King John (2015) - full transcript

(dramatic music)

(steady drum beat)

(singing in foreign language)

- Now, say, Chatillon,
what would France with us?

- Thus, after greeting,
speaks the King of France

in my behavior to the majesty,

the borrowed majesty, of England here.

- A strange beginning, "borrowed majesty!"

- Silence, good mother, hear the embassy.

- Philip of France, in
right and true behalf

of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,



Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim

to this fair island and the territories,

to Ireland, Poictiers,
Anjou, Touraine, Maine,

desiring thee to lay aside the sword

which sways usurpingly
these several titles,

and put these same into
young Arthur's hand,

thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

- What follows if we disallow of this?

- The proud control of
fierce and bloody war,

to enforce these rights
so forcibly withheld.

- Here have we war for
war and blood for blood,

controlment for controlment,
so answer France.

- Then take my king's
defiance from my mouth,

the farthest limit of my embassy.



- 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 honorable conduct let him have.

Pembroke, look to it.

Farewell, Chatillon.

(singing in foreign language)

- What now, my son, have I not ever said

how that ambitious
Constance would not cease

'til 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.

- Our strong possession
and our right for us.

- 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.

- My liege, here is the
strangest controversy

come from country to be judged by you,

that e'er I heard,
shall I produce the men?

- Let them approach.

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay

this expedition's charge.

What men are you?

- Your faithful subject I, a gentleman

born in Northamptonshire and eldest son,

as I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,

a soldier, by the honor-giving hand

of Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field.

- What art thou?

- The son and heir to
that same Faulconbridge.

- Is that the elder,
and art thou the heir?

You came not of one mother then, it seems.

- 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.

- Out on thee, rude man,
thou dost shame thy mother

and wound her honor with this diffidence.

- 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, a' pops me out

at least from fair five
hundred pound a year.

Heaven guard my mother's
honor and my land!

- A good blunt fellow.

Why, being younger born,

doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

- I know not why, except to get the land.

But once he slandered me with bastardy,

but whether 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!

- Why, what a madcap
hath heaven lent us here!

- He hath a trick of Coeur-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?

- Mine eye hath well examined his parts

and finds them perfect Richard.

Sirrah, speak,

what doth move you to
claim your brother's land?

- Because he hath a
half-face, like my father.

With half that face would
he have all my land.

- My gracious liege, when
that my father lived,

Your brother did employ my father much...

- Well, sir, by this
you cannot get my land,

Your tale must be how
he employed my mother.

- And once dispatched him in an embassy

to Germany, there with the emperor

to treat of high affairs
touching that time.

The advantage of his absence took the king

and in the mean time
sojourned 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 bequeathed

His land 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.

- 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
claimed 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.

- Shall then my father's
will be of no force

to dispossess that child which is not his?

- Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,

than was his will to get me, as I think.

- Whether hadst thou
rather be a Faulconbridge

and like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,

or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion,

lord of thy presence and no land beside?

- Madam, an 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
stuffed, 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.

- 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.

- Brother, take you my
land, I'll take my chance.

Your face hath got 500 pound a year,

yet sell your face for
five pence and 'tis dear.

Madam, I'll follow you unto the death.

- Nay, I would have you
go before me thither.

- Our country manners
give our betters way.

- What is thy name?

- Philip, my liege, so is my name begun,

Philip, good old sir
Robert's wife's eldest son.

- From henceforth bear his
name whose form thou bearest,

kneel thou down Philip,
but rise more great,

arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet.

(roars)

- Brother by the mother's
side, give me your hand,

my father gave me honor, yours gave land.

Now blessed by the hour, by night or day,

when I was got, sir Robert was away!

(laughs)

- The very spirit of Plantagenet!

I am thy grandam, Richard, call me so.

- 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.

- 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.

- Brother, adieu, good
fortune come to thee!

For thou wast got in the way of honesty.

A foot of honor 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 honor doth
forget men's names,

'Tis too respective and too sociable

for your conversion.

Now your traveler,

he and his toothpick at my worship's mess,

and when my knightly stomach is sufficed,

why then I suck my teeth and catechise

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,

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 practice 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?

O me, it is my mother.

How now, good lady!

What brings you here to court so hastily?

- Where is that slave, thy brother?

Where is he,

that holds in chase
mine honor up and down?

- 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?

- 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.

- James Gurney, wilt thou
give us leave awhile?

- Good leave, good Philip.

- Philip!

Sparrow, James,

There's toys abroad,
anon I'll tell thee more.

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 he get me?

Sir Robert could not do it,

now we know his handiwork,

therefore, good mother,

to whom am I beholding for these limbs?

Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.

- Hast thou conspired
with thy brother too,

that for thine own gain
shouldst defend mine honor?

What means this scorn,
thou most untoward knave?

- Knight, knight, good
mother, Basilisco-like.

What!

I am dubbed!

I have it on my shoulder.

But, mother, I am not sir Robert's son,

I have disclaimed 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?

- Hast thou denied
thyself a Faulconbridge?

- As faithfully as I deny the devil.

- King Richard Coeur-de-lion
was thy father.

By long and vehement suit I was seduced

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 offense,

which was so strongly
urged past my defense.

- 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 unmatch'd 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.

(regal music)

- Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.

Arthur, that great
forerunner of thy blood,

Richard, that robbed 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 colors, boy, in thy behalf,

and to rebuke the usurpation

of thy unnatural uncle, English John.

Embrace him, love him,
give him welcome hither.

- God shall forgive you
Coeur-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 unstain'd love,

welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

- A noble boy!

Who would not do thee right?

- 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,

'til Angiers and the
right thou hast in France,

together with that pale,
that white-faced shore,

whose foot spurns back
the ocean's roaring tides

and coops from other lands her islanders,

even 'til that England,
hedged in with the main,

that water-wall'd bulwark, still secure

and confident from foreign purposes,

even 'til that utmost corner of the west

salute thee for her king,
till then, fair boy,

will I not think of home, but follow arms.

- O, take his mother's
thanks, a widow's thanks,

'til your strong hand shall
help to give him strength

to make a more requital to your love!

