10. C

10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers._ [_Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets._] SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These I know. Who’s that that bears the sceptre? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquess Dorset, And that the Earl of Surrey with the rod. SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk. FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis the same: High Steward. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes. SECOND GENTLEMAN. [_Sees the Queen_.] Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel. Our King has all the Indies in his arms, And more, and richer, when he strains that lady. I cannot blame his conscience. FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the Cinque Ports. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy, and so are all are near her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is, and all the rest are countesses. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed. FIRST GENTLEMAN. And sometimes falling ones. SECOND GENTLEMAN. No more of that. [_Exit the last of the procession._] Enter a third Gentleman. God save you, sir. Where have you been broiling? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i’ th’ Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedged in more. I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony? THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us. THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepared place in the choir, fell off A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To rest a while, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man, which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks, Doublets, I think, flew up, and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living Could say “This is my wife” there, all were woven So strangely in one piece. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what followed? THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneeled and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly; Then rose again and bowed her to the people, When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen, As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which performed, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung _Te Deum_. So she parted, And with the same full state paced back again To York Place, where the feast is held. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it “York Place”, that’s past; For since the Cardinal fell, that title’s lost. ’Tis now the King’s, and called “Whitehall”. THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it, But ’tis so lately altered that the old name Is fresh about me. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester, Newly preferred from the King’s secretary; The other, London. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop’s, The virtuous Cranmer. THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that. However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th’ King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made him Master o’ th’ Jewel House, And one already of the Privy Council. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, Which is to th’ court, and there ye shall be my guests, Something I can command. As I walk thither, I’ll tell ye more. BOTH. You may command us, sir. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Kimbolton. Enter Katherine Dowager, sick, led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman. GRIFFITH. How does your Grace? QUEEN KATHERINE. O Griffith, sick to death. My legs like loaden branches bow to th’ earth, Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair. [_She sits._] So. Now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledst me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead? GRIFFITH. Yes, madam, but I think your Grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to’t. QUEEN KATHERINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died. If well, he stepped before me happily For my example. GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam. For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly and grew so ill He could not sit his mule. QUEEN KATHERINE. Alas, poor man! GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodged in the abbey, where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably received him; To whom he gave these words: “O father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye. Give him a little earth for charity.” So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, About the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he rest. His faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that by suggestion Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair-play. His own opinion was his law. I’ th’ presence He would say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example. GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your Highness To hear me speak his good now? QUEEN KATHERINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were malicious else. GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely. Ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford, one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heaped happiness upon him, For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. QUEEN KATHERINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! Patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to. [_Sad and solemn music._] GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down quiet, For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience. _The vision._ Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six Personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces, branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order. At which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing, vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues. QUEEN KATHERINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone, And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here. QUEEN KATHERINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter since I slept? GRIFFITH. None, madam. QUEEN KATHERINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? They promised me eternal happiness And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly. GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy. QUEEN KATHERINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me. [_Music ceases._] PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is altered on the sudden? How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold? Mark her eyes. GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray. PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. An’t like your Grace— QUEEN KATHERINE. You are a saucy fellow. Deserve we no more reverence? GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel. MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness’ pardon. My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman sent from the King to see you. QUEEN KATHERINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith. But this fellow Let me ne’er see again. [_Exit Messenger._] Enter Lord Caputius. If my sight fail not, You should be lord ambassador from the Emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Caputius. CAPUTIUS. Madam, the same. Your servant. QUEEN KATHERINE. O my lord, The times and titles now are altered strangely With me since first you knew me. But I pray you, What is your pleasure with me? CAPUTIUS. Noble lady, First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, The King’s request that I would visit you, Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely commendations, And heartily entreats you take good comfort. QUEEN KATHERINE. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late; ’Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic given in time had cured me, But now I am past all comforts here but prayers. How does his Highness? CAPUTIUS. Madam, in good health. QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he ever do, and ever flourish, When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banished the kingdom. Patience, is that letter I caused you write yet sent away? PATIENCE. No, madam. [_Giving it to Katherine._] QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King. CAPUTIUS. Most willing, madam. QUEEN KATHERINE. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter— The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!— Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding— She is young and of a noble modest nature; I hope she will deserve well—and a little To love her for her mother’s sake that loved him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is that his noble Grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long Have followed both my fortunes faithfully; Of which there is not one, I dare avow— And now I should not lie—but will deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband. Let him be a noble; And sure those men are happy that shall have ’em. The last is for my men—they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw ’em from me— That they may have their wages duly paid ’em, And something over to remember me by. If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents, and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the King To do me this last right. CAPUTIUS. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man! QUEEN KATHERINE. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his Highness. Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I blessed him, For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet. I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be used with honour. Strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, Then lay me forth. Although unqueened, yet like A queen and daughter to a king inter me. I can no more. [_Exeunt leading Katherine._] ACT V SCENE I. A gallery in the palace. Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell. GARDINER. It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not? PAGE. It hath struck. GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late? LOVELL. Came you from the King, my lord? GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk. LOVELL. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave. GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the matter? It seems you are in haste. An if there be No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk, As they say spirits do, at midnight have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks despatch by day. LOVELL. My lord, I love you, And durst commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this work. The Queen’s in labour— They say in great extremity, and feared She’ll with the labour end. GARDINER. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubbed up now. LOVELL. Methinks I could Cry the amen, and yet my conscience says She’s a good creature and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes. GARDINER. But, sir, sir, Hear me, Sir Thomas. You’re a gentleman Of mine own way. I know you wise, religious; And let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, ’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she Sleep in their graves. LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remarked i’ th’ kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master O’ th’ Rolls, and the King’s secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and trade of more preferments, With which the time will load him. Th’ Archbishop Is the King’s hand and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare, and I myself have ventured To speak my mind of him. And indeed this day, Sir—I may tell it you, I think—I have Incensed the lords o’ th’ Council, that he is— For so I know he is, they know he is— A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land; with which they, moved, Have broken with the King, who hath so far Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded Tomorrow morning to the Council board He be convented. He’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long. Good night, Sir Thomas. LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord. I rest your servant. [_Exeunt Gardiner and Page._] Enter King and Suffolk. KING. Charles, I will play no more tonight. My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me. SUFFOLK. Sir, I did never win of you before. KING. But little, Charles, Nor shall not, when my fancy’s on my play. Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news? LOVELL. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message, who returned her thanks In the great’st humbleness, and desired your Highness Most heartily to pray for her. KING. What sayst thou, ha? To pray for her? What, is she crying out? LOVELL. So said her woman, and that her suff’rance made Almost each pang a death. KING. Alas, good lady! SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your Highness with an heir! KING. ’Tis midnight, Charles. Prithee, to bed, and in thy prayers remember Th’ estate of my poor Queen. Leave me alone, For I must think of that which company Will not be friendly to. SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness A quiet night, and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers. KING. Charles, good night. [_Exit Suffolk._] Enter Sir Anthony Denny. Well, sir, what follows? DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop, As you commanded me. KING. Ha! Canterbury? DENNY. Ay, my good lord. KING. ’Tis true. Where is he, Denny? DENNY. He attends your Highness’ pleasure. KING. Bring him to us. [_Exit Denny._] LOVELL. [_Aside_.] This is about that which the Bishop spake. I am happily come hither. Enter Cranmer and Denny. KING. Avoid the gallery. [_Lovell seems to stay_.] Ha! I have said. Be gone. What! [_Exeunt Lovell and Denny._] CRANMER. [_Aside_.] I am fearful. Wherefore frowns he thus? ’Tis his aspect of terror. All’s not well. KING. How now, my lord? You do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you. CRANMER. [_Kneeling_.] It is my duty T’ attend your Highness’ pleasure. KING. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together. I have news to tell you. Come, come, give me your hand. Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows. I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous—I do say, my lord, Grievous—complaints of you, which, being considered, Have moved us and our Council that you shall This morning come before us, where I know, You cannot with such freedom purge yourself But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you and be well contented To make your house our Tower. You a brother of us, It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you. CRANMER. [_Kneeling_.] I humbly thank your Highness, And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed, where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder. For I know There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man. KING. Stand up, good Canterbury! Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand. Stand up. Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my halidom, What manner of man are you? My lord, I looked You would have given me your petition that I should have ta’en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers and to have heard you Without endurance, further. CRANMER. Most dread liege, The good I stand on is my truth and honesty. If they shall fail, I with mine enemies Will triumph o’er my person, which I weigh not, Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me. KING. Know you not How your state stands i’ th’ world, with the whole world? Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices Must bear the same proportion, and not ever The justice and the truth o’ th’ question carries The due o’ th’ verdict with it. At what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you? Such things have been done. You are potently opposed, and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean in perjured witness, than your master, Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to. You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction. CRANMER. God and your Majesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me. KING. Be of good cheer. They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you, and this morning see You do appear before them. If they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency Th’ occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us There make before them. Look, the good man weeps! He’s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest mother, I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul None better in my kingdom.—Get you gone, And do as I have bid you. [_Exit Cranmer._] He has strangled His language in his tears. LOVELL. [_Within_.] Come back! What mean you? Enter Old Lady; Lovell follows. OLD LADY. I’ll not come back. The tidings that I bring Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels Fly o’er thy royal head and shade thy person Under their blessed wings! KING. Now by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the Queen delivered? Say “Ay, and of a boy”. OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege, And of a lovely boy. The God of heaven Both now and ever bless her! ’Tis a girl Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your Queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger. ’Tis as like you As cherry is to cherry. KING. Lovell. LOVELL. Sir? KING. Give her an hundred marks. I’ll to the Queen. [_Exit King._] OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I’ll ha’ more. An ordinary groom is for such payment. I will have more or scold it out of him. Said I for this the girl was like to him? I’ll have more, or else unsay’t. And now, While ’tis hot, I’ll put it to the issue. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Lobby before the council-chamber. Enter Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. CRANMER. I hope I am not too late, and yet the gentleman That was sent to me from the Council prayed me To make great haste. All fast? What means this? Ho! Who waits there? Enter Keeper. Sure you know me? KEEPER. Yes, my lord, But yet I cannot help you. CRANMER. Why? KEEPER. Your Grace must wait till you be called for. Enter Doctor Butts. CRANMER. So. BUTTS. [_Aside_.] This is a piece of malice. I am glad I came this way so happily. The King Shall understand it presently. [_Exit._] CRANMER. [_Aside_.] ’Tis Butts, The King’s physician. As he passed along, How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace. For certain, This is of purpose laid by some that hate me— God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice— To quench mine honour. They would shame to make me Wait else at door, a fellow councillor, ’Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures Must be fulfilled, and I attend with patience. Enter the King and Butts at a window above. BUTTS. I’ll show your Grace the strangest sight. KING. What’s that, Butts? BUTTS. I think your Highness saw this many a day. KING. Body o’ me, where is it? BUTTS. There, my lord: The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury, Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants, Pages, and footboys. KING. Ha! ’Tis he, indeed. Is this the honour they do one another? ’Tis well there’s one above ’em yet. I had thought They had parted so much honesty among ’em— At least good manners—as not thus to suffer A man of his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts, there’s knavery! Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close. We shall hear more anon. [_Exeunt._] A council table brought in with chairs and stools and placed under the state. Enter Lord Chancellor, places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand, a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury’s seat. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gardiner seat themselves in order on each side; Cromwell at lower end, as secretary. CHANCELLOR. Speak to the business, master secretary. Why are we met in council? CROMWELL. Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury. GARDINER. Has he had knowledge of it? CROMWELL. Yes. NORFOLK. Who waits there? KEEPER. Without, my noble lords? GARDINER. Yes. KEEPER. My lord Archbishop, And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. CHANCELLOR. Let him come in. KEEPER. Your Grace may enter now. Cranmer approaches the council table. CHANCELLOR. My good lord Archbishop, I’m very sorry To sit here at this present and behold That chair stand empty. But we all are men, In our own natures frail, and capable Of our flesh—few are angels—out of which frailty And want of wisdom, you that best should teach us, Have misdemeaned yourself, and not a little, Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains’— For so we are informed—with new opinions, Divers and dangerous, which are heresies And, not reformed, may prove pernicious. GARDINER. Which reformation must be sudden too, My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses Pace ’em not in their hands to make ’em gentle, But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur ’em Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man’s honour, this contagious sickness, Farewell, all physic. And what follows then? Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state, as of late days our neighbours, The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in our memories. CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress Both of my life and office, I have laboured, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the end Was ever to do well. Nor is there living— I speak it with a single heart, my lords— A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace than I do. Pray heaven the King may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face And freely urge against me. SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord, That cannot be. You are a councillor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you. GARDINER. My lord, because we have business of more moment, We will be short with you. ’Tis his Highness’ pleasure And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower, Where, being but a private man again, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly— More than, I fear, you are provided for. CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you. You are always my good friend. If your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are so merciful. I see your end: ’Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition. Win straying souls with modesty again; Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest. GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary, That’s the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little, By your good favour, too sharp. Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been. ’Tis a cruelty To load a falling man. GARDINER. Good master secretary, I cry your honour mercy: you may worst Of all this table say so. CROMWELL. Why, my lord? GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect? Ye are not sound. CROMWELL. Not sound? GARDINER. Not sound, I say. CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest! Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears. GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language. CROMWELL. Do. Remember your bold life too. CHANCELLOR. This is too much. Forbear, for shame, my lords. GARDINER. I have done. CROMWELL. And I. CHANCELLOR. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be conveyed to th’ Tower a prisoner, There to remain till the King’s further pleasure Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords? ALL. We are. CRANMER. Is there no other way of mercy But I must needs to th’ Tower, my lords? GARDINER. What other Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome. Let some o’ th’ guard be ready there. Enter the guard. CRANMER. For me? Must I go like a traitor thither? GARDINER. Receive him, And see him safe i’ th’ Tower. CRANMER. Stay, good my lords, I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords. By virtue of that ring, I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men and give it To a most noble judge, the King my master. CHAMBERLAIN. This is the King’s ring. SURREY. ’Tis no counterfeit. SUFFOLK. ’Tis the right ring, by heaven! I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, ’Twould fall upon ourselves. NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords, The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vexed? CHAMBERLAIN. ’Tis now too certain. How much more is his life in value with him? Would I were fairly out on’t! CROMWELL. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye! Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat. GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince, Not only good and wise, but most religious; One that, in all obedience, makes the Church The chief aim of his honour and, to strengthen That holy duty out of dear respect, His royal self in judgement comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender. KING. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To hear such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin and bare to hide offences. To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe’er thou tak’st me for, I’m sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [_To Cranmer_.] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee. By all that’s holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not. SURREY. May it please your Grace— KING. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my Council, but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man—few of you deserve that title— This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber door? And one as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a councillor to try him, Not as a groom. There’s some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean, Which ye shall never have while I live. CHANCELLOR. Thus far, My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed Concerning his imprisonment was rather, If there be faith in men, meant for his trial And fair purgation to the world than malice, I’m sure, in me. KING. Well, well, my lords, respect him. Take him, and use him well; he’s worthy of it. I will say thus much for him: if a prince May be beholding to a subject, I Am, for his love and service, so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him. Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury, I have a suit which you must not deny me: That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism. You must be godfather and answer for her. CRANMER. The greatest monarch now alive may glory In such an honour. How may I deserve it, That am a poor and humble subject to you? KING. Come, come, my lord, you’d spare your spoons. You shall have two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk and Lady Marquess Dorset. Will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man. GARDINER. With a true heart And brother-love I do it. CRANMER. And let heaven Witness how dear I hold this confirmation. KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. The common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus: “Do my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.” Come, lords, we trifle time away. I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one, lords, one remain. So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The palace yard. Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. PORTER. You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the court for Parish Garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. ONE. [_Within_.] Good master porter, I belong to th’ larder. PORTER. Belong to th’ gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones. These are but switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? PORTER’S MAN. Pray, sir, be patient. ’Tis as much impossible— Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons— To scatter ’em as ’tis to make ’em sleep On May-day morning, which will never be. We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ’em. PORTER. How got they in, and be hanged? PORTER’S MAN. Alas, I know not. How gets the tide in? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot— You see the poor remainder—could distribute, I made no spare, sir. PORTER. You did nothing, sir. PORTER’S MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow ’em down before me; but if I spared any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again— And that I would not for a cow, God save her! ONE. [_Within_.] Do you hear, master porter? PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.— Keep the door close, sirrah. PORTER’S MAN. What would you have me do? PORTER. What should you do, but knock ’em down by th’ dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. PORTER’S MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door—he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose. All that stand about him are under the line; they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me. He stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once and hit that woman, who cried out “Clubs!” when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th’ broomstaff to me; I defied ’em still, when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles that I was fain to draw mine honour in and let ’em win the work. The devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely. PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples, that no audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of ’em in _Limbo Patrum_, and there they are like to dance these three days, besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter Lord Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too. From all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves? You’ve made a fine hand, fellows! There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these Your faithful friends o’ th’ suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening. PORTER. An’t please your honour, We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a-pieces, we have done. An army cannot rule ’em. CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, If the King blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all By th’ heels, and suddenly, and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. You’re lazy knaves, And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound! They’re come already from the christening. Go break among the press, and find a way out To let the troops pass fairly, or I’ll find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. PORTER. Make way there for the Princess! PORTER’S MAN. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache. PORTER. You i’ th’ camlet, get up o’ th’ rail! I’ll peck you o’er the pales else. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The palace. Enter Trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his marshal’s staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great standing bowls for the christening gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks. GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth. Flourish. Enter King and Guard. CRANMER. [_Kneeling_.] And to your royal Grace and the good Queen, My noble partners and myself thus pray All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy May hourly fall upon ye! KING. Thank you, good lord Archbishop. What is her name? CRANMER. Elizabeth. KING. Stand up, lord. [_The King kisses the child._] With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee, Into whose hand I give thy life. CRANMER. Amen. KING. My noble gossips, you’ve have been too prodigal. I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady, When she has so much English. CRANMER. Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they’ll find ’em truth. This royal infant—heaven still move about her!— Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be— But few now living can behold that goodness— A pattern to all princes living with her And all that shall succeed. Saba was never More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her; Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her. She shall be loved and feared. Her own shall bless her; Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her. In her days every man shall eat in safety Under his own vine what he plants, and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. God shall be truly known, and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new create another heir As great in admiration as herself, So shall she leave her blessedness to one, When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness, Who from the sacred ashes of her honour Shall star-like rise as great in fame as she was And so stand fixed. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him. Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and make new nations. He shall flourish, And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches To all the plains about him. Our children’s children Shall see this and bless heaven. KING. Thou speakest wonders. CRANMER. She shall be to the happiness of England An aged princess; many days shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to crown it. Would I had known no more! But she must die, She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin, A most unspotted lily, shall she pass to the ground, And all the world shall mourn her. KING. O lord Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man. Never before This happy child did I get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleased me That when I am in heaven I shall desire To see what this child does and praise my Maker. I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, And you, good brethren, I am much beholding. I have received much honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords. Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye; She will be sick else. This day, no man think ’Has business at his house, for all shall stay. This little one shall make it holiday. [_Exeunt._] Epilogue Enter Epilogue. EPILOGUE. ’Tis ten to one this play can never please All that are here. Some come to take their ease, And sleep an act or two—but those, we fear, We’ve frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear, They’ll say ’tis naught—others, to hear the city Abused extremely and to cry “That’s witty!”— Which we have not done neither—that I fear All the expected good we’re like to hear For this play at this time is only in The merciful construction of good women, For such a one we showed ’em. If they smile And say ’twill do, I know within a while All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap. [_Exit._] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN Contents ACT I Scene I. Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace. ACT II Scene I. France. Before the walls of Angiers. ACT III Scene I. France. The French King’s tent. Scene II. The same. Plains near Angiers Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. The French King’s tent. ACT IV Scene I. Northampton. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace. Scene III. The same. Before the castle. ACT V Scene I. Northampton. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. Near Saint Edmundsbury. The French Camp. Scene III. The same. The Field of Battle. Scene IV. The same. Another part of the same. Scene V. The same. The French camp. Scene VI. An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey. Scene VII. The orchard of Swinstead Abbey. Dramatis Personæ KING JOHN. PRINCE HENRY, son to King John; afterwards KING HENRY III. ARTHUR, Duke of Brittany, nephew to King John. EARL OF PEMBROKE. EARL OF ESSEX. EARL OF SALISBURY. ROBERT BIGOT, Earl of Norfolk. HUBERT DE BURGH, Chamberlain to the King. ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge. The BASTARD, PHILIP FAULCONBRIDGE, his half-brother, bastard son to King Richard I. JAMES GURNEY, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. PETER OF POMFRET, a prophet KING PHILIP II., King of France. LOUIS, the Dauphin; son to King Philip II. DUKE OF AUSTRIA, also called Limoges. MELUN, a French lord. CHATILLION, Ambassador from France to King John. CARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope’s legate. QUEEN ELEANOR, Mother to King John and Widow of King Henry II. CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur. BLANCHE OF SPAIN, Daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile, and Niece to King John. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, Mother to the Bastard and Robert Faulconbridge. Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Executioners, Messengers and other Attendants. SCENE: Sometimes in England, and sometimes in France. ACT I SCENE I. Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace. Enter King John, Queen Eleanor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury and others with Chatillion. KING JOHN. Now, say, Chatillion, what would France with us? CHATILLION. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrow’d majesty, of England here. QUEEN ELEANOR. A strange beginning: “borrow’d majesty”! KING JOHN. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy. CHATILLION. Philip of France, in right and true behalf Of thy deceased brother Geoffrey’s son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poitiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur’s hand, Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. KING JOHN. What follows if we disallow of this? CHATILLION. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. KING JOHN. Here have we war for war and blood for blood, Controlment for controlment: so answer France. CHATILLION. Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth, The farthest limit of my embassy. KING JOHN. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace. Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France, For ere thou canst report, I will be there, The thunder of my cannon shall be heard. So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath And sullen presage of your own decay.— An honourable conduct let him have. Pembroke, look to ’t. Farewell, Chatillion. [_Exeunt Chatillion and Pembroke._] QUEEN ELEANOR. What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world Upon the right and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. KING JOHN. Our strong possession and our right for us. QUEEN ELEANOR. Your strong possession much more than your right, Or else it must go wrong with you and me: So much my conscience whispers in your ear, Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear. Enter a Sheriff, who whispers to Essex. ESSEX. My liege, here is the strangest controversy, Come from the country to be judg’d by you, That e’er I heard. Shall I produce the men? KING JOHN. Let them approach. [_Exit Sheriff._] Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition’s charge. Enter Robert Faulconbridge and Philip, his Bastard brother. What men are you? BASTARD. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, A soldier by the honour-giving hand Of Cœur-de-lion knighted in the field. KING JOHN. What art thou? ROBERT. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge. KING JOHN. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems. BASTARD. Most certain of one mother, mighty king; That is well known; and, as I think, one father. But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother. Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may. QUEEN ELEANOR. Out on thee, rude man! Thou dost shame thy mother And wound her honour with this diffidence. BASTARD. I, madam? No, I have no reason for it; That is my brother’s plea, and none of mine; The which if he can prove, he pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year. Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land! KING JOHN. A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance? BASTARD. I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander’d me with bastardy. But whe’er I be as true begot or no, That still I lay upon my mother’s head; But that I am as well begot, my liege— Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!— Compare our faces and be judge yourself. If old Sir Robert did beget us both And were our father, and this son like him, O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee! KING JOHN. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here! QUEEN ELEANOR. He hath a trick of Cœur-de-lion’s face; The accent of his tongue affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son In the large composition of this man? KING JOHN. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother’s land? BASTARD. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that face would he have all my land: A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year! ROBERT. My gracious liege, when that my father liv’d, Your brother did employ my father much— BASTARD. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land. Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother. ROBERT. And once dispatch’d him in an embassy To Germany, there with the emperor To treat of high affairs touching that time. Th’ advantage of his absence took the King And in the meantime sojourn’d at my father’s; Where how he did prevail I shame to speak; But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores Between my father and my mother lay, As I have heard my father speak himself, When this same lusty gentleman was got. Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d His lands to me, and took it, on his death That this my mother’s son was none of his; And if he were, he came into the world Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, My father’s land, as was my father’s will. KING JOHN. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate; Your father’s wife did after wedlock bear him, And if she did play false, the fault was hers; Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother, Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, Had of your father claim’d this son for his? In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world; In sooth, he might; then, if he were my brother’s, My brother might not claim him; nor your father, Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes; My mother’s son did get your father’s heir; Your father’s heir must have your father’s land. ROBERT. Shall then my father’s will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his? BASTARD. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me, as I think. QUEEN ELEANOR. Whether hadst thou rather be: a Faulconbridge And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-lion, Lord of thy presence and no land besides? BASTARD. Madam, and if my brother had my shape And I had his, Sir Robert’s his, like him; And if my legs were two such riding-rods, My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, my face so thin That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose Lest men should say “Look where three-farthings goes!” And, to his shape, were heir to all this land, Would I might never stir from off this place, I would give it every foot to have this face. I would not be Sir Nob in any case. QUEEN ELEANOR. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune, Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me? I am a soldier and now bound to France. BASTARD. Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my chance. Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear. Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death. QUEEN ELEANOR. Nay, I would have you go before me thither. BASTARD. Our country manners give our betters way. KING JOHN. What is thy name? BASTARD. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun; Philip, good old Sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son. KING JOHN. From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearest. Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great, Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet. BASTARD. Brother by th’ mother’s side, give me your hand. My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, Sir Robert was away! QUEEN ELEANOR. The very spirit of Plantagenet! I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so. BASTARD. Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though? Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else o’er the hatch. Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, And have is have, however men do catch. Near or far off, well won is still well shot, And I am I, howe’er I was begot. KING JOHN. Go, Faulconbridge; now hast thou thy desire. A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed For France, for France, for it is more than need. BASTARD. Brother, adieu, good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i’ th’ way of honesty. [_Exeunt all but the Bastard._] A foot of honour better than I was, But many a many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. “Good den, Sir Richard!” “God-a-mercy, fellow!” And if his name be George, I’ll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men’s names: ’Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: “My dear sir,” Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin, “I shall beseech you”—that is Question now; And then comes Answer like an absey book: “O sir,” says Answer “at your best command; At your employment; at your service, sir.” “No, sir,” says Question, “I, sweet sir, at yours.” And so, ere Answer knows what Question would, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po, It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself; For he is but a bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation, And so am I, whether I smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth, Which, though I will not practise to deceive, Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. But who comes in such haste in riding-robes? What woman-post is this? Hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her? Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney. O me, ’tis my mother!—How now, good lady? What brings you here to court so hastily? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave, thy brother? Where is he That holds in chase mine honour up and down? BASTARD. My brother Robert, old Sir Robert’s son? Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man? Is it Sir Robert’s son that you seek so? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend boy, Sir Robert’s son. Why scorn’st thou at Sir Robert? He is Sir Robert’s son, and so art thou. BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile? GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip. BASTARD. Philip?—sparrow!—James, There’s toys abroad. Anon I’ll tell thee more. [_Exit Gurney._] Madam, I was not old Sir Robert’s son. Sir Robert might have eat his part in me Upon Good Friday, and ne’er broke his fast. Sir Robert could do well—marry, to confess— Could … get me. Sir Robert could not do it. We know his handiwork. Therefore, good mother, To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour? What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave? BASTARD. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. What! I am dubb’d! I have it on my shoulder. But, mother, I am not Sir Robert’s son. I have disclaim’d Sir Robert and my land; Legitimation, name, and all is gone. Then, good my mother, let me know my father— Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge? BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the devil. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Cœur-de-lion was thy father. By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d To make room for him in my husband’s bed. Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! Thou art the issue of my dear offence, Which was so strongly urg’d, past my defence. BASTARD. Now, by this light, were I to get again, Madam, I would not wish a better father. Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, And so doth yours. Your fault was not your folly. Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force The aweless lion could not wage the fight, Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand. He that perforce robs lions of their hearts May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother, With all my heart I thank thee for my father! Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well When I was got, I’ll send his soul to hell. Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin; And they shall say when Richard me begot, If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin. Who says it was, he lies. I say ’twas not. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. France. Before the walls of Angiers. Enter, on one side, the Archduke of Austria and Forces; on the other, Philip King of France, Louis, Constance, Arthur and Forces. LOUIS. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart And fought the holy wars in Palestine, By this brave duke came early to his grave. And, for amends to his posterity, At our importance hither is he come To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, And to rebuke the usurpation Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither. ARTHUR. God shall forgive you Cœur-de-lion’s death The rather that you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war. I give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained love. Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke. LOUIS. A noble boy. Who would not do thee right? AUSTRIA. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss, As seal to this indenture of my love: That to my home I will no more return, Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, Together with that pale, that white-fac’d shore, Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides And coops from other lands her islanders, Even till that England, hedg’d in with the main, That water-walled bulwark, still secure And confident from foreign purposes, Even till that utmost corner of the west Salute thee for her king; till then, fair boy, Will I not think of home, but follow arms. CONSTANCE. O, take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s thanks, Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength To make a more requital to your love! AUSTRIA. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords In such a just and charitable war. KING PHILIP. Well then, to work; our cannon shall be bent Against the brows of this resisting town. Call for our chiefest men of discipline, To cull the plots of best advantages. We’ll lay before this town our royal bones, Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s blood, But we will make it subject to this boy. CONSTANCE. Stay for an answer to your embassy, Lest unadvis’d you stain your swords with blood. My Lord Chatillion may from England bring That right in peace which here we urge in war, And then we shall repent each drop of blood That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter Chatillion. KING PHILIP. A wonder, lady! Lo, upon thy wish, Our messenger Chatillion is arriv’d. What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; We coldly pause for thee; Chatillion, speak. CHATILLION. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege And stir them up against a mightier task. England, impatient of your just demands, Hath put himself in arms. The adverse winds, Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time To land his legions all as soon as I; His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother-queen, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; With her her niece, the Lady Blanche of Spain; With them a bastard of the King’s deceas’d. And all th’ unsettled humours of the land; Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er Did never float upon the swelling tide To do offence and scathe in Christendom. [_Drums beat within._] The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance. They are at hand, To parley or to fight, therefore prepare. KING PHILIP. How much unlook’d-for is this expedition! AUSTRIA. By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence, For courage mounteth with occasion. Let them be welcome, then; we are prepar’d. Enter King John, Eleanor, Blanche, the Bastard, Pembroke, Lords and Forces. KING JOHN. Peace be to France, if France in peace permit Our just and lineal entrance to our own; If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven, Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that beats his peace to heaven. KING PHILIP. Peace be to England, if that war return From France to England, there to live in peace. England we love; and for that England’s sake With burden of our armour here we sweat. This toil of ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far That thou hast underwrought his lawful king, Cut off the sequence of posterity, Outfaced infant state, and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geoffrey’s face; These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his: This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geoffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. That Geoffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was Geoffrey’s right, And this is Geoffrey’s. In the name of God, How comes it then that thou art call’d a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat, Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest? KING JOHN. From whom hast thou this great commission, France, To draw my answer from thy articles? KING PHILIP. From that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts In any breast of strong authority, To look into the blots and stains of right. That judge hath made me guardian to this boy, Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong And by whose help I mean to chastise it. KING JOHN. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. KING PHILIP. Excuse it is to beat usurping down. QUEEN ELEANOR. Who is it thou dost call usurper, France? CONSTANCE. Let me make answer: thy usurping son. QUEEN ELEANOR. Out, insolent! Thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world! CONSTANCE. My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geoffrey Than thou and John in manners; being as like As rain to water, or devil to his dam. My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think His father never was so true begot: It cannot be, and if thou wert his mother. QUEEN ELEANOR. There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. CONSTANCE. There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee. AUSTRIA. Peace! BASTARD. Hear the crier! AUSTRIA. What the devil art thou? BASTARD. One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An he may catch your hide and you alone. You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard. I’ll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right; Sirrah, look to ’t; i’ faith I will, i’ faith. BLANCHE. O, well did he become that lion’s robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe! BASTARD. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass. But, ass, I’ll take that burden from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. AUSTRIA. What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath? KING PHILIP. Louis, determine what we shall do straight. LOUIS. Women and fools, break off your conference. KING PHILIP. King John, this is the very sum of all: England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, In right of Arthur do I claim of thee. Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms? KING JOHN. My life as soon: I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Brittany, yield thee to my hand; And out of my dear love I’ll give thee more Than e’er the coward hand of France can win. Submit thee, boy. QUEEN ELEANOR. Come to thy grandam, child. CONSTANCE. Do, child, go to it grandam, child. Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig. There’s a good grandam. ARTHUR. Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in my grave. I am not worth this coil that’s made for me. QUEEN ELEANOR. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. CONSTANCE. Now, shame upon you, whe’er she does or no! His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames, Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee. Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib’d To do him justice, and revenge on you. QUEEN ELEANOR. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth! CONSTANCE. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth! Call not me slanderer. Thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties, and rights Of this oppressed boy. This is thy eldest son’s son, Infortunate in nothing but in thee. Thy sins are visited in this poor child; The canon of the law is laid on him, Being but the second generation Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. KING JOHN. Bedlam, have done. CONSTANCE. I have but this to say, That he is not only plagued for her sin, But God hath made her sin and her the plague On this removed issue, plagued for her And with her plague; her sin his injury Her injury the beadle to her sin, All punish’d in the person of this child, And all for her. A plague upon her! QUEEN ELEANOR. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A will that bars the title of thy son. CONSTANCE. Ay, who doubts that? A will, a wicked will; A woman’s will; a cankered grandam’s will! KING PHILIP. Peace, lady! Pause, or be more temperate. It ill beseems this presence to cry aim To these ill-tuned repetitions.— Some trumpet summon hither to the walls These men of Angiers. Let us hear them speak Whose title they admit, Arthur’s or John’s. Trumpet sounds. Enter Citizens upon the walls. CITIZEN. Who is it that hath warn’d us to the walls? KING PHILIP. ’Tis France, for England. KING JOHN. England for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects— KING PHILIP. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects, Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle— KING JOHN. For our advantage; therefore hear us first. These flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march’d to your endamagement. The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls. All preparation for a bloody siege And merciless proceeding by these French Confronts your city’s eyes, your winking gates; And, but for our approach, those sleeping stones, That as a waist doth girdle you about, By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon your peace. But on the sight of us your lawful king, Who painfully with much expedient march Have brought a countercheck before your gates, To save unscratch’d your city’s threatened cheeks, Behold, the French, amaz’d, vouchsafe a parle; And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire, To make a shaking fever in your walls, They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, To make a faithless error in your ears, Which trust accordingly, kind citizens, And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits Forwearied in this action of swift speed, Craves harbourage within your city walls. KING PHILIP. When I have said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vow’d upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son to the elder brother of this man, And king o’er him and all that he enjoys. For this down-trodden equity we tread In warlike march these greens before your town, Being no further enemy to you Than the constraint of hospitable zeal In the relief of this oppressed child Religiously provokes. Be pleased then To pay that duty which you truly owe To him that owes it, namely, this young prince, And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, Save in aspect, hath all offence seal’d up; Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent Against th’ invulnerable clouds of heaven; And with a blessed and unvex’d retire, With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruis’d, We will bear home that lusty blood again Which here we came to spout against your town, And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffer’d offer, ’Tis not the roundure of your old-fac’d walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English, and their discipline Were harbour’d in their rude circumference. Then, tell us, shall your city call us lord In that behalf which we have challeng’d it? Or shall we give the signal to our rage And stalk in blood to our possession? FIRST CITIZEN. In brief, we are the King of England’s subjects. For him, and in his right, we hold this town. KING JOHN. Acknowledge then the King, and let me in. CITIZEN. That can we not; but he that proves the King, To him will we prove loyal. Till that time Have we ramm’d up our gates against the world. KING JOHN. Doth not the crown of England prove the King? And if not that, I bring you witnesses, Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed— BASTARD. Bastards and else. KING JOHN. To verify our title with their lives. KING PHILIP. As many and as well-born bloods as those— BASTARD. Some bastards too. KING PHILIP. Stand in his face to contradict his claim. FIRST CITIZEN. Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the worthiest hold the right from both. KING JOHN. Then God forgive the sin of all those souls That to their everlasting residence, Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet, In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king! KING PHILIP. Amen, Amen!—Mount, chevaliers! To arms! BASTARD. Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e’er since Sits on ’s horseback at mine hostess’ door, Teach us some fence! [_To Austria_.] Sirrah, were I at home, At your den, sirrah, with your lioness, I would set an ox-head to your lion’s hide, And make a monster of you. AUSTRIA. Peace! No more. BASTARD. O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar. KING JOHN. Up higher to the plain; where we’ll set forth In best appointment all our regiments. BASTARD. Speed, then, to take advantage of the field. KING PHILIP. It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to stand. God and our right! [_Exeunt severally._] Here, after excursions, enter a Herald of France with Trumpets, to the gates. FRENCH HERALD. You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, And let young Arthur, Duke of Brittany, in, Who by the hand of France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scatter’d on the bleeding ground. Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth; And victory, with little loss, doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d, To enter conquerors, and to proclaim Arthur of Brittany England’s king and yours. Enter English Herald with Trumpet. ENGLISH HERALD. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and England’s, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day. Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright, Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood; There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of France, Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when we first march’d forth; And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes: Open your gates and give the victors way. FIRST CITIZEN. Heralds, from off our towers, we might behold, From first to last, the onset and retire Of both your armies; whose equality By our best eyes cannot be censured: Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer’d blows; Strength match’d with strength, and power confronted power: Both are alike, and both alike we like. One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even, We hold our town for neither, yet for both. Enter on one side King John, Eleanor, Blanche, the Bastard and Forces; on the other, King Philip, Louis, Austria and Forces. KING JOHN. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away? Say, shall the current of our right run on, Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, Shall leave his native channel, and o’erswell With course disturb’d even thy confining shores, Unless thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean? KING PHILIP. England, thou hast not sav’d one drop of blood In this hot trial, more than we of France; Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, That sways the earth this climate overlooks, Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, We’ll put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms we bear, Or add a royal number to the dead, Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. BASTARD. Ha, majesty! How high thy glory towers When the rich blood of kings is set on fire! O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, In undetermin’d differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry havoc, kings! Back to the stained field, You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits! Then let confusion of one part confirm The other’s peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death! KING JOHN. Whose party do the townsmen yet admit? KING PHILIP. Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your king? FIRST CITIZEN. The King of England, when we know the king. KING PHILIP. Know him in us, that here hold up his right. KING JOHN. In us, that are our own great deputy, And bear possession of our person here, Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you. FIRST CITIZEN. A greater power than we denies all this; And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates: Kings of our fear, until our fears, resolv’d, Be by some certain king purg’d and depos’d. BASTARD. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings, And stand securely on their battlements As in a theatre, whence they gape and point At your industrious scenes and acts of death. Your royal presences be rul’d by me: Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town: By east and west let France and England mount Their battering cannon charged to the mouths, Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d down The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city: I’d play incessantly upon these jades, Even till unfenced desolation Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. That done, dissever your united strengths, And part your mingled colours once again; Turn face to face, and bloody point to point; Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth Out of one side her happy minion, To whom in favour she shall give the day, And kiss him with a glorious victory. How like you this wild counsel, mighty states? Smacks it not something of the policy? KING JOHN. Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads, I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers And lay this Angiers even with the ground; Then after fight who shall be king of it? BASTARD. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town, Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, As we will ours, against these saucy walls; And when that we have dash’d them to the ground, Why then defy each other, and pell-mell, Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell. KING PHILIP. Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? KING JOHN. We from the west will send destruction Into this city’s bosom. AUSTRIA. I from the north. KING PHILIP. Our thunder from the south Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. BASTARD. O prudent discipline! From north to south, Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth: I’ll stir them to it.—Come, away, away! FIRST CITIZEN. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay, And I shall show you peace and fair-fac’d league; Win you this city without stroke or wound; Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds That here come sacrifices for the field: Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. KING JOHN. Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear. FIRST CITIZEN. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanche, Is niece to England. Look upon the years Of Louis the Dauphin and that lovely maid. If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, Where should he find it fairer than in Blanche? If zealous love should go in search of virtue, Where should he find it purer than in Blanche? If love ambitious sought a match of birth, Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanche? Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, Is the young Dauphin every way complete. If not complete of, say he is not she; And she again wants nothing, to name want, If want it be not that she is not he: He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such a she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. O, two such silver currents, when they join Do glorify the banks that bound them in; And two such shores to two such streams made one, Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings, To these two princes, if you marry them. This union shall do more than battery can To our fast-closed gates; for at this match, With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope, And give you entrance. But without this match, The sea enraged is not half so deaf, Lions more confident, mountains and rocks More free from motion; no, not Death himself In mortal fury half so peremptory As we to keep this city. BASTARD. Here’s a stay That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death Out of his rags! Here’s a large mouth indeed, That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas; Talks as familiarly of roaring lions As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! What cannoneer begot this lusty blood? He speaks plain cannon, fire, and smoke, and bounce; He gives the bastinado with his tongue; Our ears are cudgell’d; not a word of his But buffets better than a fist of France. Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad. QUEEN ELEANOR. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match. Give with our niece a dowry large enough, For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie Thy now unsur’d assurance to the crown, That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. I see a yielding in the looks of France; Mark how they whisper. Urge them while their souls Are capable of this ambition, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse, Cool and congeal again to what it was. FIRST CITIZEN. Why answer not the double majesties This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town? KING PHILIP. Speak England first, that hath been forward first To speak unto this city. What say you? KING JOHN. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son, Can in this book of beauty read “I love,” Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen. For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poitiers, And all that we upon this side the sea— Except this city now by us besieg’d— Find liable to our crown and dignity, Shall gild her bridal bed, and make her rich In titles, honours, and promotions, As she in beauty, education, blood, Holds hand with any princess of the world. KING PHILIP. What say’st thou, boy? Look in the lady’s face. LOUIS. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, The shadow of myself form’d in her eye; Which, being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow. I do protest I never lov’d myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. [_Whispers with Blanche._] BASTARD. [_Aside_.] Drawn in the flattering table of her eye! Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow, And quarter’d in her heart! He doth espy Himself love’s traitor. This is pity now, That, hang’d and drawn and quarter’d, there should be In such a love so vile a lout as he. BLANCHE. My uncle’s will in this respect is mine. If he see aught in you that makes him like, That anything he sees, which moves his liking I can with ease translate it to my will; Or if you will, to speak more properly, I will enforce it eas’ly to my love. Further I will not flatter you, my lord, That all I see in you is worthy love, Than this: that nothing do I see in you, Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge, That I can find should merit any hate. KING JOHN. What say these young ones? What say you, my niece? BLANCHE. That she is bound in honour still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. KING JOHN. Speak then, Prince Dauphin. Can you love this lady? LOUIS. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly. KING JOHN. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine, Poitiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, With her to thee; and this addition more, Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.— Philip of France, if thou be pleas’d withal, Command thy son and daughter to join hands. KING PHILIP. It likes us well.—Young princes, close your hands. AUSTRIA. And your lips too; for I am well assur’d That I did so when I was first assur’d. KING PHILIP. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently The rites of marriage shall be solemniz’d. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? I know she is not, for this match made up Her presence would have interrupted much. Where is she and her son? Tell me, who knows. LOUIS. She is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent. KING PHILIP. And, by my faith, this league that we have made Will give her sadness very little cure.— Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came; Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way, To our own vantage. KING JOHN. We will heal up all; For we’ll create young Arthur Duke of Brittany, And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance. Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity. I trust we shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, To this unlook’d-for, unprepared pomp. [_Exeunt all but the Bastard. The Citizens retire from the walls._] BASTARD. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part; And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who having no external thing to lose But the word “maid,” cheats the poor maid of that, That smooth-fac’d gentleman, tickling commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world, The world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent. And this same bias, this commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aid, From a resolv’d and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for because he hath not woo’d me yet. Not that I have the power to clutch my hand When his fair angels would salute my palm; But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee! [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. France. The French King’s tent. Enter Constance, Arthur and Salisbury. CONSTANCE. Gone to be married? Gone to swear a peace? False blood to false blood join’d? Gone to be friends? Shall Louis have Blanche, and Blanche those provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advis’d, tell o’er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but say ’tis so. I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man. Believe me, I do not believe thee, man. I have a king’s oath to the contrary. Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress’d with wrongs, and therefore full of fears, A widow, husbandless, subject to fears, A woman, naturally born to fears, And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce, But they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? Then speak again—not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true. SALISBURY. As true as I believe you think them false That give you cause to prove my saying true. CONSTANCE. O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die, And let belief and life encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting fall and die. Louis marry Blanche? O boy, then where art thou? France friend with England? What becomes of me? Fellow, be gone. I cannot brook thy sight. This news hath made thee a most ugly man. SALISBURY. What other harm have I, good lady, done, But spoke the harm that is by others done? CONSTANCE. Which harm within itself so heinous is, As it makes harmful all that speak of it. ARTHUR. I do beseech you, madam, be content. CONSTANCE. If thou, that bid’st me be content, wert grim, Ugly, and sland’rous to thy mother’s womb, Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks, I would not care, I then would be content, For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great. Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O, She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from thee; She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn? Envenom him with words, or get thee gone, And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to underbear. SALISBURY. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the Kings. CONSTANCE. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee. I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief Let kings assemble; for my grief’s so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up. Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. [_Seats herself on the ground._] Enter King John, King Philip, Louis, Blanche, Eleanor, Bastard, Austria and attendants. KING PHILIP. ’Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day Ever in France shall be kept festival. To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold. The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holy day. CONSTANCE. [_Rising_.] A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserv’d? What hath it done That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury. Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burdens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d. But on this day let seamen fear no wrack; No bargains break that are not this day made; This day, all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change! KING PHILIP. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day. Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty? CONSTANCE. You have beguil’d me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried, Proves valueless. You are forsworn, forsworn. You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with yours. The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur’d kings! A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord ’twixt these perjur’d kings! Hear me, O, hear me! AUSTRIA. Lady Constance, peace! CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to me a war. O Limoges, O Austria, thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune’s champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur’d too, And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp, and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side? Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength? And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion’s hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me! BASTARD. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy life. BASTARD. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. KING JOHN. We like not this. Thou dost forget thyself. KING PHILIP. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope. Enter Pandulph. PANDULPH. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do in his name religiously demand Why thou against the church, our holy mother, So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see. This, in our foresaid holy father’s name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. KING JOHN. What earthy name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, To charge me to an answer, as the pope. Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; But as we under God are supreme head, So, under Him, that great supremacy, Where we do reign, we will alone uphold Without th’ assistance of a mortal hand. So tell the pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp’d authority. KING PHILIP. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this. KING JOHN. Though you and all the kings of Christendom Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, Dreading the curse that money may buy out; And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that sale sells pardon from himself; Though you and all the rest, so grossly led, This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish, Yet I alone, alone do me oppose Against the pope, and count his friends my foes. PANDULPH. Then, by the lawful power that I have, Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate; And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life. CONSTANCE. O, lawful let it be That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father Cardinal, cry thou amen To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power to curse him right. PANDULPH. There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse. CONSTANCE. And for mine too. When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong. Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How can the law forbid my tongue to curse? PANDULPH. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, And raise the power of France upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome. QUEEN ELEANOR. Look’st thou pale, France? Do not let go thy hand. CONSTANCE Look to that, devil, lest that France repent And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul. AUSTRIA. King Philip, listen to the cardinal. BASTARD. And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because— BASTARD. Your breeches best may carry them. KING JOHN. Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal? CONSTANCE. What should he say, but as the cardinal? LOUIS. Bethink you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, Or the light loss of England for a friend. Forgo the easier. BLANCHE. That’s the curse of Rome. CONSTANCE. O Louis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here In likeness of a new untrimmed bride. BLANCHE. The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith, But from her need. CONSTANCE. O, if thou grant my need, Which only lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle: That faith would live again by death of need. O then tread down my need, and faith mounts up; Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down! KING JOHN. The King is mov’d, and answers not to this. CONSTANCE. O, be remov’d from him, and answer well! AUSTRIA. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. BASTARD. Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout. KING PHILIP. I am perplex’d, and know not what to say. PANDULPH. What canst thou say but will perplex thee more, If thou stand excommunicate and curs’d? KING PHILIP. Good reverend father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled and link’d together With all religious strength of sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; And even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our hands To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and overstain’d With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings. And shall these hands, so lately purg’d of blood, So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet? Play fast and loose with faith? So jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from palm, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose Some gentle order, and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure and continue friends. PANDULPH. All form is formless, order orderless, Save what is opposite to England’s love. Therefore to arms! Be champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse, A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold. KING PHILIP. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith. PANDULPH. So mak’st thou faith an enemy to faith, And like a civil war sett’st oath to oath, Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d, That is, to be the champion of our church. What since thou swor’st is sworn against thyself And may not be performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss when it is truly done; And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth is then most done not doing it. The better act of purposes mistook Is to mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d. It is religion that doth make vows kept, But thou hast sworn against religion By what thou swear’st against the thing thou swear’st, And mak’st an oath the surety for thy truth Against an oath. The truth thou art unsure To swear, swears only not to be forsworn, Else what a mockery should it be to swear? But thou dost swear only to be forsworn, And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear. Therefore thy latter vows against thy first Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions, Upon which better part our prayers come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know The peril of our curses light on thee, So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, But in despair die under the black weight. AUSTRIA. Rebellion, flat rebellion! BASTARD. Will’t not be? Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine? LOUIS. Father, to arms! BLANCHE. Upon thy wedding-day? Against the blood that thou hast married? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? O husband, hear me! Ay, alack, how new Is “husband” in my mouth! Even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle. CONSTANCE. O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom Forethought by heaven! BLANCHE. Now shall I see thy love. What motive may Be stronger with thee than the name of wife? CONSTANCE. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, His honour. O, thine honour, Louis, thine honour! LOUIS. I muse your majesty doth seem so cold, When such profound respects do pull you on. PANDULPH. I will denounce a curse upon his head. KING PHILIP. Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee. CONSTANCE. O fair return of banish’d majesty! QUEEN ELEANOR. O foul revolt of French inconstancy! KING JOHN. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour. BASTARD. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, Is it as he will? Well, then, France shall rue. BLANCHE. The sun’s o’ercast with blood. Fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both, each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive. Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose; Assured loss before the match be play’d. LOUIS. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. BLANCHE. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies. KING JOHN. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. [_Exit Bastard._] France, I am burn’d up with inflaming wrath; A rage whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu’d blood, of France. KING PHILIP. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. KING JOHN. No more than he that threats. To arms let’s hie! [_Exeunt severally._] SCENE II. The same. Plains near Angiers Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Bastard with Austria’s head. BASTARD. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot; Some airy devil hovers in the sky And pours down mischief. Austria’s head lie there, While Philip breathes. Enter King John, Arthur and Hubert. KING JOHN. Hubert, keep this boy.—Philip, make up. My mother is assailed in our tent, And ta’en, I fear. BASTARD. My lord, I rescu’d her; Her highness is in safety, fear you not. But on, my liege; for very little pains Will bring this labour to an happy end. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. Alarums, Excursions, Retreat. Enter King John, Eleanor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert and Lords. KING JOHN. [_To Eleanor_] So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind So strongly guarded. [_To Arthur_] Cousin, look not sad. Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will As dear be to thee as thy father was. ARTHUR. O, this will make my mother die with grief! KING JOHN. [_To the Bastard_] Cousin, away for England! Haste before, And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags Of hoarding abbots; imprison’d angels Set at liberty. The fat ribs of peace Must by the hungry now be fed upon. Use our commission in his utmost force. BASTARD. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back When gold and silver becks me to come on. I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray, If ever I remember to be holy, For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand. QUEEN ELEANOR. Farewell, gentle cousin. KING JOHN. Coz, farewell. [_Exit Bastard._] QUEEN ELEANOR. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. [_She takes Arthur aside._] KING 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. HUBERT. I am much bounden to your majesty. KING JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne’er so slow, Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 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 on into the drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, 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 brooded 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. HUBERT. So well that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I would do it. KING 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. HUBERT. And I’ll keep him so That he shall not offend your majesty. KING JOHN. Death. HUBERT. My lord? KING JOHN. A grave. HUBERT. He shall not live. KING JOHN. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee. Well, I’ll not say what I intend for thee. Remember. Madam, fare you well. I’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty. QUEEN ELEANOR. My blessing go with thee! KING JOHN. For England, cousin, go. Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same. The French King’s tent. Enter King Philip, Louis, Pandulph and Attendants. KING PHILIP. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood A whole armado of convicted sail Is scattered and disjoin’d from fellowship. PANDULPH. Courage and comfort! All shall yet go well. KING PHILIP. 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? LOUIS. What he hath won, that hath he fortified. So hot a speed with such advice dispos’d, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, Doth want example. Who hath read or heard Of any kindred action like to this? KING PHILIP. Well could I bear that England had this praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Constance. Look who comes here! A grave unto a soul; Holding th’ eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. I prithee, lady, go away with me. CONSTANCE. Lo, now, now see the issue of your peace! KING PHILIP. Patience, good lady! Comfort, gentle Constance! CONSTANCE. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress, Death, death, O amiable, lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil’st, And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, O, come to me! KING PHILIP. O fair affliction, peace! CONSTANCE. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry. O, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world; And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation. PANDULPH. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. CONSTANCE. Thou art not holy to belie me so. I am not mad. This hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geoffrey’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. KING PHILIP. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by a 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. CONSTANCE. To England, if you will. KING PHILIP. Bind up your hairs. CONSTANCE. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will 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, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, And so he’ll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him. Therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. PANDULPH. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. CONSTANCE. He talks to me that never had a son. KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your child. CONSTANCE. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs 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 do. I will not keep this form upon my head, [_She unbinds her hair._] 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._] KING PHILIP. I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her. [_Exit._] LOUIS. 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. PANDULPH. 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 show evil. What have you lost by losing of this day? LOUIS. All days of glory, joy, and happiness. PANDULPH. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threat’ning 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? LOUIS. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. PANDULPH. 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 seiz’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 boisterously maintain’d as gain’d. And he that stands upon a slipp’ry place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up. That John may stand, then, Arthur needs must fall. So be it, for it cannot be but so. LOUIS. But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall? PANDULPH. You, in the right of Lady Blanche your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. LOUIS. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. PANDULPH. 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. LOUIS. Maybe he will not touch young Arthur’s life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment. PANDULPH. 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. ’Tis wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence. For England go. I will whet on the King. LOUIS. Strong reasons makes strong actions. Let us go. If you say ay, the King will not say no. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Northampton. A Room in the Castle. Enter Hubert and two Executioners. HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair. Be heedful. Hence, and watch. FIRST EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to’t. [_Exeunt Executioners._] Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur. ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert. HUBERT. Good morrow, little prince. ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. HUBERT. Indeed, I have been merrier. ARTHUR. 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. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son? No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. HUBERT. [_Aside_.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead. Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today. In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night and watch with you. I warrant I love you more than you do me. HUBERT. [_Aside_.] His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur. [_Showing a paper._] [_Aside_.] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.— Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? HUBERT. Young boy, I must. ARTHUR. And will you? HUBERT. And I will. ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkercher about your brows, The best I had, a princess wrought it me, And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head, And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time, Saying ’What lack you?” and “Where lies your grief?” Or “What good love may I perform for you?” Many a poor man’s son would have lien still And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, an if you will. If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill, Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you? HUBERT. I have sworn to do it. And with hot irons must I burn them out. ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ’d him. No tongue but Hubert’s. HUBERT. [_Stamps_.] Come forth. Enter Executioners with cords, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do. ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist’rous-rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. FIRST EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed. [_Exeunt Executioners._] ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself. ARTHUR. Is there no remedy? HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes. ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. ARTHUR. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue. Let me not, Hubert, Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me. HUBERT. I can heat it, boy. ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us’d In undeserv’d extremes. See else yourself. There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out And strew’d repentant ashes on his head. HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. ARTHUR. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; And, like a dog that is compell’d to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office. Only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All this while You were disguised. HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead. I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert. HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace. Enter King John, crowned, Pembroke, Salisbury and other Lords. The King takes his State. KING JOHN. Here once again we sit, once again crown’d, And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. PEMBROKE. This “once again,” but that your highness pleas’d, Was once superfluous. You were crown’d before, And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any long’d-for change or better state. SALISBURY. Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. PEMBROKE. But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told, And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable. SALISBURY. In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured; And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion’d robe. PEMBROKE. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch’d. SALISBURY. To this effect, before you were new-crown’d, We breath’d our counsel; but it pleas’d your highness To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d, Since all and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your highness will. KING JOHN. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess’d you with, and think them strong; And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear, I shall indue you with. Meantime but ask What you would have reform’d that is not well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you your requests. PEMBROKE. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, To sound the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily request Th’ enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument: If what in rest you have in right you hold, Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth The rich advantage of good exercise? That the time’s enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it be our suit That you have bid us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he have his liberty. KING JOHN. Let it be so. I do commit his youth To your direction. Enter Hubert. Hubert, what news with you? [_Taking him apart._] PEMBROKE. This is the man should do the bloody deed. He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine. The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Doth show the mood of a much troubled breast; And I do fearfully believe ’tis done What we so fear’d he had a charge to do. SALISBURY. The colour of the King doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set. His passion is so ripe it needs must break. PEMBROKE. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death. KING JOHN. We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead. He tells us Arthur is deceas’d tonight. SALISBURY. Indeed, we fear’d his sickness was past cure. PEMBROKE. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was, Before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answer’d either here or hence. KING JOHN. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me? Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life? SALISBURY. It is apparent foul-play; and ’tis shame That greatness should so grossly offer it. So thrive it in your game, and so, farewell. PEMBROKE. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury. I’ll go with thee And find th’ inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this isle Three foot of it doth hold. Bad world the while! This must not be thus borne; this will break out To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt. [_Exeunt Lords._] KING JOHN. They burn in indignation. I repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achiev’d by others’ death. Enter a Messenger. A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks? So foul a sky clears not without a storm. Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France? MESSENGER. From France to England. Never such a power For any foreign preparation Was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learn’d by them; For when you should be told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arriv’d. KING JOHN. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk? Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of it? MESSENGER. My liege, her ear Is stopp’d with dust. The first of April died Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died Three days before. But this from rumour’s tongue I idly heard; if true or false I know not. KING JOHN. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion! O, make a league with me, till I have pleas’d My discontented peers! What! Mother dead? How wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those powers of France That thou for truth giv’st out are landed here? MESSENGER. Under the Dauphin. KING JOHN. Thou hast made me giddy With these in tidings. Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret. Now, what says the world To your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is full. BASTARD. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head. KING JOHN. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz’d Under the tide, but now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue, speak it of what it will. BASTARD. How I have sped among the clergymen The sums I have collected shall express. But as I travaill’d hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied; Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams, Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear. And here’s a prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heels; To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Your highness should deliver up your crown. KING JOHN. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so? PETER OF POMFRET. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so. KING JOHN. Hubert, away with him; imprison him. And on that day at noon, whereon he says I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d. Deliver him to safety, and return, For I must use thee. [_Exit Hubert with Peter._] O my gentle cousin, Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arriv’d? BASTARD. The French, my lord. Men’s mouths are full of it. Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d tonight On your suggestion. KING JOHN. Gentle kinsman, go And thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to will their loves again. Bring them before me. BASTARD. I will seek them out. KING JOHN. Nay, but make haste, the better foot before! O, let me have no subject enemies When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from them to me again. BASTARD. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. [_Exit Bastard._] KING JOHN. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman! Go after him; for he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he. MESSENGER. With all my heart, my liege. [_Exit._] KING JOHN. My mother dead! Enter Hubert. HUBERT. My lord, they say five moons were seen tonight— Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion. KING JOHN. Five moons! HUBERT. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously. Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths. And when they talk of him, they shake their heads And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent. Another lean unwash’d artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death. KING JOHN. Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death? Thy hand hath murder’d him. I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. HUBERT. No had, my lord! Why, did you not provoke me? KING JOHN. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And, on the winking of authority To understand a law, to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns More upon humour than advis’d respect. HUBERT. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. KING JOHN. O, when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against us to damnation! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, Quoted and sign’d to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind. But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, Finding thee fit for bloody villainy, 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, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. HUBERT. My lord— KING JOHN. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause When I spake darkly what I purpos’d, Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid me tell my tale in express words, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me. But thou didst understand me by my signs And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And consequently thy rude hand to act The deed which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more! My nobles leave me, and my state is brav’d, Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers. Nay, in the body of the fleshly land, This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reigns Between my conscience and my cousin’s death. HUBERT. Arm you against your other enemies, I’ll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never enter’d yet The dreadful motion of a murderous thought; And you have slander’d nature in my form, Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than to be butcher of an innocent child. KING JOHN. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers, Throw this report on their incensed rage, And make them tame to their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more hideous than thou art. O, answer not, but to my closet bring The angry lords with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. Before the castle. Enter Arthur on the walls. ARTHUR. 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 ship-boy’s semblance 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 stay. [_Leaps down._] O me, my uncle’s spirit is in these stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! [_Dies._] Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot. SALISBURY. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury; It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time. PEMBROKE. Who brought that letter from the cardinal? SALISBURY. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love Is much more general than these lines import. BIGOT. Tomorrow morning let us meet him then. SALISBURY. Or rather then set forward; for ’twill be Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we meet. Enter the Bastard. BASTARD. Once more today well met, distemper’d lords! The King by me requests your presence straight. SALISBURY. The King hath dispossess’d himself of us. We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks. Return and tell him so. We know the worst. BASTARD. Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best. SALISBURY. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. BASTARD. But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now. PEMBROKE. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. BASTARD. ’Tis true, to hurt his master, no man’s else. SALISBURY. This is the prison. What is he lies here? [_Seeing Arthur._] PEMBROKE. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. SALISBURY. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. BIGOT. Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave. SALISBURY. 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 see, That you do see? Could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder’s arms. This is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey’d wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse. PEMBROKE. All murders past do stand excus’d in this. And this, so sole and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times; And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle. BASTARD. It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand. SALISBURY. If that it be the work of any hand? We had a kind of light what would ensue. It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand, The practice and the purpose of the King, From whose obedience I forbid my soul, Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand, By giving it the worship of revenge. PEMBROKE and BIGOT. Our souls religiously confirm thy words. Enter Hubert. HUBERT. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur doth live; the King hath sent for you. SALISBURY. O, he is bold and blushes not at death. Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! HUBERT. I am no villain. SALISBURY. Must I rob the law? [_Drawing his sword._] BASTARD. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again. SALISBURY. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin. HUBERT. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say; By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours. I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness, and nobility. BIGOT. Out, dunghill! Dar’st thou brave a nobleman? HUBERT. Not for my life. But yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor. SALISBURY. Thou art a murderer. HUBERT. Do not prove me so. Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe’er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. PEMBROKE. Cut him to pieces. BASTARD. Keep the peace, I say. SALISBURY. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge. BASTARD. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime, Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron That you shall think the devil is come from hell. BIGOT. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer? HUBERT. Lord Bigot, I am none. BIGOT. Who kill’d this prince? HUBERT. ’Tis not an hour since I left him well. I honour’d him, I lov’d him, and will weep My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss. SALISBURY. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum; And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, all you whose souls abhor Th’ uncleanly savours of a slaughterhouse; For I am stifled with this smell of sin. BIGOT. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there! PEMBROKE. There tell the King he may inquire us out. [_Exeunt Lords._] BASTARD. Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damn’d, Hubert. HUBERT. Do but hear me, sir. BASTARD. Ha! I’ll tell thee what; Thou’rt damn’d as black—nay, nothing is so black; Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer. There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. HUBERT. Upon my soul— BASTARD. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair; And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously. HUBERT. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me! I left him well. BASTARD. Go, bear him in thine arms. I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty, The life, the right, and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and England now is left To tug and scamble, and to part by th’ teeth The unow’d interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, And follow me with speed. I’ll to the King. A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Northampton. A Room in the Palace. Enter King John, Pandulph with the crown, and Attendants. KING JOHN. Thus have I yielded up into your hand The circle of my glory. PANDULPH. [_Giving King John the crown._] Take again From this my hand, as holding of the pope, Your sovereign greatness and authority. KING JOHN. Now keep your holy word. Go meet the French, And from his holiness use all your power To stop their marches ’fore we are inflam’d. Our discontented counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of mistemper’d humour Rests by you only to be qualified. Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick That present med’cine must be minist’red Or overthrow incurable ensues. PANDULPH. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon your stubborn usage of the pope; But since you are a gentle convertite, My tongue shall hush again this storm of war And make fair weather in your blust’ring land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of service to the pope, Go I to make the French lay down their arms. [_Exit._] KING JOHN. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet Say that before Ascension-day at noon My crown I should give off? Even so I have. I did suppose it should be on constraint; But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary. Enter the Bastard. BASTARD. All Kent hath yielded. Nothing there holds out But Dover Castle. London hath receiv’d, Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers. Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy; And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends. KING JOHN. Would not my lords return to me again After they heard young Arthur was alive? BASTARD. They found him dead and cast into the streets, An empty casket, where the jewel of life By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away. KING JOHN. That villain Hubert told me he did live. BASTARD. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad? Be great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye. Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threat’ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror. So shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and glister like the god of war When he intendeth to become the field. Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there? And make him tremble there? O, let it not be said! Forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors, And grapple with him ere he come so nigh. KING JOHN. The legate of the pope hath been with me, And I have made a happy peace with him; And he hath promis’d to dismiss the powers Led by the Dauphin. BASTARD. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair-play orders and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce To arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields, And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms! Perchance the cardinal cannot make your peace; Or if he do, let it at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence. KING JOHN. Have thou the ordering of this present time. BASTARD. Away, then, with good courage! Yet, I know Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Near Saint Edmundsbury. The French Camp. Enter, in arms, Louis, Salisbury, Melun, Pembroke, Bigot and soldiers. LOUIS. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out, And keep it safe for our remembrance. Return the precedent to these lords again; That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament, And keep our faiths firm and inviolable. SALISBURY. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurg’d faith To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury! But such is the infection of the time, That, for the health and physic of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is’t not pity, O my grieved friends, That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a stranger, march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies’ ranks? I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause, To grace the gentry of a land remote, And follow unacquainted colours here. What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly! LOUIS. A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears, Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz’d Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven Figur’d quite o’er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away this storm. Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enrag’d, Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Louis himself.—So, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. And even there, methinks, an angel spake. Enter Pandulph. Look, where the holy legate comes apace, To give us warrant from the hand of heaven, And on our actions set the name of right With holy breath. PANDULPH. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this: King John hath reconcil’d Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy church, The great metropolis and see of Rome. Therefore thy threat’ning colours now wind up, And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That, like a lion foster’d up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot of peace And be no further harmful than in show. LOUIS. Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back. I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself, And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome’s slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? Is’t not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out _Vive le Roi!_ as I have bank’d their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game To win this easy match play’d for a crown? And shall I now give o’er the yielded set? No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. PANDULPH. You look but on the outside of this work. LOUIS. Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified 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. [_Trumpet sounds._] What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter the Bastard, attended. BASTARD. 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. PANDULPH. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my entreaties; He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms. BASTARD. 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 feebled here That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No! Know the gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o’er his aery towers To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.— And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame! For your own ladies and pale-visag’d maids Like Amazons come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. LOUIS. There end thy brave, 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. PANDULPH. Give me leave to speak. BASTARD. No, I will speak. LOUIS. We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war, Plead for our interest and our being here. BASTARD. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start And 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. LOUIS. Strike up our drums, to find this danger out. BASTARD. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. The Field of Battle. Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert. KING JOHN. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert. HUBERT. Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty? KING JOHN. This fever that hath troubled me so long Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge, Desires your majesty to leave the field And send him word by me which way you go. KING JOHN. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. MESSENGER. Be of good comfort; for the great supply 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. KING JOHN. Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up And will not let me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead. To my litter straight. Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same. Another part of the same. Enter Salisbury, Pembroke and Bigot. SALISBURY. I did not think the King so stor’d with friends. PEMBROKE. Up once again; put spirit in the French. If they miscarry, we miscarry too. SALISBURY. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. PEMBROKE. They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field. Enter Melun wounded, and led by Soldiers. MELUN. Lead me to the revolts of England here. SALISBURY. When we were happy we had other names. PEMBROKE. It is the Count Melun. SALISBURY. Wounded to death. MELUN. 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, He 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 Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love. SALISBURY. May this be possible? May this be true? MELUN. 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 Louis do win the day, 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 Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, If Louis 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. SALISBURY. 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! New flight, And happy newness, that intends old right. [_Exeunt, leading off Melun._] SCENE V. The same. The French camp. Enter Louis and his train. LOUIS. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set, But stay’d, and made the western welkin blush, When the English measure 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 tott’ring colours clearly up, Last in the field, and almost lords of it! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Where is my prince, the Dauphin? LOUIS. Here. What news? MESSENGER. The Count Melun is slain; the English lords By his persuasion are again fall’n off, And your supply, which you have wish’d so long, Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands. LOUIS. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart! I did not think to be so sad tonight 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? MESSENGER. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. LOUIS. Well, keep good quarter and good care tonight. The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of tomorrow. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey. Enter the Bastard and Hubert, meeting. HUBERT. Who’s there? Speak, ho! Speak quickly, or I shoot. BASTARD. A friend. What art thou? HUBERT. Of the part of England. BASTARD. Whither dost thou go? HUBERT. What’s that to thee? Why may I not demand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? BASTARD. Hubert, I think. HUBERT. 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? BASTARD. Who thou wilt. And if thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets. HUBERT. Unkind remembrance! Thou and eyeless night Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me, That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. BASTARD. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? HUBERT. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night, To find you out. BASTARD. Brief, then; and what’s the news? HUBERT. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. BASTARD. Show me the very wound of this ill news. I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it. HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison’d by a monk. I left him almost speechless, and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time, Than if you had at leisure known of this. BASTARD. How did he take it? Who did taste to him? HUBERT. A monk, I tell you, a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover. BASTARD. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty? HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back, And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the King hath pardon’d them, And they are all about his majesty. BASTARD. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide; These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap’d. Away, before. Conduct me to the King; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. The orchard of Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury and Bigot. PRINCE HENRY. It is too late. The life of all his blood Is touch’d corruptibly, and his pure brain, Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house, Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke. PEMBROKE. His Highness yet doth speak, and holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. PRINCE HENRY. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage? [_Exit Bigot._] PEMBROKE. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. PRINCE HENRY. O vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. SALISBURY. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John in a chair. KING JOHN. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom That all my bowels crumble up to dust. I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up. PRINCE HENRY. How fares your majesty? KING JOHN. Poison’d, ill fare; dead, forsook, cast off, And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much, I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait, And so ingrateful, you deny me that. PRINCE HENRY. O, that there were some virtue in my tears That might relieve you! KING JOHN. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is, as a fiend, confin’d to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter the Bastard. BASTARD. O, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed to see your majesty! KING JOHN. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye. The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair. My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty. BASTARD. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where God He knows how we shall answer him; For in a night the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood. [_The King dies._] SALISBURY. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! My lord!—But now a king, now thus. PRINCE HENRY. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay? BASTARD. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again, To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels. SALISBURY. It seems you know not, then, so much as we. The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war. BASTARD. He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. SALISBURY. Nay, ’tis in a manner done already, For many carriages he hath dispatch’d To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal, With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. BASTARD. Let it be so. And you, my noble prince, With other princes that may best be spar’d, Shall wait upon your father’s funeral. PRINCE HENRY. At Worcester must his body be interr’d; For so he will’d it. BASTARD. Thither shall it, then, And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee, I do bequeath my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly. SALISBURY. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. PRINCE HENRY. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks And knows not how to do it but with tears. BASTARD. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR Contents ACT I Scene I. Rome. A street Scene II. The same. A public place Scene III. The same. A street ACT II Scene I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard Scene II. A room in Caesar’s palace Scene III. A street near the Capitol Scene IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus ACT III Scene I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting Scene II. The same. The Forum Scene III. The same. A street ACT IV Scene I. A room in Antony’s house Scene II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis Scene III. Within the tent of Brutus ACT V Scene I. The plains of Philippi Scene II. The same. The field of battle Scene III. Another part of the field Scene IV. Another part of the field Scene V. Another part of the field Dramatis Personæ JULIUS CAESAR OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir after his death. MARCUS ANTONIUS, ” ” ” M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, ” ” ” CICERO, PUBLIUS, POPILIUS LENA, Senators. MARCUS BRUTUS, Conspirator against Caesar. CASSIUS, ” ” ” CASCA, ” ” ” TREBONIUS, ” ” ” LIGARIUS,” ” ” DECIUS BRUTUS, ” ” ” METELLUS CIMBER, ” ” ” CINNA, ” ” ” FLAVIUS, tribune MARULLUS, tribune ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cnidos. A Soothsayer CINNA, a poet. Another Poet. LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSALA, young CATO, and VOLUMNIUS, Friends to Brutus and Cassius. VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS, STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDANIUS, Servants to Brutus PINDARUS, Servant to Cassius CALPHURNIA, wife to Caesar PORTIA, wife to Brutus The Ghost of Caesar Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants. SCENE: Rome, the conspirators’ camp near Sardis, and the plains of Philippi. ACT I SCENE I. Rome. A street. Enter Flavius, Marullus and a throng of Citizens. FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou? CARPENTER. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you? COBBLER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. COBBLER. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? COBBLER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! COBBLER. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? COBBLER. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? COBBLER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [_Exeunt Citizens._] See whether their basest metal be not mov’d; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A public place. Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer. CAESAR. Calphurnia. CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [_Music ceases._] CAESAR. Calphurnia. CALPHURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way, When he doth run his course. Antonius. ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says “Do this,” it is perform’d. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [_Music._] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still; peace yet again! [_Music ceases._] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music, Cry “Caesar”! Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [_Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius._] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I’ll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have. You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved (Among which number, Cassius, be you one) Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. ’Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome, (Except immortal Caesar) speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus: Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [_Flourish and shout._] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honour more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you; We both have fed as well, and we can both Endure the winter’s cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, “Dar’st thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?” Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos’d, Caesar cried, “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!” I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar. And this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their colour fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his lustre. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, “Give me some drink, Titinius,” As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [_Shout. Flourish._] BRUTUS. Another general shout? I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. “Brutus” and “Caesar”: what should be in that “Caesar”? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em, “Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.” Now in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham’d! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was fam’d with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk’d of Rome, That her wide walls encompass’d but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter. For this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further mov’d. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. Enter Caesar and his Train. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve, And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. BRUTUS. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calphurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross’d in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius. ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music. Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be mov’d to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think’st of him. [_Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays._] CASCA. You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanc’d today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanc’d. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer’d him; and being offer’d him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer’d him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer’d him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang’d, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets; and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refus’d it, the rabblement hooted, and clapp’d their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refus’d the crown, that it had, almost, choked Caesar, for he swooned, and fell down at it. And for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam’d at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. ’Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck’d me ope his doublet, and offer’d them his throat to cut. And I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desir’d their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, “Alas, good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts. But there’s no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb’d their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that, he came thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say anything? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, and I tell you that, I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again. But those that understood him smil’d at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promis’d forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good. I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [_Exit Casca._] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world. [_Exit Brutus._] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is dispos’d: therefore ’tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius, He should not humour me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings, all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at. And after this, let Caesar seat him sure, For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [_Exit._] SCENE III. The same. A street. Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca with his sword drawn, and Cicero. CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave, you’d know him well by sight, Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire remain’d unscorch’d. Besides, I ha’ not since put up my sword, Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit, Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, “These are their reasons; they are natural”; For I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there tomorrow. CICERO. Goodnight then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [_Exit Cicero._] Enter Cassius. CASSIUS. Who’s there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk’d about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bar’d my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca; and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate, Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and pre-formed faculties, To monstrous quality; why, you shall find That Heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night, That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself, or me, In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. ’Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place, save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [_Thunder still._] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm’d, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There’s a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honourable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey’s Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element In favour’s like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. Enter Cinna. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. ’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on’t. What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay’d for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party— CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey’s Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he’s gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre. [_Exit Cinna._] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts! And that which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard. Enter Brutus. BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius! Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Call’d you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. [_Exit._] BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown’d: How that might change his nature, there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that; And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th’ abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may; Then lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which hatch’d, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell. Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal’d up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. [_Gives him the letter._] BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. [_Exit._] BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them. [_Opens the letter and reads._] _Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!_ “Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!” Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. “Shall Rome, &c.” Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. “Speak, strike, redress!” Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus. Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. [_Knock within._] BRUTUS. ’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks. [_Exit Lucius._] Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are moe with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck’d about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour. BRUTUS. Let ’em enter. [_Exit Lucius._] They are the faction. O conspiracy, Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber and Trebonius. CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honours you; and everyone doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? [_They whisper._] DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse— If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engag’d, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass’d from him. CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said, his judgement rul’d our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not; let us not break with him; For he will never follow anything That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all; which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide ’em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I fear him; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar— BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself; take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [_Clock strikes._] BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. ’Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom’d terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol today. DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost? CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey; I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon’s. We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you everyone. [_Exeunt all but Brutus._] Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. Enter Portia. PORTIA. Brutus, my lord. BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. Y’ have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask’d you what the matter was, You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head, And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, But with an angry wafture of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem’d too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, your self, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I your self But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband’s secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife! [_Knock._] Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. [_Exit Portia._] Enter Lucius with Ligarius. Lucius, who’s that knocks? LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done. LIGARIUS. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. [_Thunder._] BRUTUS. Follow me then. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A room in Caesar’s palace. Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown. CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight: Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, “Help, ho! They murder Caesar!” Who’s within? Enter a Servant. SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my lord. [_Exit._] Enter Calphurnia. CALPHURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today. CAESAR. Caesar shall forth. The things that threaten’d me Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPHURNIA. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets, And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar, these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them! CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPHURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear, Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. Enter Servant. What say the augurers? SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth today. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, And I the elder and more terrible, And Caesar shall go forth. CALPHURNIA. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence. Do not go forth today: call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We’ll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, And he shall say you are not well today. Let me upon my knee prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And for thy humour, I will stay at home. Enter Decius. Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar. I come to fetch you to the Senate-house. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the Senators, And tell them that I will not come today. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser: I will not come today. Tell them so, Decius. CALPHURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so. CAESAR. The cause is in my will; I will not come. That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know: Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. She dreamt tonight she saw my statue, Which like a fountain with an hundred spouts Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it. And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent; and on her knee Hath begg’d that I will stay at home today. DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted: It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bath’d, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say; And know it now. The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render’d, for someone to say, “Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.” If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper “Lo, Caesar is afraid”? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this, And reason to my love is liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. Enter Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, Cinna and Publius. And look where Publius is come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow, Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius. What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne’er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean. What is’t o’clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, ’tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. Enter Antony. See! Antony, that revels long a-nights, Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within. I am to blame to be thus waited for. Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius! I have an hour’s talk in store for you: Remember that you call on me today; Be near me, that I may remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [_Aside._] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; And we, like friends, will straightway go together. BRUTUS. [_Aside._] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A street near the Capitol. Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper. ARTEMIDORUS. _“Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wrong’d Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou be’st not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus.”_ Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. Enter Portia and Lucius. PORTIA. I pr’ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? LUCIUS. To know my errand, madam. PORTIA. I would have had thee there and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. [_Aside._] O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet? LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that? LUCIUS. I hear none, madam. PORTIA. Pr’ythee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol. LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. Enter the Soothsayer. PORTIA. Come hither, fellow: Which way hast thou been? SOOTHSAYER. At mine own house, good lady. PORTIA. What is’t o’clock? SOOTHSAYER. About the ninth hour, lady. PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? SOOTHSAYER. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand, To see him pass on to the Capitol. PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? SOOTHSAYER. That I have, lady, if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. PORTIA. Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him? SOOTHSAYER. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow. The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: I’ll get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. [_Exit._] PORTIA. I must go in. [_Aside._] Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is! O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure, the boy heard me. Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry; come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting. A crowd of people in the street leading to the Capitol. Flourish. Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Artemidorus, Publius, Popilius and the Soothsayer. CAESAR. The Ides of March are come. SOOTHSAYER. Ay, Caesar; but not gone. ARTEMIDORUS. Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule. DECIUS. Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit. ARTEMIDORUS. O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suit That touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar. CAESAR. What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d. ARTEMIDORUS. Delay not, Caesar. Read it instantly. CAESAR. What, is the fellow mad? PUBLIUS. Sirrah, give place. CASSIUS. What, urge you your petitions in the street? Come to the Capitol. Caesar enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise. POPILIUS. I wish your enterprise today may thrive. CASSIUS. What enterprise, Popilius? POPILIUS. Fare you well. [_Advances to Caesar._] BRUTUS. What said Popilius Lena? CASSIUS. He wish’d today our enterprise might thrive. I fear our purpose is discovered. BRUTUS. Look how he makes to Caesar: mark him. CASSIUS. Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention. Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known, Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back, For I will slay myself. BRUTUS. Cassius, be constant: Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; For look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. CASSIUS. Trebonius knows his time, for look you, Brutus, He draws Mark Antony out of the way. [_Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Caesar and the Senators take their seats._] DECIUS. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go, And presently prefer his suit to Caesar. BRUTUS. He is address’d; press near and second him. CINNA. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. CAESAR. Are we all ready? What is now amiss That Caesar and his Senate must redress? METELLUS. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar, Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat An humble heart. [_Kneeling._] CAESAR. I must prevent thee, Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men, And turn pre-ordinance and first decree Into the law of children. Be not fond, To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood That will be thaw’d from the true quality With that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words, Low-crooked curtsies, and base spaniel fawning. Thy brother by decree is banished: If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Caesar dost not wrong, nor without cause Will he be satisfied. METELLUS. Is there no voice more worthy than my own, To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear For the repealing of my banish’d brother? BRUTUS. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar; Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal. CAESAR. What, Brutus? CASSIUS. Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon: As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. CAESAR. I could be well mov’d, if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, They are all fire, and every one doth shine; But there’s but one in all doth hold his place. So in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men, And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive; Yet in the number I do know but one That unassailable holds on his rank, Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he, Let me a little show it, even in this, That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d, And constant do remain to keep him so. CINNA. O Caesar,— CAESAR. Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus? DECIUS. Great Caesar,— CAESAR. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel? CASCA. Speak, hands, for me! [_Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus._] CAESAR. _Et tu, Brute?_—Then fall, Caesar! [_Dies. The Senators and People retire in confusion._] CINNA. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. CASSIUS. Some to the common pulpits and cry out, “Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!” BRUTUS. People and Senators, be not affrighted. Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid. CASCA. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. DECIUS. And Cassius too. BRUTUS. Where’s Publius? CINNA. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. METELLUS. Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar’s Should chance— BRUTUS. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer! There is no harm intended to your person, Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius. CASSIUS. And leave us, Publius; lest that the people Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief. BRUTUS. Do so; and let no man abide this deed But we the doers. Enter Trebonius. CASSIUS. Where’s Antony? TREBONIUS. Fled to his house amaz’d. Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and run, As it were doomsday. BRUTUS. Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon. CASCA. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death. BRUTUS. Grant that, and then is death a benefit: So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridg’d His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords: Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, And waving our red weapons o’er our heads, Let’s all cry, “Peace, freedom, and liberty!” CASSIUS. Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In States unborn, and accents yet unknown! BRUTUS. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, That now on Pompey’s basis lies along, No worthier than the dust! CASSIUS. So oft as that shall be, So often shall the knot of us be call’d The men that gave their country liberty. DECIUS. What, shall we forth? CASSIUS. Ay, every man away. Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome. Enter a Servant. BRUTUS. Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony’s. SERVANT. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel; Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down; And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say: Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving; Say I love Brutus and I honour him; Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d him. If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony May safely come to him, and be resolv’d How Caesar hath deserv’d to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead So well as Brutus living; but will follow The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus Thorough the hazards of this untrod state, With all true faith. So says my master Antony. BRUTUS. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; I never thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place, He shall be satisfied and, by my honour, Depart untouch’d. SERVANT. I’ll fetch him presently. [_Exit._] BRUTUS. I know that we shall have him well to friend. CASSIUS. I wish we may: but yet have I a mind That fears him much; and my misgiving still Falls shrewdly to the purpose. Enter Antony. BRUTUS. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. ANTONY. O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank: If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar’s death’s hour; nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die. No place will please me so, no means of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age. BRUTUS. O Antony, beg not your death of us. Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As by our hands and this our present act You see we do; yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome— As fire drives out fire, so pity pity— Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. CASSIUS. Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s In the disposing of new dignities. BRUTUS. Only be patient till we have appeas’d The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus proceeded. ANTONY. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand. Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all—alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true: If then thy spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, To see thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most noble, in the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart; Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. O world, thou wast the forest to this hart; And this indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer strucken by many princes, Dost thou here lie! CASSIUS. Mark Antony,— ANTONY. Pardon me, Caius Cassius: The enemies of Caesar shall say this; Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. CASSIUS. I blame you not for praising Caesar so; But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick’d in number of our friends, Or shall we on, and not depend on you? ANTONY. Therefore I took your hands; but was indeed Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all, Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons Why, and wherein, Caesar was dangerous. BRUTUS. Or else were this a savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied. ANTONY. That’s all I seek, And am moreover suitor that I may Produce his body to the market-place; And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral. BRUTUS. You shall, Mark Antony. CASSIUS. Brutus, a word with you. [_Aside to Brutus._] You know not what you do. Do not consent That Antony speak in his funeral. Know you how much the people may be mov’d By that which he will utter? BRUTUS. [_Aside to Cassius._] By your pardon: I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of our Caesar’s death. What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave and by permission; And that we are contented Caesar shall Have all true rights and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. CASSIUS. [_Aside to Brutus._] I know not what may fall; I like it not. BRUTUS. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, And say you do’t by our permission; Else shall you not have any hand at all About his funeral. And you shall speak In the same pulpit whereto I am going, After my speech is ended. ANTONY. Be it so; I do desire no more. BRUTUS. Prepare the body, then, and follow us. [_Exeunt all but Antony._] ANTONY. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, Which, like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quartered with the hands of war; All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from Hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. Enter a Servant. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not? SERVANT. I do, Mark Antony. ANTONY. Caesar did write for him to come to Rome. SERVANT. He did receive his letters, and is coming, And bid me say to you by word of mouth,— [_Seeing the body._] O Caesar! ANTONY. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming? SERVANT. He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome. ANTONY. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome of safety for Octavius yet. Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile; Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the market-place: there shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men; According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of things. Lend me your hand. [_Exeunt with Caesar’s body._] SCENE II. The same. The Forum. Enter Brutus and goes into the pulpit, and Cassius, with a throng of Citizens. CITIZENS. We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied. BRUTUS. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other street And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar’s death. FIRST CITIZEN. I will hear Brutus speak. SECOND CITIZEN. I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons, When severally we hear them rendered. [_Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes into the rostrum._] THIRD CITIZEN. The noble Brutus is ascended: silence! BRUTUS. Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears, for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. CITIZENS. None, Brutus, none. BRUTUS. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enroll’d in the Capitol, his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforc’d, for which he suffered death. Enter Antony and others, with Caesar’s body. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. CITIZENS. Live, Brutus! live, live! FIRST CITIZEN. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. SECOND CITIZEN. Give him a statue with his ancestors. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him be Caesar. FOURTH CITIZEN. Caesar’s better parts Shall be crown’d in Brutus. FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours. BRUTUS. My countrymen,— SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace, ho! BRUTUS. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar’s glories, which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow’d to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [_Exit._] FIRST CITIZEN. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him go up into the public chair. We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. ANTONY. For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you. [_Goes up._] FOURTH CITIZEN. What does he say of Brutus? THIRD CITIZEN. He says, for Brutus’ sake He finds himself beholding to us all. FOURTH CITIZEN. ’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here! FIRST CITIZEN. This Caesar was a tyrant. THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, that’s certain. We are blest that Rome is rid of him. SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! let us hear what Antony can say. ANTONY. You gentle Romans,— CITIZENS. Peace, ho! let us hear him. ANTONY. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, For Brutus is an honourable man, So are they all, all honourable men, Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And sure he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me. My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. FIRST CITIZEN. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. SECOND CITIZEN. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong. THIRD CITIZEN. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place. FOURTH CITIZEN. Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown; Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious. FIRST CITIZEN. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. SECOND CITIZEN. Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping. THIRD CITIZEN. There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. FOURTH CITIZEN. Now mark him; he begins again to speak. ANTONY. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! If I were dispos’d to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar, I found it in his closet; ’tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament, Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. FOURTH CITIZEN. We’ll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony. CITIZENS. The will, the will! We will hear Caesar’s will. ANTONY. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it. It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. ’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For if you should, O, what would come of it? FOURTH CITIZEN. Read the will! We’ll hear it, Antony; You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will! ANTONY. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it. FOURTH CITIZEN. They were traitors. Honourable men! CITIZENS. The will! The testament! SECOND CITIZEN. They were villains, murderers. The will! Read the will! ANTONY. You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? CITIZENS. Come down. SECOND CITIZEN. Descend. [_He comes down._] THIRD CITIZEN. You shall have leave. FOURTH CITIZEN. A ring! Stand round. FIRST CITIZEN. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Room for Antony, most noble Antony! ANTONY. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. CITIZENS. Stand back; room! bear back. ANTONY. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; ’Twas on a Summer’s evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d; And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him. This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart; And in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey’s statue Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors. FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle! SECOND CITIZEN. O noble Caesar! THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day! FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors, villains! FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight! SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged. CITIZENS. Revenge,—about,—seek,—burn,—fire,—kill,—slay,—let not a traitor live! ANTONY. Stay, countrymen. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. SECOND CITIZEN. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him. ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They’re wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. CITIZENS. We’ll mutiny. FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll burn the house of Brutus. THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! come, seek the conspirators. ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. CITIZENS. Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony. ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not; I must tell you then. You have forgot the will I told you of. CITIZENS. Most true; the will!—let’s stay, and hear the will. ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death. THIRD CITIZEN. O, royal Caesar! ANTONY. Hear me with patience. CITIZENS. Peace, ho! ANTONY. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever; common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another? FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away! We’ll burn his body in the holy place, And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses. Take up the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Go, fetch fire. THIRD CITIZEN. Pluck down benches. FOURTH CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. [_Exeunt Citizens, with the body._] ANTONY. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt! Enter a Servant. How now, fellow? SERVANT. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome. ANTONY. Where is he? SERVANT. He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house. ANTONY. And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything. SERVANT. I heard him say Brutus and Cassius Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome. ANTONY. Belike they had some notice of the people, How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A street. Enter Cinna, the poet, and after him the citizens. CINNA. I dreamt tonight that I did feast with Caesar, And things unluckily charge my fantasy. I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth. FIRST CITIZEN. What is your name? SECOND CITIZEN. Whither are you going? THIRD CITIZEN. Where do you dwell? FOURTH CITIZEN. Are you a married man or a bachelor? SECOND CITIZEN. Answer every man directly. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, and briefly. FOURTH CITIZEN. Ay, and wisely. THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, and truly, you were best. CINNA. What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly. Wisely I say I am a bachelor. SECOND CITIZEN. That’s as much as to say they are fools that marry; you’ll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed, directly. CINNA. Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral. FIRST CITIZEN. As a friend, or an enemy? CINNA. As a friend. SECOND CITIZEN. That matter is answered directly. FOURTH CITIZEN. For your dwelling, briefly. CINNA. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. THIRD CITIZEN. Your name, sir, truly. CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna. FIRST CITIZEN. Tear him to pieces! He’s a conspirator. CINNA. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. FOURTH CITIZEN. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses. CINNA. I am not Cinna the conspirator. FOURTH CITIZEN. It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going. THIRD CITIZEN. Tear him, tear him! Come; brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus’, to Cassius’; burn all. Some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s, some to Ligarius’. Away, go! [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Rome. A room in Antony’s house. Enter Antony, Octavius and Lepidus, seated at a table. ANTONY. These many then shall die; their names are prick’d. OCTAVIUS. Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus? LEPIDUS. I do consent,— OCTAVIUS. Prick him down, Antony. LEPIDUS. Upon condition Publius shall not live, Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony. ANTONY. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house; Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in legacies. LEPIDUS. What, shall I find you here? OCTAVIUS. Or here, or at the Capitol. [_Exit Lepidus._] ANTONY. This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be sent on errands. Is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One of the three to share it? OCTAVIUS. So you thought him, And took his voice who should be prick’d to die In our black sentence and proscription. ANTONY. Octavius, I have seen more days than you; And though we lay these honours on this man, To ease ourselves of divers sland’rous loads, He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business, Either led or driven, as we point the way; And having brought our treasure where we will, Then take we down his load, and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears, And graze in commons. OCTAVIUS. You may do your will; But he’s a tried and valiant soldier. ANTONY. So is my horse, Octavius; and for that I do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight, To wind, to stop, to run directly on, His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so: He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth: A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which, out of use and stal’d by other men, Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things. Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers; we must straight make head. Therefore let our alliance be combin’d, Our best friends made, our means stretch’d; And let us presently go sit in council, How covert matters may be best disclos’d, And open perils surest answered. OCTAVIUS. Let us do so: for we are at the stake, And bay’d about with many enemies; And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, Millions of mischiefs. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis. Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Titinius and Soldiers; Pindarus meeting them; Lucius at some distance. BRUTUS. Stand, ho! LUCILIUS. Give the word, ho! and stand. BRUTUS. What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near? LUCILIUS. He is at hand, and Pindarus is come To do you salutation from his master. [_Pindarus gives a letter to Brutus._] BRUTUS. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers, Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand, I shall be satisfied. PINDARUS. I do not doubt But that my noble master will appear Such as he is, full of regard and honour. BRUTUS. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius; How he received you, let me be resolv’d. LUCILIUS. With courtesy and with respect enough, But not with such familiar instances, Nor with such free and friendly conference, As he hath us’d of old. BRUTUS. Thou hast describ’d A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; [_Low march within._] But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial. Comes his army on? LUCILIUS. They meant this night in Sardis to be quarter’d; The greater part, the horse in general, Are come with Cassius. Enter Cassius and Soldiers. BRUTUS. Hark! he is arriv’d. March gently on to meet him. CASSIUS. Stand, ho! BRUTUS. Stand, ho! Speak the word along. FIRST SOLDIER. Stand! SECOND SOLDIER. Stand! THIRD SOLDIER. Stand! CASSIUS. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. BRUTUS. Judge me, you gods; wrong I mine enemies? And if not so, how should I wrong a brother? CASSIUS. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs; And when you do them— BRUTUS. Cassius, be content. Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience. CASSIUS. Pindarus, Bid our commanders lead their charges off A little from this ground. BRUTUS. Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man Come to our tent till we have done our conference. Lucius and Titinius, guard our door. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Within the tent of Brutus. Enter Brutus and Cassius. CASSIUS. That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this: You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters, praying on his side Because I knew the man, were slighted off. BRUTUS. You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case. CASSIUS. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. BRUTUS. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. CASSIUS. I an itching palm! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. BRUTUS. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. CASSIUS. Chastisement! BRUTUS. Remember March, the Ides of March remember: Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! Shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. CASSIUS. Brutus, bait not me, I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. BRUTUS. Go to; you are not, Cassius. CASSIUS. I am. BRUTUS. I say you are not. CASSIUS. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. BRUTUS. Away, slight man! CASSIUS. Is’t possible? BRUTUS. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? CASSIUS. O ye gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this? BRUTUS. All this? ay, more: fret till your proud heart break; Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I’ll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. CASSIUS. Is it come to this? BRUTUS. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. CASSIUS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say better? BRUTUS. If you did, I care not. CASSIUS. When Caesar liv’d, he durst not thus have mov’d me. BRUTUS. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. CASSIUS. I durst not? BRUTUS. No. CASSIUS. What? durst not tempt him? BRUTUS. For your life you durst not. CASSIUS. Do not presume too much upon my love. I may do that I shall be sorry for. BRUTUS. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am arm’d so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; For I can raise no money by vile means: By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces! CASSIUS. I denied you not. BRUTUS. You did. CASSIUS. I did not. He was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv’d my heart. A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. BRUTUS. I do not, till you practise them on me. CASSIUS. You love me not. BRUTUS. I do not like your faults. CASSIUS. A friendly eye could never see such faults. BRUTUS. A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. CASSIUS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is a-weary of the world: Hated by one he loves; brav’d by his brother; Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observ’d, Set in a note-book, learn’d and conn’d by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold: If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth. I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. BRUTUS. Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. CASSIUS. Hath Cassius liv’d To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him? BRUTUS. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too. CASSIUS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. BRUTUS. And my heart too. CASSIUS. O Brutus! BRUTUS. What’s the matter? CASSIUS. Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful? BRUTUS. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius and Lucius. POET. [_Within._] Let me go in to see the generals, There is some grudge between ’em; ’tis not meet They be alone. LUCILIUS. [_Within._] You shall not come to them. POET. [_Within._] Nothing but death shall stay me. CASSIUS. How now! What’s the matter? POET. For shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye. CASSIUS. Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme! BRUTUS. Get you hence, sirrah. Saucy fellow, hence! CASSIUS. Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion. BRUTUS. I’ll know his humour when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence! CASSIUS. Away, away, be gone! [_Exit Poet._] BRUTUS. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies tonight. CASSIUS. And come yourselves and bring Messala with you Immediately to us. [_Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius._] BRUTUS. Lucius, a bowl of wine. [_Exit Lucius._] CASSIUS. I did not think you could have been so angry. BRUTUS. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. CASSIUS. Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils. BRUTUS. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead. CASSIUS. Ha? Portia? BRUTUS. She is dead. CASSIUS. How ’scap’d I killing, when I cross’d you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon what sickness? BRUTUS. Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong; for with her death That tidings came. With this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire. CASSIUS. And died so? BRUTUS. Even so. CASSIUS. O ye immortal gods! Enter Lucius, with wine and a taper. BRUTUS. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [_Drinks._] CASSIUS. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup. I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love. [_Drinks._] [_Exit Lucius._] Enter Titinius and Messala. BRUTUS. Come in, Titinius! Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities. CASSIUS. Portia, art thou gone? BRUTUS. No more, I pray you. Messala, I have here received letters, That young Octavius and Mark Antony Come down upon us with a mighty power, Bending their expedition toward Philippi. MESSALA. Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor. BRUTUS. With what addition? MESSALA. That by proscription and bills of outlawry Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus Have put to death an hundred Senators. BRUTUS. Therein our letters do not well agree. Mine speak of seventy Senators that died By their proscriptions, Cicero being one. CASSIUS. Cicero one! MESSALA. Cicero is dead, And by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord? BRUTUS. No, Messala. MESSALA. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her? BRUTUS. Nothing, Messala. MESSALA. That, methinks, is strange. BRUTUS. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours? MESSALA. No, my lord. BRUTUS. Now as you are a Roman, tell me true. MESSALA. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell, For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. BRUTUS. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now. MESSALA. Even so great men great losses should endure. CASSIUS. I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so. BRUTUS. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently? CASSIUS. I do not think it good. BRUTUS. Your reason? CASSIUS. This it is: ’Tis better that the enemy seek us; So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, Doing himself offence, whilst we, lying still, Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness. BRUTUS. Good reasons must of force give place to better. The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forced affection; For they have grudg’d us contribution. The enemy, marching along by them, By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encourag’d; From which advantage shall we cut him off If at Philippi we do face him there, These people at our back. CASSIUS. Hear me, good brother. BRUTUS. Under your pardon. You must note besides, That we have tried the utmost of our friends, Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe. The enemy increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. CASSIUS. Then, with your will, go on: We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi. BRUTUS. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity, Which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say? CASSIUS. No more. Good night: Early tomorrow will we rise, and hence. Enter Lucius. BRUTUS. Lucius! My gown. [_Exit Lucius._] Farewell now, good Messala. Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, Good night, and good repose. CASSIUS. O my dear brother! This was an ill beginning of the night. Never come such division ’tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus. Enter Lucius with the gown. BRUTUS. Everything is well. CASSIUS. Good night, my lord. BRUTUS. Good night, good brother. TITINIUS and MESSALA. Good night, Lord Brutus. BRUTUS. Farewell, everyone. [_Exeunt Cassius, Titinius and Messala._] Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument? LUCIUS. Here in the tent. BRUTUS. What, thou speak’st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou art o’er-watch’d. Call Claudius and some other of my men; I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent. LUCIUS. Varro and Claudius! Enter Varro and Claudius. VARRO. Calls my lord? BRUTUS. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; It may be I shall raise you by-and-by On business to my brother Cassius. VARRO. So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure. BRUTUS. I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs, It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so; I put it in the pocket of my gown. [_Servants lie down._] LUCIUS. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. BRUTUS. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And touch thy instrument a strain or two? LUCIUS. Ay, my lord, an’t please you. BRUTUS. It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. LUCIUS. It is my duty, sir. BRUTUS. I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest. LUCIUS. I have slept, my lord, already. BRUTUS. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live, I will be good to thee. [_Lucius plays and sings till he falls asleep._] This is a sleepy tune. O murd’rous slumber, Layest thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument; I’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. Enter the Ghost of Caesar. How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak’st my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art. GHOST. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. BRUTUS. Why com’st thou? GHOST. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. BRUTUS. Well; then I shall see thee again? GHOST. Ay, at Philippi. BRUTUS. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then. [_Ghost vanishes._] Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest. Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy! Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius! LUCIUS. The strings, my lord, are false. BRUTUS. He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake! LUCIUS. My lord? BRUTUS. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out? LUCIUS. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. BRUTUS. Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see anything? LUCIUS. Nothing, my lord. BRUTUS. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius! Fellow thou, awake! VARRO. My lord? CLAUDIUS. My lord? BRUTUS. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep? VARRO. CLAUDIUS. Did we, my lord? BRUTUS. Ay. Saw you anything? VARRO. No, my lord, I saw nothing. CLAUDIUS. Nor I, my lord. BRUTUS. Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow. VARRO. CLAUDIUS. It shall be done, my lord. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. The plains of Philippi. Enter Octavius, Antony and their Army. OCTAVIUS. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills and upper regions. It proves not so; their battles are at hand, They mean to warn us at Philippi here, Answering before we do demand of them. ANTONY. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it. They could be content To visit other places, and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But ’tis not so. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Prepare you, generals. The enemy comes on in gallant show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately. ANTONY. Octavius, lead your battle softly on Upon the left hand of the even field. OCTAVIUS. Upon the right hand I. Keep thou the left. ANTONY. Why do you cross me in this exigent? OCTAVIUS. I do not cross you; but I will do so. [_March._] Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala and others. BRUTUS. They stand, and would have parley. CASSIUS. Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk. OCTAVIUS. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle? ANTONY. No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth; the generals would have some words. OCTAVIUS. Stir not until the signal. BRUTUS. Words before blows: is it so, countrymen? OCTAVIUS. Not that we love words better, as you do. BRUTUS. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. ANTONY. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words; Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart, Crying, “Long live! Hail, Caesar!” CASSIUS. Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless. ANTONY. Not stingless too. BRUTUS. O yes, and soundless too, For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting. ANTONY. Villains, you did not so when your vile daggers Hack’d one another in the sides of Caesar: You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like hounds, And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Caesar’s feet; Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers! CASSIUS. Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself. This tongue had not offended so today, If Cassius might have rul’d. OCTAVIUS. Come, come, the cause. If arguing makes us sweat, The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look, I draw a sword against conspirators. When think you that the sword goes up again? Never, till Caesar’s three and thirty wounds Be well aveng’d; or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. BRUTUS. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands, Unless thou bring’st them with thee. OCTAVIUS. So I hope. I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword. BRUTUS. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. CASSIUS. A peevish school-boy, worthless of such honour, Join’d with a masker and a reveller. ANTONY. Old Cassius still! OCTAVIUS. Come, Antony; away! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. If you dare fight today, come to the field; If not, when you have stomachs. [_Exeunt Octavius, Antony and their Army._] CASSIUS. Why now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. BRUTUS. Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with you. LUCILIUS. My lord? [_Brutus and Lucilius talk apart._] CASSIUS. Messala. MESSALA. What says my General? CASSIUS. Messala, This is my birth-day; as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala: Be thou my witness that against my will As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong, And his opinion. Now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands, Who to Philippi here consorted us. This morning are they fled away and gone, And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. MESSALA. Believe not so. CASSIUS. I but believe it partly, For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv’d To meet all perils very constantly. BRUTUS. Even so, Lucilius. CASSIUS. Now, most noble Brutus, The gods today stand friendly, that we may, Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together: What are you then determined to do? BRUTUS. Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself, I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life, arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below. CASSIUS. Then, if we lose this battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the Ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius. If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made. CASSIUS. For ever and for ever farewell, Brutus. If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed; If not, ’tis true this parting was well made. BRUTUS. Why then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. Come, ho! away! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. The field of battle. Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. BRUTUS. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the legions on the other side. [_Loud alarum._] Let them set on at once; for I perceive But cold demeanor in Octavius’ wing, And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala; let them all come down. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius. CASSIUS. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy: This ensign here of mine was turning back; I slew the coward, and did take it from him. TITINIUS. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early, Who, having some advantage on Octavius, Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil, Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d. Enter Pindarus. PINDARUS. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off; Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord. Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. CASSIUS. This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius; Are those my tents where I perceive the fire? TITINIUS. They are, my lord. CASSIUS. Titinius, if thou lovest me, Mount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him, Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops And here again, that I may rest assur’d Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. TITINIUS. I will be here again, even with a thought. [_Exit._] CASSIUS. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill, My sight was ever thick. Regard Titinius, And tell me what thou notest about the field. [_Pindarus goes up._] This day I breathed first. Time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I end. My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news? PINDARUS. [_Above._] O my lord! CASSIUS. What news? PINDARUS. [_Above._] Titinius is enclosed round about With horsemen, that make to him on the spur, Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. He’s ta’en! [_Shout._] And, hark! they shout for joy. CASSIUS. Come down; behold no more. O, coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta’en before my face! [_Pindarus descends._] Come hither, sirrah. In Parthia did I take thee prisoner; And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, That whatsoever I did bid thee do, Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath. Now be a freeman; and with this good sword, That ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer. Here, take thou the hilts; And when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now, Guide thou the sword.—Caesar, thou art reveng’d, Even with the sword that kill’d thee. [_Dies._] PINDARUS. So, I am free, yet would not so have been, Durst I have done my will. O Cassius! Far from this country Pindarus shall run, Where never Roman shall take note of him. [_Exit._] Enter Titinius with Messala. MESSALA. It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power, As Cassius’ legions are by Antony. TITINIUS. These tidings would well comfort Cassius. MESSALA. Where did you leave him? TITINIUS. All disconsolate, With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. MESSALA. Is not that he that lies upon the ground? TITINIUS. He lies not like the living. O my heart! MESSALA. Is not that he? TITINIUS. No, this was he, Messala, But Cassius is no more. O setting sun, As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night, So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set. The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone; Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done. Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. MESSALA. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful Error, Melancholy’s child! Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O Error, soon conceiv’d, Thou never com’st unto a happy birth, But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee! TITINIUS. What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus? MESSALA. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his ears. I may say thrusting it; For piercing steel and darts envenomed Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus As tidings of this sight. TITINIUS. Hie you, Messala, And I will seek for Pindarus the while. [_Exit Messala._] Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not they Put on my brows this wreath of victory, And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything! But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow; Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. By your leave, gods. This is a Roman’s part. Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart. [_Dies._] Alarum. Enter Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius and Lucilius. BRUTUS. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? MESSALA. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. BRUTUS. Titinius’ face is upward. CATO. He is slain. BRUTUS. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails. [_Low alarums._] CATO. Brave Titinius! Look whether he have not crown’d dead Cassius! BRUTUS. Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body. His funerals shall not be in our camp, Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come; And come, young Cato; let us to the field. Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on. ’Tis three o’clock; and Romans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second fight. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter fighting soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Lucilius, Flavius and others. BRUTUS. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads! CATO. What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! [_Charges the enemy._] LUCILIUS. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for Brutus! [_Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls._] LUCILIUS. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius, And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son. FIRST SOLDIER. Yield, or thou diest. LUCILIUS. Only I yield to die: There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight; [_Offering money_] Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death. FIRST SOLDIER. We must not. A noble prisoner! SECOND SOLDIER. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en. FIRST SOLDIER. I’ll tell the news. Here comes the General. Enter Antony. Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord. ANTONY. Where is he? LUCILIUS. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough. I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus. The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself. ANTONY. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness. I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see whether Brutus be alive or dead; And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent How everything is chanc’d. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another part of the field. Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato and Volumnius. BRUTUS. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. CLITUS. Statilius show’d the torch-light; but, my lord, He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain. BRUTUS. Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. [_Whispering._] CLITUS. What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world. BRUTUS. Peace then, no words. CLITUS. I’ll rather kill myself. BRUTUS. Hark thee, Dardanius. [_Whispers him._] DARDANIUS. Shall I do such a deed? CLITUS. O Dardanius! DARDANIUS. O Clitus! CLITUS. What ill request did Brutus make to thee? DARDANIUS. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates. CLITUS. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, That it runs over even at his eyes. BRUTUS. Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word. VOLUMNIUS. What says my lord? BRUTUS. Why, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear’d to me Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And this last night here in Philippi fields. I know my hour is come. VOLUMNIUS. Not so, my lord. BRUTUS. Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; Our enemies have beat us to the pit. [_Low alarums._] It is more worthy to leap in ourselves Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know’st that we two went to school together; Even for that our love of old, I pr’ythee Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. VOLUMNIUS. That’s not an office for a friend, my lord. [_Alarums still._] CLITUS. Fly, fly, my lord! there is no tarrying here. BRUTUS. Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato.—Countrymen, My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue Hath almost ended his life’s history. Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour’d to attain this hour. [_Alarums. Cry within, “Fly, fly, fly!”._] CLITUS. Fly, my lord, fly! BRUTUS. Hence! I will follow. [_Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius and Volumnius._] I pr’ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it. Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? STRATO. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord. BRUTUS. Farewell, good Strato.—Caesar, now be still: I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. [_He runs on his sword, and dies._] Alarum. Retreat. Enter Antony, Octavius, Messala, Lucilius and the Army. OCTAVIUS. What man is that? MESSALA. My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master? STRATO. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala. The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death. LUCILIUS. So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ saying true. OCTAVIUS. All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me? STRATO. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. OCTAVIUS. Do so, good Messala. MESSALA. How died my master, Strato? STRATO. I held the sword, and he did run on it. MESSALA. Octavius, then take him to follow thee, That did the latest service to my master. ANTONY. This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, “This was a man!” OCTAVIUS. According to his virtue let us use him With all respect and rites of burial. Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie, Most like a soldier, order’d honourably. So call the field to rest, and let’s away, To part the glories of this happy day. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR Contents ACT I Scene I. A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace Scene II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle Scene III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace Scene IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace Scene V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace ACT II Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester Scene II. Before Gloucester’s Castle Scene III. The open Country Scene IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle ACT III Scene I. A Heath Scene II. Another part of the heath Scene III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Scene IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel Scene V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Scene VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle Scene VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle ACT IV Scene I. The heath Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace Scene III. The French camp near Dover Scene IV. The French camp. A Tent Scene V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Scene VI. The country near Dover Scene VII. A Tent in the French Camp ACT V Scene I. The Camp of the British Forces near Dover Scene II. A field between the two Camps Scene III. The British Camp near Dover Dramatis Personæ LEAR, King of Britain. GONERIL, eldest daughter to Lear. REGAN, second daughter to Lear. CORDELIA, youngest daughter to Lear. DUKE of ALBANY, married to Goneril. DUKE of CORNWALL, married to Regan. KING of FRANCE. DUKE of BURGUNDY. EARL of GLOUCESTER. EDGAR, elder son to Gloucester. EDMUND, younger bastard son to Gloucester. EARL of KENT. FOOL. OSWALD, steward to Goneril. CURAN, a Courtier. OLD MAN, Tenant to Gloucester. Physician. An Officer employed by Edmund. Gentleman, attendant on Cordelia. A Herald. Servants to Cornwall. Knights attending on the King, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers and Attendants. SCENE: Britain ACT I SCENE I. A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace Enter Kent, Gloucester and Edmund. KENT. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. GLOUCESTER. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for qualities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety. KENT. Is not this your son, my lord? GLOUCESTER. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blush’d to acknowledge him that now I am braz’d to’t. KENT. I cannot conceive you. GLOUCESTER. Sir, this young fellow’s mother could; whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault? KENT. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper. GLOUCESTER. But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund? EDMUND. No, my lord. GLOUCESTER. My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend. EDMUND. My services to your lordship. KENT. I must love you, and sue to know you better. EDMUND. Sir, I shall study deserving. GLOUCESTER. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The King is coming. [_Sennet within._] Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia and Attendants. LEAR. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. I shall, my lord. [_Exeunt Gloucester and Edmund._] LEAR. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age; Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,— Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,— Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge.—Goneril, Our eldest born, speak first. GONERIL. Sir, I love you more than word can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valu’d, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found; A love that makes breath poor and speech unable; Beyond all manner of so much I love you. CORDELIA. [_Aside._] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent. LEAR. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue Be this perpetual.—What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall? Speak. REGAN. Sir, I am made of the self mettle as my sister, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear highness’ love. CORDELIA. [_Aside._] Then poor Cordelia, And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s More ponderous than my tongue. LEAR. To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom; No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr’d on Goneril.—Now, our joy, Although the last and least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak. CORDELIA. Nothing, my lord. LEAR. Nothing? CORDELIA. Nothing. LEAR. Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. CORDELIA. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty According to my bond; no more nor less. LEAR. How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. CORDELIA. Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. LEAR. But goes thy heart with this? CORDELIA. Ay, my good lord. LEAR. So young, and so untender? CORDELIA. So young, my lord, and true. LEAR. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs, From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d, As thou my sometime daughter. KENT. Good my liege,— LEAR. Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. [_To Cordelia._] Hence and avoid my sight! So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father’s heart from her! Call France. Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters’ dowers digest this third: Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name, and all the addition to a king; the sway, Revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part between you. [_Giving the crown._] KENT. Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d, As my great patron thought on in my prayers.— LEAR. The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft. KENT. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy state; And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgement, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sounds Reverb no hollowness. LEAR. Kent, on thy life, no more. KENT. My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; ne’er fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive. LEAR. Out of my sight! KENT. See better, Lear; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye. LEAR. Now, by Apollo,— KENT. Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain. LEAR. O vassal! Miscreant! [_Laying his hand on his sword._] ALBANY and CORNWALL. Dear sir, forbear! KENT. Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil. LEAR. Hear me, recreant! on thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vows, Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d pride To come betwixt our sentences and our power, Which nor our nature, nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision, To shield thee from disasters of the world; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the next day following, Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok’d. KENT. Fare thee well, King: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [_To Cordelia._] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st and hast most rightly said! [_To Goneril and Regan._] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He’ll shape his old course in a country new. [_Exit._] Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with France, Burgundy and Attendants. CORDELIA. Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord. LEAR. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love? BURGUNDY. Most royal majesty, I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d, Nor will you tender less. LEAR. Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She’s there, and she is yours. BURGUNDY. I know no answer. LEAR. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath, Take her or leave her? BURGUNDY. Pardon me, royal sir; Election makes not up in such conditions. LEAR. Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [_To France_] For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you T’avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d Almost t’acknowledge hers. FRANCE. This is most strange, That she, who even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection Fall into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me. CORDELIA. I yet beseech your majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak,—that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonour’d step, That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking. LEAR. Better thou hadst Not been born than not to have pleas’d me better. FRANCE. Is it but this?—a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry. BURGUNDY. Royal King, Give but that portion which yourself propos’d, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy. LEAR. Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm. BURGUNDY. I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband. CORDELIA. Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortunes are his love, I shall not be his wife. FRANCE. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away. Gods, gods! ’Tis strange that from their cold’st neglect My love should kindle to inflam’d respect. Thy dowerless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find. LEAR. Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy. [_Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester and Attendants._] FRANCE. Bid farewell to your sisters. CORDELIA. The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; And like a sister am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam’d. Love well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him: But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both. REGAN. Prescribe not us our duties. GONERIL. Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted. CORDELIA. Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides: Who covers faults, at last shame derides. Well may you prosper. FRANCE. Come, my fair Cordelia. [_Exeunt France and Cordelia._] GONERIL. Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight. REGAN. That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us. GONERIL. You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off appears too grossly. REGAN. ’Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself. GONERIL. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look from his age to receive not alone the imperfections of long-engrafted condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them. REGAN. Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment. GONERIL. There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such disposition as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us. REGAN. We shall further think of it. GONERIL. We must do something, and i’ th’ heat. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle Enter Edmund with a letter. EDMUND. Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me? For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? Wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, My mind as generous, and my shape as true As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us With base? With baseness? bastardy? Base, base? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take More composition and fierce quality Than doth within a dull stale tired bed Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops Got ’tween asleep and wake? Well then, Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund As to the legitimate: fine word: legitimate! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top the legitimate. I grow, I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Enter Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. Kent banish’d thus! and France in choler parted! And the King gone tonight! Prescrib’d his pow’r! Confin’d to exhibition! All this done Upon the gad!—Edmund, how now! What news? EDMUND. So please your lordship, none. [_Putting up the letter._] GLOUCESTER. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter? EDMUND. I know no news, my lord. GLOUCESTER. What paper were you reading? EDMUND. Nothing, my lord. GLOUCESTER. No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles. EDMUND. I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother that I have not all o’er-read; and for so much as I have perus’d, I find it not fit for your o’er-looking. GLOUCESTER. Give me the letter, sir. EDMUND. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in