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MESSENGER.

       With all my heart, my liege.

       [Exit.]

       KING JOHN.

       My mother dead!

       [Re-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 3. 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.]

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