- The peace of heaven is
theirs that lift their swords

in such a just and charitable war.

- Well then, to work,
our cannon shall be bent

against the brows of this resisting town.

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.

- Stay for an answer to your embassy,

lest unadvised you stain
your swords with blood.

My Lord Chatillon 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.

- A wonder, lady, lo, upon thy wish,

our messenger Chatillon is arrived!

What England says, say
briefly, gentle lord.

We coldly pause for
thee, Chatillon, speak.

- 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
stayed, 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 Blanch of Spain,

with them a bastard of
the king's deceased,

and all the unsettled humors of the land.

(drum beating)

The interruption of their churlish drums

cuts off more circumstance,
they are at hand,

to parley or to fight; therefore prepare.

- How much unlooked
for is this expedition!

- By how much unexpected, by so much

we must awake endeavor for defense,

for courage mounteth with occasion,

let them be welcome then, we are prepared.

- 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,

whilest we, God's
wrathful agent, do correct

their proud contempt that
beats His peace to heaven.

- 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 armor here we sweat.

This toil of ours should
be a work of thine,

but thou from loving England art so far,

that thou hast under-wrought
his lawful king,

cut off the sequence of posterity,

out-fac'd infant state and done a rape

upon the maiden virtue of the crown.

Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face.

These eyes, these brows,
were molded out of his.

That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,

and this his son, England
was Geffrey's right

and this is Geffrey's, in the name of God

how comes it then that
thou art called a king,

when living blood doth
in these temples beat,

which owe the crown
that thou o'ermasterest?

- From whom hast thou this
great commission, France,

to draw my answer from thy articles?

- 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.

- Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

- Excuse, it is to beat usurping down.

- Who is it thou dost
call usurper, France?

- Let me make answer, thy usurping son.

- Out, insolent!

Thy bastard shall be king,

that thou mayst be a queen,
and cheque the world!

- My bed was ever to thy son as true

as thine was to thy husband, and this boy

liker in feature to his father Geffrey

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, an if thou wert his mother.

- There's a good mother,
boy, that blots thy father.

- There's a good grandam,
boy, that would blot thee.

- Peace!

- Hear the crier.

- What the devil art thou?

- One that will play the
devil, sir, with you,

An I may catch your hide and you alone.

You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,

whose valor plucks dead
lions by the beard.

I'll smoke your skin-coat,
an I catch you right,

Sirrah, look to it, in
faith, I will, in faith.

- O, well did he become that lion's robe

that did disrobe the lion of that robe!

- It lies as sightly on the back of him

as great Alcides' shows upon an ass,

but, ass, I'll take that
burthen from your back,

or lay on that shall make
your shoulders crack.

- What craker is this
same that deafs our ears

with this abundance of superfluous breath?

- Lewis, determine what
we shall do straight.

- Women and fools, break
off your conference.

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?

(laughing)

- My life as soon, I do defy thee, France.

Arthur of Bretagne, 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.

- Come to thy grandam, child.

- 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.

- 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.

- His mother shames him
so, poor boy, he weeps.

- Now shame upon you,
whether 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 bribed

to do him justice and revenge on you.

- Thou monstrous slanderer
of heaven and earth!

- Thou monstrous injurer
of heaven and earth!

Call not me slanderer,
thou and thine usurp

the dominations, royalties and rights

of this oppress'd boy, this
is thy eldest son's son,

unfortunate 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

remov'd from thy sin-conceiving womb.

(shouts)

- Bedlam, have done.

- 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, plague for her

and with her plague, her sin his injury,

her injury the beadle to her sin,

all punished in the person of this child,

and all for her, a plague upon her!

- Thou unadvised scold, I can produce

a will that bars the title of thy son.

(laughs)

- Ay, who doubts that?

A will!

A wicked will,

a woman's will, a cankered grandam's will!

- Peace, lady, pause,
or be more temperate.

It ill beseems this presence to cry aim

to these ill-tuned repetitions.

(chuckles)

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 sounding)

- Who is it that hath
warned us to the walls?

- 'Tis France, for England.

- England, for itself.

You men of Angiers, and
my loving subjects...

- You loving men of
Angiers, Arthur's subjects,

our trumpet called you
to this gentle parle...

- For our advantage,
therefore hear us first.

(shouting)

(drum beating)

These flags of France,
that are advanc'd here

before the eye and prospect of your town,

have hither marched to your endamagement.

All preparation for a bloody siege

all 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 fix'd 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 countercheque
before your gates,

behold, the French
amazed vouchsafe a parle,

and now, instead of
bullets wrapped 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 labored spirits,

forwearied in this action of swift speed,

craved harborage within your city walls.

(cheering)

- When I have said,
make answer to us both.

(drum beating)

Lo, in this right hand, whose protection

is most divinely vowed 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 offense sealed up,

and with a blessed and unvexed retire,

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 proffered offer,

'tis not the roundure
of your old-faced walls

can hide you from our messengers of war.

Then tell us, shall
your city call us lord,

in that behalf which
we have challenged it?

Or shall we give the signal to our rage

and stalk in blood to our possession?

(shouting)

- In brief, we are the
king of England's subjects,

for him, and in his
right, we hold this town.

- Acknowledge then the
king, and let me in.

- That can we not,

but he that proves the king,

to him will we prove loyal, till that time

have we rammed up our
gates against the world.

- Doth not the crown of
England prove the king?

And if not that, I bring you witnesses,

twice 15,000 hearts of England's breed...

- Bastards, and else.

- To verify our title with their lives.

- As many and as
well-born bloods as those,

- Some bastards too.

(chuckles)

- Stand in his face to
contradict his claim.

- 'Til you compound
whose right is worthiest,

we for the worthiest
hold the right from both.

- 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!

- Amen, amen!

Mount, chevaliers!

To arms!

- To arms!

- Saint George, that swinged
the dragon, and e'er since

sits on his horseback
at mine hostess' door,

teach us some fence!

- 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.

- Peace!

No more.

- O tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

- Up higher to the plain,
where we'll set forth

in best appointment all our regiments.

- Speed then, to take
advantage of the field.

