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Oh me, my Uncle's Spirit is in these Stones;

Heav'n take my Soul, and England take my Bones. [Dies. Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.

Sal. Lords, I will meet him at St. Edmonsbury; It is our Safety, and we must 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 general than thefe Lines import.
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 Baftard.

Baft. Once more to Day well met, diftemper'd Lords,
The King by me requests your Prefence ftraight.
Sal. The King hath difpoffeft himself of us;
We will not line his thin beftained Clake
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 worft.

[best. Bast. What e'er you think, good Words I think were Sal. Our Griefs, and not our Manners, reafon now. Baft. But there is little Reafon in your Grief, Therefore 'twere Reafon you had Manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, Impatience hath his Privilege. Baft. 'Tis true, to hurt his Mafter, no Man elfe. Sal. This is the Prison: What is he lyes here? (Beauty; Pemb. Oh Death, made proud with pure and princely The Earth had not a hole to hide this Deed.

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 Grave,
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 almost think, although you fee,

That do you fee? Could Thought, without this Object,
Form fuch another? This is the very Top,

The Heighth, the Creft, or Creft unto the Creft
Of Murders Arms; this is the bloodiest Shame,

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The wild ft Savagery, the vileft Stroak

That ever wall-ey'd Wrath, or ftaring Rage
Prefented to the Tears of foft Remorfe.

Pemb. All Murders paft, do ftand excus'd in this;
And this fo fole, and fo uncharitable,
Shall give a Holiness, a Purity,

To the yet unbegotten Sin of times;
And prove a deadly blood-fhed, but a Jeft,
Exampled by this heinous Spectacle.

Baft. 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 Purpose of the King:
From whofe Obedience I forbid my Soul,
Kneeling before this Ruin of fweet Life,
And breathing to this breathless 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 Idleness,
Till I have fet a Glory to this Hand,
By giving it the Worship of Revenge.

Pemb. Bigo. Our Souls religiously confirm thy Words.
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 blufhes not at Death; Avant thou hateful Villain, get thee gone. Hub. I am no Villain.

Sal. Muft I rob the Law?

Baft. Your Sword 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 say, By Heav'n, I think my Sword's as fharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget your felf, Nor tempt the Danger of my true Defence; Left I, by marking of your Rage, forget Your Worth, your Greatnefs, and Nobility.

Bigot. Out Dunghil, 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 Murderer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo;

Yet I am none. Whofe Tongue foe'er fpeaks false,
Not truly fpeaks; who fpeaks not truly, lies.
Pemb. Cut him to Pieces.

Baft. Keep the Peace, I fay.

Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you Falconbridge.
Baft. Thou wert better gaul the Devil, Salisbury.
If thou but frown on me, or ftir thy Foot,
Or teach thy hafty Spleen to do me Shame,
I'll ftrike thee dead. Put up thy Sword 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 Rheume;
And he long traded in it, makes it seem
Like Rivers of Remorfe and Innocency.
Away with me, all you whofe Souls abhor
Th' uncleanly Savour of a Slaughter-Houfe,
For I am ftifled with the Smell of Sin.

Bigot. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there.
Pernb. There tell the King he may enquire us out. [Ex. Lords.
Baft. Here's a good World; knew you of this fair Work?
Beyond the infinite and boundle f. Reach of Mercy,

If thou didst this Deed of Death, thou art damn'd, Hubert. Hub. Do but hear me, Sir.

Baft. Ha? I'll tell thee what,

Thou'rt damn'd as black, may 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.

E 4

Hub.

Hub. Upon my Soul.

Baft. If thou didst but confent

To this moft cruel A&, do but despair,
And if thou want'ft a Cord, the smallest Thread
That ever Spider twifted from her Womb

Will ferve to ftrangle thee: A Rufh will be a Beam
To hang thee on: Or would'st thou drown thy felf,
Put but a little Water in a Spoon,

And it shall be as all the Ocean,
Enough to ftifle fuch a Villain up.
I do fufpect thee very grievously.

Hub. If I in A&, Confent, or Sin of Thought,
Be guilty of the ftealing that fweet Breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous Clay,
Let Hell want Pains enough to torture me.
I left him well.

Baft. Go, bear him in thine Arms.

I am amaz'd methinks, and lofe my Way
Among the Thorns, and Dangers of this World.
How eafie doft thou take all England up,
From forth this Morfel of dead Royalty?
The Life, the Right, and Truth of ali this Realm
Is fled to Heav'n, and England now is left
To tug and fcamole, and to part by th' Teeth
The unowed Intereft of p oud fwelling State:
Now for the base-pickt Bone of Majefty,
Doth dogged War briftie his angry Creft,
And fnarleth in the gentle Eyes of Peace:
Now Powers from home, and D fcontents at home
Meet in one Line; and vaft Confufion waits,
As doth a Raven on a fick-fallen Beaft,
The imminent Decay of wrefted Pomp.
Now happy he, whofe Cloak and Center can
Hold out this Tempeft. Bear away that Child,
And follow me with fpeed; I'll to the King:
A thousand Bufineffes are brief at Hand,
And Heav'n it felf doth frown upon the Land.

[Exeunt.

ACT

ACT V. SCENE I.

Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants.
'HUS I have yielded up into your Hand
The Circle of my Glory.

X. John. T

Pand. Take again

From this my Hand, as holding of the Pope,
Your Soveraign Greatness and Authority.

K. John. Now keep your holy Word, go meet the French,
And from his Holinefs ufe all your Power
To ftop their Marches 'fore we are enflam'd.
Our discontented Counties do revolt;
Our People quarrel with Obedience,
Swearing Allegiance, and the love of Soul
To ftranger-Blood, to foreign Royalty;
This Inundation of diftemper'd Humour,
Refts by you only to be qualify'd.
Then paufe not; for the prefent Time's fo fick,
That prefent Med'cine must be miniftred,

Or Overthrow incurably infues.

Pand. It was my Breath that blew this Tempest up, Upon your stubborn Ufage of the Pope:

But fince you are a gentle Convertite,

My Tongue fhall hufh again this Storm of War,
And make fair Weather in your bluftring Land.
On this Afcenfion-Day, remember well,
Upon your Oath of Service to the Pope,
Go I to make the French lay down their Arms.

[Exit.

K. John. Is this Afcenfion-Day? Did not the Prophet

Say, that before Afcenfion-Day at Noon,

My Crown I fhould give off? even fo I have:
I did suppose it should be on Conftraint,

But, Heav'n be thank'd, it is but voluntary.

Enter Baftard.

Baft. All Kent hath yielded, nothing there holds out But Dover-Caftle: London hath receiv'd,

Like a kind Hoft, the Dauphin and his Powers.

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