Part 27

CROMWELL. O my lord, Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The King shall have my service, but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours.

WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee; Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee. Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s. Then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the King. And, prithee, lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have. To the last penny; ’tis the King’s. My robe And my integrity to heaven is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience.

WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell, The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT IV

SCENE I. A street in Westminster.

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You’re well met once again.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis all my business. At our last encounter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis very true. But that time offered sorrow, This, general joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis well. The citizens, I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds, As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants, and sights of honour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater, Nor, I’ll assure you, better taken, sir.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains, That paper in your hand?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, ’tis the list Of those that claim their offices this day By custom of the coronation. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir. Had I not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But I beseech you, what’s become of Katherine, The Princess Dowager? How goes her business?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned and reverend fathers of his order, Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off From Ampthill where the Princess lay; to which She was often cited by them, but appeared not; And, to be short, for not appearance and The King’s late scruple, by the main assent Of all these learned men she was divorced, And the late marriage made of none effect; Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady!

[_Trumpets._]

The trumpets sound. Stand close. The Queen is coming.

_The order of the coronation_.

_1. A lively flourish of trumpets. 2. Then, two Judges. 3. Lord Chancellor, with purse and mace before him. 4. Choristers, singing. Music. 5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper crown. 6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Collars of S’s. 7. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as High Steward. With him, the Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of S’s. 8. A canopy, borne by four of the Cinque Ports; under it, the Queen in her robe, in her hair, richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and Winchester. 9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train. 10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers._

[_Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets._]

SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These I know. Who’s that that bears the sceptre?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquess Dorset, And that the Earl of Surrey with the rod.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis the same: High Steward.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. [_Sees the Queen_.] Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel. Our King has all the Indies in his arms, And more, and richer, when he strains that lady. I cannot blame his conscience.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the Cinque Ports.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy, and so are all are near her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is, and all the rest are countesses.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. And sometimes falling ones.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. No more of that.

[_Exit the last of the procession._]

Enter a third Gentleman.

God save you, sir. Where have you been broiling?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i’ th’ Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedged in more. I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepared place in the choir, fell off A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To rest a while, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man, which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks, Doublets, I think, flew up, and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living Could say “This is my wife” there, all were woven So strangely in one piece.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what followed?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneeled and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly; Then rose again and bowed her to the people, When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen, As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which performed, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung _Te Deum_. So she parted, And with the same full state paced back again To York Place, where the feast is held.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it “York Place”, that’s past; For since the Cardinal fell, that title’s lost. ’Tis now the King’s, and called “Whitehall”.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it, But ’tis so lately altered that the old name Is fresh about me.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester, Newly preferred from the King’s secretary; The other, London.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop’s, The virtuous Cranmer.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that. However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th’ King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made him Master o’ th’ Jewel House, And one already of the Privy Council.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, Which is to th’ court, and there ye shall be my guests, Something I can command. As I walk thither, I’ll tell ye more.

BOTH. You may command us, sir.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Kimbolton.

Enter Katherine Dowager, sick, led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman.

GRIFFITH. How does your Grace?

QUEEN KATHERINE. O Griffith, sick to death. My legs like loaden branches bow to th’ earth, Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.

[_She sits._]

So. Now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledst me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?

GRIFFITH. Yes, madam, but I think your Grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to’t.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died. If well, he stepped before me happily For my example.

GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam. For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly and grew so ill He could not sit his mule.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Alas, poor man!

GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodged in the abbey, where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably received him; To whom he gave these words: “O father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye. Give him a little earth for charity.” So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, About the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he rest. His faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that by suggestion Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair-play. His own opinion was his law. I’ th’ presence He would say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example.

GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your Highness To hear me speak his good now?

QUEEN KATHERINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were malicious else.

GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely. Ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford, one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heaped happiness upon him, For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

QUEEN KATHERINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! Patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to.

[_Sad and solemn music._]

GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down quiet, For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.

_The vision._

Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six Personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces, branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order. At which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing, vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone, And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here.

QUEEN KATHERINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter since I slept?

GRIFFITH. None, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? They promised me eternal happiness And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly.

GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me.

[_Music ceases._]

PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is altered on the sudden? How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold? Mark her eyes.

GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. An’t like your Grace—

QUEEN KATHERINE. You are a saucy fellow. Deserve we no more reverence?

GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.

MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness’ pardon. My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman sent from the King to see you.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith. But this fellow Let me ne’er see again.

[_Exit Messenger._]

Enter Lord Caputius.

If my sight fail not, You should be lord ambassador from the Emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Caputius.

CAPUTIUS. Madam, the same. Your servant.

QUEEN KATHERINE. O my lord, The times and titles now are altered strangely With me since first you knew me. But I pray you, What is your pleasure with me?

CAPUTIUS. Noble lady, First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, The King’s request that I would visit you, Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely commendations, And heartily entreats you take good comfort.

QUEEN KATHERINE. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late; ’Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic given in time had cured me, But now I am past all comforts here but prayers. How does his Highness?

CAPUTIUS. Madam, in good health.

QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he ever do, and ever flourish, When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banished the kingdom. Patience, is that letter I caused you write yet sent away?

PATIENCE. No, madam.

[_Giving it to Katherine._]

QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King.