- It shall be so, and at the other hill

command the rest to stand.

God and our right!

(regal music)

- You men of Angiers,
open wide your gates,

and let young Arthur,
Duke of Bretagne, in,

who by the hand of
France this day hath made

much work for tears in
many an English mother,

whose sons lie scattered
on the bleeding ground,

many a widow's husband groveling lies,

coldly embracing the discolored earth,

and victory, with little loss, doth play

upon the dancing banners of the French,

who are at hand, triumphantly displayed,

to enter conquerors and to proclaim

Arthur of Bretagne
England's king and yours.

(trumpet sounding)

- Rejoice, you men of
Angiers, ring your bells,

King John, your king and
England's doth approach,

commander of this hot malicious day.

Their armors, that marched
hence so silver-bright,

hither return all gilt
with Frenchmen's blood.

Our colors do return in those same hands

that did display them when
we first marched forth,

and, like a troop of jolly huntsmen, come

our lusty English, all with purpled hands,

dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes,

open your gates and gives the victors way.

- 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 answered blows,

strength matched 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.

- France, hast thou yet
more blood to cast away?

- England, thou hast not
saved 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.

- 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 undetermined differences of kings.

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?

Cry havoc, kings, back
to the stain'd field,

you equal potents, fiery kindled spirits!

And let confusion of one part confirm

the other's peace, till
then, blows, blood and death!

- Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

- Speak, citizens, for
England, who's your king?

- The king of England,
when we know the king.

(groaning)

- Know him in us, that
here hold up his right.

- In us, that are our own great deputy

and bear possession of our person here,

lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

- A greater power then we denies all this,

and 'til it be undoubted, we do lock

our former scruple in
our strong-barred gates,

kings of our fear, until
our fears, resolved,

be by some certain king
purged and deposed.

- By heaven, these scroyles
of Angiers flout you, kings,

and stand securely on their battlements,

as in a theater, whence
they gape and point

at your industrious
scenes and acts of death.

Your royal presences be ruled 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
charg'd to the mouths,

'til their soul-fearing
clamours have brawled down

the flinty ribs of this contemptuous city.

That done, dissever your united strengths,

and part your mingled colors once again.

Turn face to face and
bloody point to point.

How like you this wild
counsel, mighty states?

Smacks it not something of the policy?

- Now, by the sky that
hangs above our heads,

I like it well.

France, shall we knit our powers

and lay this Angiers even to the ground,

then after fight who shall be king of it?

- And if thou hast the mettle of a king,

being wronged 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
dashed them to the ground,

why then defy each other and pell-mell

make work upon ourselves,
for heaven or hell.

- Let it be so.

(shouting)

Say, where will you assault?

- We from the west will send destruction

into this city's bosom.

- I from the north.

- Our thunder from the south

shall rain their drift
of bullets on this town.

- 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!

- Hear us, great kings,
vouchsafe awhile to stay,

and I shall show you peace
and fair-faced 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.

- Speak on with favor,
we are bent to hear.

- That daughter there of
Spain, the Lady Blanch,

is niece to England, look upon the years

of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid.

If lusty love should
go in quest of beauty,

where should he find it
fairer than in Blanch?

If zealous love should
go in search of virtue,

where should he find it
purer than in Blanch?

If love ambitious sought a match of birth,

whose veins bound richer
blood than Lady Blanch?

Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,

is the young Dauphin every way complete,

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 moral fury half so peremptory,

as we to keep this city.

- 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 13 do of puppy-dogs!

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?

He speaks plain cannon
fire, and smoke and bounce.

Zounds, I was never so
bethumped with words

since I first called my
brother's father Dad.

- 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 unsured 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.

- Why answer not the double majesties

this friendly treaty
of our threatened town?

- Speak England first, that
hath been forward first

to speak unto this city, what say you?

- 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, Poictiers,

and all that we upon this side the sea,

except this city now by us besieged,

find liable to our crown and dignity,

shall gild her bridal
bed and make her rich

in titles, honors and promotions,

as she in beauty, education, blood,

holds hand with any princess of the world.

- What say'st thou, boy?

Look in the lady's face.

- I do, my lord, and in her eye I find

a wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

the shadow of myself formed in her eye.

I do protest I never loved myself

'til now infixed I beheld myself

drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

- Drawn in the flattering
table of her eye!

Hanged in the frowning
wrinkle of her brow!

And quartered in her heart!

He doth espy

himself love's traitor, this is pity now,

that hanged and drawn and
quartered, there should be

in such a love so vile a lout as he.

- My uncle's will in this respect is mine.

If he see aught in you
that makes him like,

I can with ease translate it to my will,

or if you will, to speak more properly,

I will enforce it easily 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,

that I can find should merit any hate.

- What say these young ones?

What say you my niece?

- That she is bound in honor still to do

what you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

- Speak then, prince Dauphin,
can you love this lady?

- Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love,

for I do love her most unfeignedly.

- Then do I give
Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces,

with her to thee, and this addition more,

full 30,000 marks of English coin.

(gasping)

Philip of France, if
thou be pleased withal,

command thy son and
daughter to join hands.

- It likes us well, young
princes, close your hands.

- And your lips too, for I am well assured

that I did so when I was first assured.

(cheering)

- 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 solemnized.

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.

- She is sad and passionate
at your highness' tent.

- 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 turned another way,

to our own vantage.

- We will heal up all,

for we'll create young
Arthur Duke of Bretagne

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 exclamations.

Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,

to this unlooked for, unprepared pomp.

(regal music)

- Mad world!

(laughs)

Mad kings!

Mad composition!

John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,

hath willingly departed with a part,

and France, whose armor
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-faced gentleman,
tickling Commodity,

Commodity, the bias of the world,

the world, who of itself is pois'd well,

made to run even upon even ground,

'til 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,

clapped on the outward
eye of fickle France,

hath drawn him from
his own determined aid,

from a resolved and honorable war,

to a most base and vile-concluded peace.

And why rail I on this Commodity?

But for because he hath not wooed 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.

- Gone to be married!

- Gone to swear a peace!

