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Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou pofleffed 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 ideot laughter keep mens eyes,
And itrain their cheeks to idle merriment;
(A passion hateful to my purposes)
Or if that thou could't 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 despight of broad-ey'd watch ful 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 ine well.

Hub. So well, that what you hid me undertake,
Tho' that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heav'n, I'd do't.

K. John. Do not I know, thou would'ft?
Good Hulert, 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, wherefoe'ér this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me. Doft thou understand me?'
Thou art his keeper.

Hub. And I'll keep him fo,
That he shall not offend your Majesty.

K. John. Death.
Hub. My Lord ?
K. John. A grave.
Hub, He shall not live.

K. John. Enough.
Ani fometimes, for the more folemnity, he is used to add the cise
çumfiance of the particular hour.
The iron congue of midnight hath toll'd twelve.

Midsum, Night's Dream. The bell then beating one.

Hamlet.

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee :
Remember: Madam, fare

you

well.

[Returning to the Queen. I'll send those pow'rs o'er to your Majesty.

Eli. My blessing go with thee!

K. John. For England, coufint, go. Hubert shall be your man, t'attend on you With all true duty; on, toward Calais, ho ! [Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the French Court.

Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulpho, and Attendants.

O, by a roaring tempeft on the flood,

A whole Armado of collected fail Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.

Pand. Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well.

K. Philip. What can go well, when we have run so ill?
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers loft ?
Arthur ta'en pris'ner? divers dear friends flain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'er-bearing interruption, spite France ?

Lewis. What he hath won, that hath he fortify’d:
So hot' a speed with such advice dispos'd
Such temp'rate order in so fierce a cause,
Doth want example; who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this?

K. Phil. 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 foul, Holding th' eternal spirit 'gainst her will In the vile prison of afflicted breath; I pr’ythee, Lady, go away with me. Conft. Lo, now, now see the issue of your peace. K. Ph. Patience, good Lady; comfort, gentle Confiance. Confi. No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

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But that, which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death ; oh amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench, found rottenness,
Arise forth from thy couch of lafting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy deteftable hones ;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows ;
And ring these fingers with thy houshold 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'it,
And kiss thee as thy wife; misery's love,
O come to me!

K. Pbilip. O fair affiliation, peace.

Conf. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's- mouth,
Then with a passion I would shake the world,
And rouze from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a Lady's feeble voice,
And scorns a modern invocation (20).

Pand. Lady, your utter madness, and not forrow.

Conft. Thou art not holy to belye me fo;
I am not mad ; this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Confiance, I was Gefrey's wife:
Young Arthur is my son, and he is loft :
I am not mad; I would to heaven I were !
For then,' 'tis like, I should forget myself.
Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget t
Preach fome philofophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal.
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason

(29) And fcorns a modeft invocarion ) So Mr. Pope: but I have I bought fit to restore the reading of the old Copies. 'Tis certain, our Author employs this word, modern, in a great many places, very cramply. But we shall always onderland him, if we but carry this rema:k with us; that he gene'a by uses it in the fignification of trifling, infignificant, not weigbty, of small moment, &c. Thus his sense will be always clear to us; as it were, metaphorically, from those, who despise modern things, and prefer the ancient to them,

How

How. I may be deliverd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself.
If I were mad, I should forget my son,
©r madly think, a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The diff'rent plague of each calamity.

K. Philip. Bind up those tresses; 0, what love I note
In the fair multitude of shore her hairs;
Where but by chance a filver drop hath fall’n,
E’en to that drop ten thousand wiery friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const. To England, if you will.
K. Philip. Bind up your hairs.

Conft. Yes, that I will; and where fore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds, and cry'd aloud,
O, that these hands could fo redeem my fin,
As they have giv’n these hairs theic 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 fee and know our friends in Heay'n ;
If that be, I shall see my boy again.
For fince 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-forrow 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 rifing so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heav'n
I shall not know him; therefore never, never,
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Conf. He talks to me, that never had a son.
K. Philip. You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
R4

Conf.

Conft. Grief fills the room up of my absent child:
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his preity looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts ;
Stuff's 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 couid give better comfort than you

do. I will not keep this form upon my head,

[Tearing off her bead-cleaths. When there is such disorder in my wit. O Lord, my boy, my Arthur, my fair fon! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my forrow's cure ! [Exit.

K. Ph. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. (Exit.

Lervis. There's nothing in this world can make me joy;
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexirg the dull car of a drowsy man.
A bitter frame hath spoilt the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease,
Evin in the instant of repair and health,
'The fit is strongest : evils that take leave,
On their departure, most of all thew evil.
What have you loft, by losing of this day ?

Lewis. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

Pand. 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 fo clearly won.
Are not you griev'd, that Arthur is his prisoner ?

Lewis. As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.

Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as blood.
Now hear me speak with a prophetick spirit;
For ev’n the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each duft, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark.

Joha

your

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