Yea, without ftop, did ft let thy heart confent,
And confequently thy rude hand to act

The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name,
Out of my fight, and never fee me more!
My nobles leave me, and my state is brav'd,
Ev'n at my gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs;
Nay, in the body of this fiefhly land,

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

Between my confcience, and my coufin's death.
Hub, Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace between your foul and you.

Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden, and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter'd yet
The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought,
And you have flander'd nature in
my form;
Which, howfoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

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

Arth.

[Exeunt.

SCENE, a Street before a Prifon.

Enter Arthur on the walls, difguis'd.

T

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

I

I am afraid, and

yet I'll venture it.

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

As good to die, and go; as die, and ftay. [Leaps down. Oh me! my uncle's fpirit is in these ftones :

Heav'n take my foul, and England keep my bones!

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bigot.

[Dies.

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

Pem. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal?
Sal. The Count Melun, a noble Lord of France,
Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love
Is much more gen'ral than these lines import.
Bigot. To-morrow morning let us meet him then.
Sal. Or rather then fet forward, for "twill be
Two long days.journey, Lords, or ere we meet.
Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc. Once more to-day well met, diftemper'd Lords The King by me requests your prefence ftrait. Sal. The King hath difpoffeft himself of us; We will not line his thin, beftained cloak With our pure honours: nor attend the foot, That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks. Return, and tell him so: we know the worst.

Faul. Whate'er youthink, good words, I think, were beft. Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reafon now. Faulc. But there is little reafon in your grief, Therefore 'twere reafon, you had manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath its privilege. Faulc. "Tis true, to hurt its mafter, no man elfe. Sal. This is the prison: what is he lies here?

[Seeing Arthur. Pemb. Oh death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done,

Doth

Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

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

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

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

The height, 'the creft, or creft unto the creft
Of murder's arms; this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft ftroak,
That ever wall-eyed wrath or ftaring rage
Prefented to the tears of foft remorse.

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

Shall give a holinefs, a purity,

To the yet-unbegotten fins of time;
And prove a deadly blood-fhed but a jeft,
Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.

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

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

Pemb. Bigot. Our fouls religiously confirm thy word.

Enter Hubert.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte, in feeking you;

Arthur doth live, the King hath fent for you.

Sal.

Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death; Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hub. I am no villain.

Sal. Muft I rob the law?

[Drawing his ford.

Faulc. Your fword is bright, Sir, put it up again. Sal. Not till I fheath it in a murd'rer's fkin. Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury; ftand back, I fay; By heav'n, I think, my fword's as fharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget yourfelf, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Left I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatnefs, and nobility.

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

Sal. Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo;

Yet, I am none. Whofe tongue foe'er speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who fpeaks not truly, lyes.
Pemb. Cat him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I fay.

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

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.

Bigot. Who kill'd this Prince ?

Hub. 'Tis not an hour fince I left him well;
I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep
My date of life out, for his sweet life's lofs.
Sal. Truft not thofe cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without fuch rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocence.

VOL. III.

S

Away

Away with me all you, whofe fouls abhor
Th' uncleanly favour of a flaughter-house,
For I am ftified with the fmell of fin.

Bigot. Away tow'rd Bary, to the Dauphin there. Pemb. There, tell the King, he may enquire us out. [Exeunt Lords. Faulc. 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.

Hub. Do but hear me, Sir.

Faulc. Ha? I'll tell thee what,

Thou'rt damn'd fo black-nay, nothing is fo black;
Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer.
There is not yet fo ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.
Hub. Upon my foal-

Faulc. If thou didst but confent

To this most cruel act, do but despair,

And if thou want'ft a cord, the fmalleft thread,
That ever spider twisted from her womb,
Will ftrangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or would't thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,

And it fhall be as all the ocean,
Enough to ftifle fuch a villain up.
I do fufpect thee very grievously.

Hub. If I in act, confent, or fin of thought,
Be guilty of the ftealing that fweet breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.

Faulc, Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amaz'd, methinks, and lofe my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
How eafy dost thou take all England up! (23)

(23) How eafy doft thou take all England up,

From

From forth this morfel of dead royalty P] But how did Hubert take England up, from forth the dead body of young Artbur ? Most

faga