False blood to false blood joined!

Gone to be friends!

Shall Lewis have Blanch,
and Blanch those provinces?

It is not so, thou hast
misspoke, misheard.

Be well advised, 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 punished
for thus frighting me,

for I am sick and capable of fears,

oppressed 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 vexed 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.

- As true as I believe
you think them false

that give you cause to
prove my saying true.

- 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.

Lewis marry Blanch!

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.

- What other harm have I, good lady, done,

but spoke the harm that is by others done?

- Which harm within itself so heinous is

as it makes harmful all that speak of it.

- I do beseech you, madam, be content.

- If thou, that bid'st
me be content, wert grim,

ugly and slanderous to thy mother's womb,

full of unpleasing blots
and sightless stains,

lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,

patched 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 joined
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, changed
and won from thee,

she adulterates hourly
with thine uncle John,

and with her golden hand
hath plucked 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 under-bear.

- Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

- 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.

(laughing)

- '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 splendor of his precious eye

the meager cloddy earth
to glittering gold.

The yearly course that
brings this day about

shall never see it but a holy day.

- A wicked day, and not a holy day!

What hath this day deserved?

What hath it done,

that it in golden letters should be set

among the high tides of 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 burthens
may not fall this day,

lest that their hopes
prodigiously be crossed.

But on this day let seamen fear no wreck,

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!

- By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause

to curse the fair proceedings of this day.

Have I not pawned to you my majesty?

- You have beguiled me with a counterfeit

resembling majesty, which,
being touched 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 vigor 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 perjured 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 perjured kings!

Hear me, O, hear me!

- Lady Constance, peace!

- War!

War, no peace!

Peace is to me a war.

O Lymoges!

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 perjured too,

and soothest 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.

- O, that a man should
speak those words to me!

- And hang a calf's-skin
on those recreant limbs.

- Thou darest not say so,
villain, for thy life.

- And hang a calf's-skin
on those recreant limbs.

- We like not this, thou
dost forget thyself.

(bell ringing)

- Here comes the holy legate of the pope.

- 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 willfully 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.

- What earthly name to interrogatories

can taste 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 heaven, are supreme head,

so under Him that great supremacy,

where we do reign, we will alone uphold,

without the assistance of a mortal hand,

so tell the pope, all reverence set apart

to him and his usurped authority.

(gasping)

(claps)

(laughing)

- Brother of England,
you blaspheme in this.

- 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.

- Then, by the lawful power that I have,

thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate.

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

from his allegiance to an heretic,

and meritorious shall that hand be called,

canonized and worshiped as a saint,

that takes away by any secret course

thy hateful life.

- 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.

- There's law and warrant,
lady, for my curse.

- 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?

- 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.

- Look'st thou pale, France?

Do not let go thy hand.

- Look to that, devil,
lest that France repent,

and by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

- King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

- And hang a calf's-skin
on his recreant limbs.

- Philip, what say'st
thou to the cardinal?

- What should he say, but as the cardinal?

- Bethink you, father, for the difference

is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome,

or the light loss of England for a friend,

forego the easier.

- That's the curse of Rome.

- O Lewis, stand fast!

The devil tempts thee here

in likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

- The Lady Constance
speaks not from her faith,

but from her need.

- 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!

- The king is moved,
and answers not to this.

- O, be removed from him, and answer well!

- Do so, King Philip,
hang no more in doubt.

- Hang nothing but a
calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

- I am perplexed, and
know not what to say.

- What canst thou say but
will perplex thee more,

if thou stand excommunicate and cursed?

- 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 linked together

with all religious
strength of sacred vows.

And shall these hands, so
lately purged of blood,

so newly joined 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.

- 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.

- I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

- So makest thou faith an enemy to faith,

and like a civil war set'st oath to oath,

thy tongue against thy tongue.

O, let thy vow

first made to heaven, first
be to heaven performed,

that is, to be the champion of our church!

What since thou sworest
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.

It is religion that doth make vows kept,

but thou hast sworn against religion.

Therefore thy later 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
their black weight.

- Rebellion, flat rebellion!

- Will't not be?

Will not a calfs-skin
stop that mouth of thine?

- Father, to arms!

- Upon thy wedding-day?

Against the blood that thou hast married?

What, shall our feast be
kept with slaughtered men?

Shall braying trumpets
and loud churlish drums,

clamors 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.

- O, upon my knee,

made hard with kneeling,
I do pray to thee,

thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

forethought by heaven!

- Now shall I see thy
love, what motive may

be stronger with thee
than the name of wife?

- That which upholdeth
him that thee upholds,

his honor, O, thine
honor, Lewis, thine honor!

- I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,

when such profound
respects do pull you on.

- I will denounce a curse upon his head.

- Thou shalt not need.

England, I will fall from thee.

(gasping)

- O fair return of banished majesty!

- O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

- France, thou shalt rue
this hour within this hour.

- Old Time the clock-setter,
that bald sexton Time,

is it as he will?

Well then, France shall rue.

- 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 swirl 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 wish not
wish thy wishes thrive.

Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose

assured loss before the match be played.

- Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.

- There where my fortune
lives, there my life dies.

(gasps)

- Cousin, go draw our puissance together.

- France, I am burned
up with inflaming wrath.

A rage whose heat hath this condition,

that nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

the blood, and dearest-valued
blood, of France.

- Thy rage sham burn thee
up, and thou shalt turn

to ashes, ere our blood
shall quench that fire.

Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

- No more than he that threats.

To arms let's hie!

(drum beating)

(swords clashing)

- Now, by my life, this
day grows wondrous hot.

Some airy devil hovers in the sky

and pours down mischief.

Austria's head

lie now there while Philip breathes.

(drum beating)

- Hubert, keep this boy.

Philip, make up,

my mother is assailed in our tent,

and ta'en, I fear.

- My lord, I rescued her.

Her highness is in safety, fear you not,

but on, my liege, for very little pains

will bring this labor to an happy end.

(drum beating)

(trumpet sounding)

- So shall it be, your
grace shall stay behind

so strongly guarded.

Cousin, look not sad.

Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will

as dear be to thee as thy father was.

- O, this will make my
mother die with grief!

- Cousin, away for England!

Haste before,

and, ere our coming,
see thou shake the bags

of hoarding abbots, imprisoned angels

set at liberty, the fat ribs of peace

must by the hungry now be fed upon,

use our commission in his utmost force.

- 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.

- Farewell, gentle cousin.

- Coz, farewell.

- Come hither, little
kinsman, hark, a word.

- 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 time.

By heavens, Hubert, I am almost ashamed

to say what good respect I have of thee.

- I am much bounden to your majesty.

- 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 from 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 gawds

to give me audience, if the midnight bell

did, with his iron
tongue and brazen mouth,

sound on into the drowsy race of night,

bong, bong, bong, bong.

(laughs)

Or if this same were a
churchyard where we stand,

and thou possess'd with a thousand wrongs,

or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

had baked 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.

(laughing)

A passion hateful to my purposes.

Or if that thou couldst
see me without eyes,

hear me without thine ears, make reply

without a tongue, using conceit alone,

without eyes, ears or
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 lovest me well.

- So well, that what you bid me undertake,

though that my death
were adjunct to my act,

by heaven, I would do it.

- 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 whereso'er this
foot of mine doth tread,

he lies before me, dost
thou understand me?

Thou art his keeper.

- And I'll keep him so,

that he shall not offend your majesty.

- Death.

- My lord?

- A grave.

- He shall not live.

- 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.

- My blessing go with thee!

- For England, cousin, go,

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

with all true duty.

On toward Calais, ho!

(regal music)

(audience applauding)

(regal music)

♫ What is a day

♫ What is a year

♫ In the light and pleasure

♫ Like to a dream it endless lies

♫ Then from us like a vapor flies

♫ And this is all the fruit that we find

♫ Which glorying world we treasure

♫ And this is all the fruit that we find

♫ Which glorying world we treasure

♫ He that will hope for to delight

♫ With virtue much be grace'd

♫ Sweet folly yields a bitter taste

♫ Which ever will arrive at last

♫ But if we still in virtue delight

♫ Our souls are in heaven place'd

♫ But if we still in virtue delight

♫ Our souls are in heaven place'd

- So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

a whole armado of convicted sail

is scattered and
disjoined from fellowship.

- Courage and comfort!

All shall yet go well.

- What can go well,
when we have run so ill?

Are we not beaten?

Is not Angiers lost?

Arthur taken prisoner?

Divers dear friends slain?

And bloody England into England gone,

o'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

- What he hath won,
that hath he fortified,

so hot a speed with such advice disposed,

such temperate order in so fierce a cause,

doth want example, who hath read or heard

of any kindred action like to this?

- Look, who comes here,
a grave unto a soul,

holding the eternal
spirit against her will,

in the vile prison of afflicted breath.

- Lo, now, I now see
the issue of your peace.

- Patience, good lady!

Comfort, gentle Constance!

- No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

but that which ends all
counsel, true redress,

death, death, O amiable lovely death!

Thou odouriferous 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 smilest

and buss thee as thy wife.

Misery's love,

O, come to me!

- O fair affliction, peace!

- 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.

- Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

- Thou art not holy to belie me so.

I am not mad, this hair I tear is mine.

My name is Constance,
I was Geffrey'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 canonized, cardinal,

for being not mad but sensible of grief,

my reasonable part produces reason

how I may be delivered 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.

- Bind up those tresses.

O, what love I note

in the fair multitude of those her hairs!

Where but by chance a
silver drop hath fallen,

even to that drop ten
thousand wiry friends

do glue themselves in sociable grief,

like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

sticking together in calamity.

I prithee, lady, go away with me.

- To England, if you will.

- Bind up your hairs.

- 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 meager 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.

- You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

- He talks to me that never had a son.

- You are as fond of
grief as of your child.

- 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,

when there is such disorder in my wit.

O Lord!

My boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

My joy, my life, my
food, my all the world!

My widow-comfort,

and my sorrows' cure!

- I fear some outrage,
and I'll follow her.

(Constance weeping)

- 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 spoiled
the sweet world's taste

that it yields nought
but shame and bitterness.

- 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?

- All days of glory, joy and happiness.

- If you had won it, certainly you had.

No, no, when Fortune
means to men most good,

she looks upon them
with a threatening eye.

'Tis strange to think how
much King John hath lost

in this which he accounts so clearly won.

Are not you grieved that
Arthur is his prisoner?

- As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

- 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 seized Arthur, and it cannot be

that, whiles warm life plays
in that infant's veins,

the misplaced John
should entertain an hour,

one minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.

A sceptre snatched with an unruly hand

must be as boisterously
maintained as gained,

and he that stands upon a slippery 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.

- But what shall I gain
by young Arthur's fall?

- You, in the right of
Lady Blanch your wife,

may then make all the
claim that Arthur did.

- And lose it, life
and all, as Arthur did.

- 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 born
shall cool the hearts

of all his people and
freeze up their zeal,

that none so small
advantage shall step forth

to cheque his reign, but
they will cherish it,

no natural exhalation in the sky,

no scope of nature, no distempered 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.

- May be he will not
touch young Arthur's life,

but hold himself safe in his prisonment.

- 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.

Methinks I see this hurly all on foot,

and, O, what better matter breeds for you

than I have named!

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 10,000 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 offense.

For England go, I will whet on the king.

- Strong reasons make
strong actions, let us go.

If you say ay, the king will not say no.

- 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.

- I hope your warrant
will bear out the deed.

- Uncleanly scruples!

Fear not you, look to it.

Young lad, come forth,
I have to say with you.

- Good morrow, Hubert.

- Good morrow, little prince.

- As little prince,
having so great a title

to be more prince, as may be.

You are sad.

- Indeed, I have been merrier.

- 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 practices more harm to me.

He is afraid of me and I of him.

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?

No, indeed, it is not,
and I would to heaven

I were your son, so you
would love me, Hubert.

- If I talk to him,
with his innocent prate

he will awake my mercy which lies dead.

Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

- 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.

- His words do take
possession of my bosom.

