd Lords;
The King by me requefts your prefence trait.

Sal. The King hath difpoffefs'd himself of us;
We will not line his thin, beftained cloak
With our pure honours: nor attend the foot
That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks.
Return, and tell him fo: we know the worst.
Faulc. Whate'er you think, good words, I think,
were beft.

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners,
reason now.
Faulc. But there is little reafon in your grief;
Therefore 'twere reafon you had manners now.
Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath its privilege.
Faulc. 'Tis true, to hurt its master, no man else.
Sal. This is the prifon: what is he lies here?

[Seeing Arthur.
Pemb. O Death, made proud with pure and princely
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. [beauty!
Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge..

Bigot. Or when he doom'd this beauty to the glaive,
Found it too precious princely for a grave.

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,
Or have you read, or heard, or could you think,
Or do you almoft think, although you fee,

What you do fee? could thought, without this object,
Form fuch another? 'Tis the very top,

The height, the creft, or creft unto the creft
Of Murder's arms; this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft stroke,

That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or ftaring rage,

Prefented to the tears of foft remorse.

Pemb. All murders paft do ftand excus'd in this; And this fo fole, and fo unmatchable,

Shall give a holiness, a purity,

To the yet-unbegotten fins of time;

And prove a deadly bloodfied but a jest,

Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.

Faulc. It is a damned and a bloody work,
The graceless action of a heavy hand;
If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal. If that it be the work of any hand?
We had a kind of light, what would enfue.
It is the fhameful work of Hubert's hand,
The practice and the purpofe of the King:
From whofe obedience I forbid my foul,
Kneeling before this ruin of fweet life
And breathing to this breathlefs excellence
The incenfe of a vow, a holy vow!
Never to tafte the pleafures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor converfant with eafe and idlenefs,
Till I have fet a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.

Our fouls religiously confirm thy words.

Pemb.
Bigot. S

SCENE. VI. Enter Hubert.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte in feeking you; Arthur doth live, the King hath fent for you. Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death; Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! Hub. I am no villain.

Sal. Muft I rob the law? [Drawing his fword. Faule. Your fword is bright, Sir, put it up again. Sal. Not till I fheath it in a murderer's skin: Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, ftand back, I fay; By Heav'n, I think my fword's as fharp as your's. I would not have you, Lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence: Left I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatnefs, and nobility.

Bigot. Out, dunghill! dar'ft thou brave a Nobleman? Hub. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life againft an Emperor.

Sal. Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo;

Yet I am none. Whofe tongue foc'er fpeaks falfe, Not truly fpeaks; who fpeaks not truly, lyes.

Pemb. Cut him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I fay.

Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you, Faulconbridge.
Faulc. Thou wert better gaul the devil, Salisbury.
If thou but frown on me, or ftir thy foot,
Or teach thy hafty fpleen to do me fhame,
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy fword betime,
Or I'll fo maul you; and your tofting-iron,
That you fhall think the devil is come from hell.
Bigot. What will you do, renowned Faulconbridge!
Second a villain, and a murderer ?

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.
Bigot. Who kill'd this Prince?

Hub. 'Tis not an hour fince I left him well:
I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep
My date of life out, for his fweet life's lofs.
Sal. Truft not thofe cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without fuch a rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocence.
Away with me, all you whofe fouls abhor
Th' uncleanly favour of a flaughter-house,
For I am ftifled with the fmell of fin.

Bigot. Away tow'rd Bury, to the Dauphin there.
Pemb. There, tell the King, he may inquire us out.

SCENE

[Exeunt Lords.

VII.

Faule. Here's a good world; knew you of this fair

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

Of mercy, if thou didft this deed of death,

Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

Hub. Do but hear me, Sir.

Faulc. Ha! I'll tell thee what,

[work?

Thou 'rt damn'd fo black-nay, nothing is fo black;

Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer.

There is not yet fo ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

Hub. Upon my

foul.

Faulc. If thou didst but confent

To this moft cruel act, do but defpair,

And if thou want'ft a cord, the fmalleft thread