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. Hub. (aside). His words do take possession of my bosom.— Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper. (Aside). How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out of mine eyes in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it? is it not fair writ? Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Hub. Young boy, I must, Arth. Hub. And will you? And I will. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief 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 lain 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? Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. 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 this fiery indignation, 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. Hub. (stamps). Come forth! Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do. Arth. Oh! save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out [men. Even with the fierce looks of these bloody Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous-rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For Heaven's 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, Whatever torment you do put me to. I Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants. Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend: He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: Let him come back, that his compassion dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be used In undeserved extremes: see else your. self; There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of Heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. 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 DEATH OF KING JOHN. The Orchard of Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. P. Henry. 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. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. P. Hen. Oh, vanity of sickness! fierce And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. Sal. 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. Re-enter Bigot, and Attendants who bring in King John in a chair. K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath It would not out at windows, nor at doors. 1 Upon a parchment; and against this fire Do I shrink up. And none of you will bid the winter come, 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. P. Hen. Oh that there were some virtue in my tears That might relieve you! Enter the Bastard. Bastard. Oh, I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty. K. John. 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 till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod, And model of confounded royalty. Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where, Heaven He knows how we shall answer him; For, in a night, the best part of my power, [The King dies. Salisbury. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord !-But now a king,now thus! P. Hen. 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? |