Read here, young Arthur.

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?

- Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect,

must you with hot irons
burn out both mine eyes?

- Young boy, I must.

- And will you?

- And I will.

- 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 cheered 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 pleased
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.

- I have sworn to do it!

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

- 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 hammered iron?

An if an angel should have come to me

and told me Hubert
should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believed
him, no tongue but Hubert's.

- Come forth!

Do as I bid you do.

- O, save me, Hubert, save me!

My eyes are out

even with the fierce
looks of these bloody men.

(growls)

- Give me the iron, I
say, and bind him here.

- Alas, what need you
be so boisterous-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.

- Go, stand within, let me alone with him.

- I am best pleased to
be from such a deed.

- Alas, I then have chid away my friend!

- Shh.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

- Is there no remedy?

- None, but to lose your eyes.

- 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.

- Is this your promise?

Go to, hold your tongue.

- 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 truth, the instrument is cold

and would not harm me.

- I can heat it, boy.

- No, in good sooth, the
fire is dead with grief,

being create for comfort, to be used

in undeserved extremes, see else yourself.

There is no malice in this burning coal.

The breath of heaven
has blown his spirit out

and strewed repentent ashes on his head.

- But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

- And 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 compelled 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.

(laughs)

- Well, see to live, I
will not touch thine eye

for all the treasure
that thine uncle owes.

- O, now you look like
Hubert, all this while

you were disguised.

- 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.

- O heaven, I thank you, Hubert.

- Silence, no more, go closely in with me.

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

(regal music)

- Here once again we
sit, once again crowned,

and looked upon, I hope,
with cheerful eyes.

- This once again, but
that your highness pleased,

was once superfluous,
you were crowned before,

and that high royalty
was ne'er plucked off,

the faiths of men ne'er
stained with revolt.

Fresh expectation troubled not the land

with any longed-for
change or better state.

- Therefore, to be
possessed with double pomp,

to guard a title that was rich before,

to gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

- 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 patched.

- To this effect, before
you were new crowned,

we breathed our counsel,
but it pleased your highness

to overbear us, and we
are all well pleased,

since all and every part of what we would

doth make a stand at
what your highness will.

- Some reasons of this double coronation

I have possessed you with
and think them strong,

and more, more strong,
then lesser is my fear,

I shall indue you with, meantime but ask

what you would have
reformed that is not well,

and well shall you perceive how willingly

I will both hear and
grant you your requests.

- Then I, as one that
am the tongue of these,

to sound the purpose 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

the 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.

- Let it be so, I do commit his youth

to your direction.

Hubert, what news with you?

- This is the man should
do the bloody deed,

he showed his warrant to a friend of mine,

and I do fearfully believe 'tis done,

what we so feared he had a charge to do.

- The color 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.

- And when it breaks, I
fear will issue thence

the foul corruption of
a sweet child's death.

- 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 deceased tonight.

- Indeed we feared his
sickness was past cure.

- Indeed we heard how
near his death he was

before the child himself felt he was sick.

This must be answered
either here or hence.

- 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?

- It is apparent foul play, and 'tis shame

that greatness should so grossly offer it,

so thrive it in your
game, and so, farewell.

- Stay yet, Lord Salisbury,
I'll go with thee,

and find the inheritance
of this poor child,

his little kingdom of a forced grave.

That blood which owed 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.

- They burn in indignation.

I repent.

There is no sure foundation set on blood.

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?

- 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 learned by them,

for when you should be
told they do prepare,

the tidings come that
they are all arrived.

- 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?

- My liege, her ear

is stopped 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 rumor's tongue

I idly heard, if true or false I know not.

- Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

O, make a league with
me, till I have pleased

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 givest
out are landed here?

- Under the Dauphin.

- Thou hast made me giddy

with these ill tidings.

Now, what says the world

to your proceedings?

Do not seek to stuff

my head with more ill
news, for it is full.

- But if you be afeard to hear the worst,

then let the worst
unheard fall on your head.

- Bear with me cousin, for I was amazed

under the tide, but now I breathe again

aloft the flood, and can give audience

to any tongue, speak it of what it will.

- How I have sped among the clergymen,

the sums I have collected shall express.

(laughs and claps)

But as I traveled hither through the land,

I find the people strangely fantasied,

possessed with rumors,
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.

(laughing)

- Thou idle dreamer,
wherefore didst thou so?

- Foreknowing that the
truth will fall out so.

(laughing)

- Hubert, away with him, imprison him,

and on that day at noon whereon he says

I shall yield up my
crown, let him be hanged.

Deliver him to safety, and return,

for I must use thee.

O my gentle cousin,

Hear'st thou the news
abroad, who are arrived?

- 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, who they say is killed tonight

on your suggestion.

- Gentle kinsman, go,

and thrust thyself into their companies.

I have a way to win their loves again,

bring them before me.

- I will seek them out.

- 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.

- The spirit of the time
shall teach me speed.

(sighs)

- 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.

- With all my heart, my liege.

(crying)

- My mother dead!

- My lord, they say five
moons were seen tonight.

Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about

the other four in wondrous motion.

- Five moons!

- 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.

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,

told of a many thousand warlike French

that were embattled and ranked in Kent.

Another lean unwashed artificer

cuts off his tale and
talks of Arthur's death.

- Why seek'st thou to
possess me with these fears?

Why urgest thou so oft
young Arthur's death?

Thy hand hath murdered
him, I had a mighty cause

to wish him dead, but thou
hadst none to kill him.

- No had, my lord, why,
did you not provoke me?

- It is the curse of kings to be attended

by slaves that take their
humors 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 humor than advised respect.

- Here is your hand and
seal for what I did.

- 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 marked,

quoted and signed to do a deed of shame,

this murder had not come into my mind,

(scoffs)

but taking note of thy abhorred aspect,

finding thee fit for bloody villainy,

apt, liable to be employed 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.

- My lord...

- Hadst thou but shook
thy head or made a pause

when I spake darkly what I purposed,

or turned 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 braved,

even at my gates, with
ranks of foreign powers.

Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,

this kingdom, this confine
of blood and breath,

hostility and civil tumult reigns

between my conscience
and my cousin's death.

- 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.

- 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 features, 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.

(groans)

- 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 disguised 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.

(shouts)

(somber music)

O me, my uncle's spirit
is in these stones,

heaven take my soul, and
England keep my bones!

- Lords, I will meet him
at Saint Edmundsbury,

it is our safety, and we must embrace

this gentle offer of the perilous time.

- Who brought that
letter from the cardinal?

- 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.

- Tomorrow morning let us meet him then.

- Or rather then set
forward, for it will be

two long days' journey,
lords, or ere we meet.

- Once more today well
met, distempered lords!

The king by me requests
your presence straight.

- The king hath
dispossessed himself of us.

We will not line his thin bestain'd cloak

with our pure honors, nor attend the foot

that leaves the print of
blood where'er it walks.

Return and tell him so, we know the worst.

- Whate'er you think, good
words, I think, were best.

- Our griefs, and not
our manners, reason now.

- But there is little
reason in your grief,

therefore 'twere reason
you had manners now.

- Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

- 'Tis true, to hurt
his master, no man else.

- This is the prison.

What is he lies here?

- O death, made proud with
pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a
hole to hide this deed.

- Murder, as hating
what himself hath done,

doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

- Or, when he doomed
this beauty to a grave,

found it too
precious-princely for a grave.

- All murders past do
stand excused 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.

- It is a damn'd and a bloody work.

The graceless action of a heavy hand,

if that it be the work of any hand.

- 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,

'til I have set a glory to this hand,

by giving it the worship of revenge.

- Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

- Lords, I am hot with
haste in seeking you,

Arthur doth live, the
king hath sent for you.

- O, he is old and blushes not at death.

Avaunt, thou hateful
villain, get thee gone!

- I am no villain.

- Must I rob the law?

- Your sword is bright,
sir, put it up again.

- Not till I sheathe it
in a murderer's skin.

- 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 defense,

lest I, by marking of your rage, forget

your worth, your greatness and nobility.

- Out, dunghill!

Dare'st thou brave a nobleman?

- Not for my life, but yet I dare defend

my innocent life against an emperor.

- Thou art a murderer.

- Do not prove me so,

Yet I am none.

- Cut him to pieces.

- Keep the peace, I say.

- Stand by, or I shall
gall you, Faulconbridge.

- 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.

- What wilt thou do,
renowned Faulconbridge?

Second a villain and a murderer?

- Lord Bigot, I am none.

- Who killed this prince?!

- 'Tis not an hour since I left him well.

I honored him, I loved him, and will weep

my date of life out for
his sweet life's loss.

- 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 innocence.

Away with me, all you whose souls abhor

the uncleanly savors of a slaughter-house,

for I am stifled with this smell of sin.

- Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!

- There tell the king
he may inquire us out.

- 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 damned, Hubert.

- Do but hear me, sir...

- Ha, I'll tell thee what,

Thou'rt damned as black...

nay, nothing is so black.

Thou art more deep damned
than Prince Lucifer,

there is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell

as thou shalt be, if thou
didst kill this child.

- Upon my soul...

- 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.

- 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.

- Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amazed, 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 the teeth

the unowed interest of
proud-swelling state.

Now for the bare-picked 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,

1000 businesses are brief in hand,

and heaven itself doth
frown upon the land.

(singing in foreign language)

- Thus have I yielded up into your hand

the circle of my glory.

- Take again

from this my hand, as holding of the pope

your sovereign greatness and authority.

- Now keep your holy
word, go meet the French,

and from his holiness use all your powers

to stop their marches
'fore we are inflamed.

Our discontented counties do revolt,

our people quarrel with obedience,

swearing allegiance and the love of soul

to stranger blood, to foreign royalties.

Then pause not, for the
present time's so sick,

that present medicine must be ministered,

or overthrow incurable ensues.

- 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 blustering 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.

(clock chiming)

- 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 thanked,
it is but voluntary.

- All Kent hath yielded,
nothing there holds out

but Dover castle, London hath received,

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.

- Would not my lords return to me again,

after they heard young Arthur was alive?

- They found him dead and
cast into the streets,

an empty casket, where the jewel of life

by some damned hand was
robbed and taken away.

- That villain Hubert told me he did live.

- 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.

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 door,

and grapple with him ere he comes so nigh.

- The legate of the
pope hath been with me,

and I have made a happy peace with him,

and he hath promised to dismiss the powers

led by the Dauphin.

- 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 cockered silken
wanton, brave our fields,

and flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,

mocking the air with colors idly spread,

and find no cheque?

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 defense.

- Have thou the ordering
of this present time.

- Away, then, with good courage!

Yet, I know,

our party may well meet a prouder foe.

- 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.

- Upon our sides it never shall be broken.

And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear

a voluntary zeal and an unurged faith

to your proceedings,
yet believe me, prince,

I am not glad that such a sore of time

should seek a plaster by contemned 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 honorable rescue and defense

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 it 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.

- A noble temper dost thou show in this,

and great affections
wrestling in thy bosom

doth make an earthquake of nobility.

Lift up thy brow, renown'd Salisbury,

and with a great heart
heave away the storm.

Come, come, for thou shalt
thrust thy hand as deep

into the purse of rich prosperity

as Lewis himself, so,
nobles, shall you all,

that knit your sinews
to the strength of mine.

And even there, methinks, an angel spake,

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.

- Hail, noble prince of France!

The next is this, King
John hath reconciled

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 threatening
colors now wind up,

and tame the savage spirit of wild war,

that like a lion fostered up at hand,

it may lie gently at the foot of peace,

and be no further harmful than in show.

- 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 chastised 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 honor of my marriage-bed,

after young Arthur,
claim this land for mine,

and, now it is half-conquered, must I back

because that John hath
made his peace with Rome?

Am I Rome's slave?

What penny hath Rome borne, hmm?

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
banked their towns?

Have I not here the
best cards for the game,

to win this easy match played for a crown?

And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?

No, no, on my soul, it
never shall be said.

- You look but on the
outside of this work.

