Arth. Are you fick, Hubert? you look pale to Day; Infooth I would you were a little fick, That I might fit all Night and watch with you. I warrant. I love you more than you do me. Hub. His Words do take Poffeffion of my Bofom, Read here, young Arthur. How now foolish Rheume? Turning difpitious Torture out of Door? I must be brief, left Refolution drop Out at mine Eyes in tender Womanish Tears. Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for fo foul Effect. Muft you with hot Irons burn out both mine Eyes? Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Arth. Have you the Heart? When your Head did but ake, I knit my Handkerchief about your Brows, (The beft I had, a Princefs wrought it me) And I did never ask it you again; And with my Hand, at Midnight held your Head; Hub. I have fworn to do it; And with hot Irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none but in this Iron Age would do it Approaching near thefe Eyes, would drink my Tears, Even in the Matter of mire Innotcnce: Bus But for containing Fire to harm mine Eye. And told me Hubert fhould put out mine Eyes, I would not have believ'd him; no Tongue but Hubert's. Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you do. Arth. O fave me, Hubert, fave me; my Eyes are out Even with the fierce Looks of thefe bloody Men. Hub. Give me the Iron I fay, and bind him here. I will not ftir, nor wince, nor speak a Word, Thruft but thefe Men away and I'll forgive you, Hub. Go, ftand within; let me alone with him. Hub. Come, Boy, prepare your felf. Arth. Is there no Remedy? Hub. None, but to lofe your Eyes. Arth. O Heav'n, that there were but a Moth in yours, A Grain, a Duft, a Gnat, a wandring Hair, Any Annoyance in that precious Senfe: Then feeling what fmall things are boisterous there, Your vile Intent muft needs feem horrible. Hub. Is this your promife? Go too, hold your Tongue. Maft needs want pleading for a pair of Eyes: Hub. Hub. I can heat it, Boy. Arth. No, in good footh, the Fire is dead with Grief. Being create for Comfort, to be us'd In undeferv'd Extreams; fee elfe your felf, Hub. But with my Breath I can revive it, Boy. That Mercy which fierce Fire, and Iron extends, Hub. Well, fee to live; I will not touch thine Eye Yet am I fworn, and I did purpose, Boy, Arth. O now you look like Hubert. All this while Hub. Peace: No more. Adieu, Your Unkle muft not know but you are dead. Arth. O Heav'n! I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence, no more; go clofely in with me. Much Danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords. K. John. Here once again we fit, once again crown'd, And look'd upon, I hope, with cheatful Eyes. Pemb. This once again, but that your Highnefs pleas'd, Was once fuperfluous; you were crown'd before, And And that high Royalty was ne'er pluck'd off: To fmooth the Ice, or add another Hew To feek the beauteous Eye of Heav'n to garnish, Pemb. But that your royal Pleasure must be done, And in the last repeating troublesome, Being urged at a time unfeasonable. Sal. In this the antick and well noted Face Of plain old Form is much disfigured, And like a fhifted Wind unto a Sail, It makes the course of Thoughts to fetch about, Makes found Opinion fick, and Truth fufpected, For putting on to new a fashion'd Robe. Pemb. When Workmen ftrive to do better than well, They do confound their Skill in Covetousness, And oftentimes excufing of a Fault, Doth make the Fault the worfe by the Excufe: As Patches fet upon a little Breach, Difcredit more in hiding of the Fault, Than did the Fault before it was fo patch'd. Sal. To this Effect, before you were new crown'd, We breath'd our Confel; but it pleas'd your Highness To over-bear it, and we are all well pleas'd, Since all, and every part of what we would K. John. Some Reasons of this double Coronation I will both hear and grant you your Requefts. If what in Reft you have, in Right you hold, Enter Hubert. K. John. Let it be fo; I do commit his Youth The Image of a wicked heinous Fault Lives in his Eye; that close Afpect of his Does thew the Mood of a much troubled Breaft, What we fo fear'd he had a Charge to do. Sal. The Colour of the King doth come and go, Like Heralds 'twixt two dreadful Battels fet: Pemb. And when it breaks, I fear will iffue thence K. John. We cannot hold Mortality's firong Hand. Sal. |