- Outside or inside, I will not return

'til my attempt so much be glorified

as to my ample hope was promise'd

before I drew this gallant head of war,

and culled these fiery
spirits from the world,

to outlook conquest and to win renown

even in the jaws of danger and of death.

(trumpet sounding)

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

- 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.

- The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,

and will not temporize with my entreaties.

He flatly says he'll
not lay down his arms.

- By all the blood that
ever fury breathed,

the youth says well.

Now hear our English king,

for thus his royalty doth speak in me.

He is prepared, and reason too he should,

this apish and unmannerly approach,

this unhaired sauciness and boyish troops,

the king doth smile at,
and is well prepared

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 conceal'd wells,

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 his 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-visaged maids

like Amazons come tripping after drums,

their thimbles into
arm'd gauntlets change,

their needles to lances,
and their gentle hearts

to fierce and bloody inclination.

- 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.

- Give me leave to speak.

- No, I will speak.

- We will attend to neither.

Strike up the drums, and
let the tongue of war

plead for our interest and our being here.

- Indeed your drums, being
beaten, will cry out,

and so shall you, being
beaten, do but start

an echo with the clamor of thy drums,

and even at hand a drum is ready braced

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-mouthed
thunder, for at hand,

is warlike John, and in his forehead sits

a bare-ribbed death,
whose office is this day

to feast upon whole
thousands of the French.

- Strike up our drums!

To find this danger out.

- And thou shalt find it,
Dauphin, do not doubt.

(drum beating)

- How goes the day with us?

O, tell me, Hubert.

- Badly, I fear.

How fares your majesty?

- This fever, that hath
troubled me so long,

lies heavy on me, O, my heart is sick!

- My lord, your valiant
kinsman, Faulconbridge,

desires your majesty to leave the field

and send him word by me which way you go.

- Tell him, toward Swinstead,
to the abbey there.

- Be of good comfort, for the great supply

that was expected by the Dauphin here,

are wracked three nights
ago on Goodwin Sands.

This news was brought
to Richard but e'en now,

the French fight coldly,
and retire themselves.

- 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.

- I did not think the king
so stored with friends.

- Up once again, put spirit in the French,

if they miscarry, we miscarry too.

- That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,

in spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

- They say King John sore
sick hath left the field.

- Lead me to the
revolts of England here!

- When we were happy we had other names.

- It is the Count Melun.

- Wounded to death.

- 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,

Lewis 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.

- May this be possible?

May this be true?

(laughing)

- 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?

I say again, if Lewis do win the day,

he is forsworn, if ever
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 Lewis 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 rumor 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.

- We do believe thee, and beshrew my soul

but I do love the favor 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'erlooked

and calmly walk 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.

(drum beating)

- The sun of heaven
methought was loath to set,

but stayed and made the
western welkin blush,

when 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 tattering colors clearly up,

last in the field, and almost lords of it!

- Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

- Here, what news?

- The Count Melun is
slain, the English lords

by his persuasion are again fall'n off,

and your supply, which
you have wished so long,

are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

- 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?

- Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

- 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.

(clock chiming)

- Who's there?

Speak, ho, speak quickly, or I shoot.

- A friend.

What art thou?

- Of the part of England.

- Whither dost thou go?

- What's that to thee?

Why may not I demand

of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?

- Hubert, I think?

- Thou hast a perfect thought.

I will upon all hazards well believe

thou art my friend, that
know'st my tongue so well.

(gun clicks)

Who art thou?

- Who thou wilt, and if thou please,

thou mayst befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

(laughs)

- Unkind remembrance!

Thou and endless night

have done me shame,
brave soldier, pardon me.

- Come, come, sans
compliment, what news abroad?

- Why, here walk I in
the black brow of night,

to find you out.

- Brief, then, and what's the news?

- O, my sweet sir, news
fitting to the night,

black, fearful, comfortless and horrible.

- Show me the very wound of this ill news,

I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.

- The king, I fear, is poisoned 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.

- How did he take it?

Who did taste to him?

- A monk, I tell you, a resolved villain,

whose bowels suddenly burst out, the king

yet speaks and peradventure may recover.

- Who did thou leave to tend his majesty?

- Why, know you not?

The lords are all come back,

and brought Prince Henry in their company,

at whose request the
king hath pardoned them,

and they are all about his majesty.

- Withhold thine
indignation, mighty heaven,

and tempt us not to bear above our power!

I 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 escaped.

Away before, conduct me to the king,

I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

- It is too late, the
life of all his blood

is touched 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.

- 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.

- Let him be brought
into the orchard here.

Doth he still rage?

- He is more patient

than when you left him, even now he sung.

- O vanity of sickness!

Fierce extremes

in their continuance
will not feel themselves.

Death, having preyed
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.

- 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.

(solemn music)

- 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.

- How fares your majesty?

- Poisoned, 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 burned 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.

- O that there were
some virtue in my tears,

that might relieve you!

- The salt in them is hot.

Within me is a hell, and there the poison

is as a fiend confined to tyrannize

on unreprievable condemn'd blood.

- O, I am scalded with my violent motion,

and spleen of speed to see your majesty!

- O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye.

The tackle of my heart
is cracked and burned,

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 until thy news be uttered,

and then all this thou seest is but a clod

and module of confounded royalty.

- 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.

- You breathe these dead
news in as dead an ear.

My liege!

My lord!

But now a king, now thus.

- 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?

- 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.

- 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 honor and respect may take.

If you think meet, this
afternoon will post

to consummate this business happily.

- Let it be so, and you, my noble prince,

with other princes that
may best be spared,

shall wait upon your father's funeral.

- At Worcester must his body be interred,

for so he willed it.

- Thither shall it then,

and happily may your sweet self put on

the lineal state and glory of this land!

To whom with all submission, on my knee

I do bequeath my faithful services

and true subjection everlastingly.

- And the like tender of our love we make,

to rest without a spot for evermore.

- I have a kind soul that
would give you thanks

and knows not how to do it but with tears.

- 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.

(solemn music)

(singing in foreign language)

(audience applauding)

(steady drum beat)