CAPUTIUS. Most willing, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter— The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!— Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding— She is young and of a noble modest nature; I hope she will deserve well—and a little To love her for her mother’s sake that loved him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is that his noble Grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long Have followed both my fortunes faithfully; Of which there is not one, I dare avow— And now I should not lie—but will deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband. Let him be a noble; And sure those men are happy that shall have ’em. The last is for my men—they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw ’em from me— That they may have their wages duly paid ’em, And something over to remember me by. If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents, and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the King To do me this last right.

CAPUTIUS. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

QUEEN KATHERINE. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his Highness. Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I blessed him, For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet. I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be used with honour. Strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, Then lay me forth. Although unqueened, yet like A queen and daughter to a king inter me. I can no more.

[_Exeunt leading Katherine._]

ACT V

SCENE I. A gallery in the palace.

Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell.

GARDINER. It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not?

PAGE. It hath struck.

GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late?

LOVELL. Came you from the King, my lord?

GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk.

LOVELL. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave.

GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the matter? It seems you are in haste. An if there be No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk, As they say spirits do, at midnight have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks despatch by day.

LOVELL. My lord, I love you, And durst commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this work. The Queen’s in labour— They say in great extremity, and feared She’ll with the labour end.

GARDINER. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubbed up now.

LOVELL. Methinks I could Cry the amen, and yet my conscience says She’s a good creature and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes.

GARDINER. But, sir, sir, Hear me, Sir Thomas. You’re a gentleman Of mine own way. I know you wise, religious; And let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, ’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she Sleep in their graves.

LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remarked i’ th’ kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master O’ th’ Rolls, and the King’s secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and trade of more preferments, With which the time will load him. Th’ Archbishop Is the King’s hand and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him?

GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare, and I myself have ventured To speak my mind of him. And indeed this day, Sir—I may tell it you, I think—I have Incensed the lords o’ th’ Council, that he is— For so I know he is, they know he is— A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land; with which they, moved, Have broken with the King, who hath so far Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded Tomorrow morning to the Council board He be convented. He’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long. Good night, Sir Thomas.

LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord. I rest your servant.

[_Exeunt Gardiner and Page._]

Enter King and Suffolk.

KING. Charles, I will play no more tonight. My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me.

SUFFOLK. Sir, I did never win of you before.

KING. But little, Charles, Nor shall not, when my fancy’s on my play. Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news?

LOVELL. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message, who returned her thanks In the great’st humbleness, and desired your Highness Most heartily to pray for her.

KING. What sayst thou, ha? To pray for her? What, is she crying out?

LOVELL. So said her woman, and that her suff’rance made Almost each pang a death.

KING. Alas, good lady!

SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your Highness with an heir!

KING. ’Tis midnight, Charles. Prithee, to bed, and in thy prayers remember Th’ estate of my poor Queen. Leave me alone, For I must think of that which company Will not be friendly to.

SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness A quiet night, and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers.

KING. Charles, good night.

[_Exit Suffolk._]

Enter Sir Anthony Denny.

Well, sir, what follows?

DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop, As you commanded me.

KING. Ha! Canterbury?

DENNY. Ay, my good lord.

KING. ’Tis true. Where is he, Denny?

DENNY. He attends your Highness’ pleasure.

KING. Bring him to us.

[_Exit Denny._]

LOVELL. [_Aside_.] This is about that which the Bishop spake. I am happily come hither.

Enter Cranmer and Denny.

KING. Avoid the gallery. [_Lovell seems to stay_.] Ha! I have said. Be gone. What!

[_Exeunt Lovell and Denny._]

CRANMER. [_Aside_.] I am fearful. Wherefore frowns he thus? ’Tis his aspect of terror. All’s not well.

KING. How now, my lord? You do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you.

CRANMER. [_Kneeling_.] It is my duty T’ attend your Highness’ pleasure.

KING. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together. I have news to tell you. Come, come, give me your hand. Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows. I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous—I do say, my lord, Grievous—complaints of you, which, being considered, Have moved us and our Council that you shall This morning come before us, where I know, You cannot with such freedom purge yourself But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you and be well contented To make your house our Tower. You a brother of us, It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you.

CRANMER. [_Kneeling_.] I humbly thank your Highness, And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed, where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder. For I know There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man.

KING. Stand up, good Canterbury! Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand. Stand up. Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my halidom, What manner of man are you? My lord, I looked You would have given me your petition that I should have ta’en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers and to have heard you Without endurance, further.

CRANMER. Most dread liege, The good I stand on is my truth and honesty. If they shall fail, I with mine enemies Will triumph o’er my person, which I weigh not, Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me.

KING. Know you not How your state stands i’ th’ world, with the whole world? Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices Must bear the same proportion, and not ever The justice and the truth o’ th’ question carries The due o’ th’ verdict with it. At what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you? Such things have been done. You are potently opposed, and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean in perjured witness, than your master, Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to. You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction.

CRANMER. God and your Majesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me.

KING. Be of good cheer. They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you, and this morning see You do appear before them. If they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency Th’ occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us There make before them. Look, the good man weeps! He’s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest mother, I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul None better in my kingdom.—Get you gone, And do as I have bid you.

[_Exit Cranmer._]

He has strangled His language in his tears.

LOVELL. [_Within_.] Come back! What mean you?

Enter Old Lady; Lovell follows.

OLD LADY. I’ll not come back. The tidings that I bring Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels Fly o’er thy royal head and shade thy person Under their blessed wings!

KING. Now by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the Queen delivered? Say “Ay, and of a boy”.

OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege, And of a lovely boy. The God of heaven Both now and ever bless her! ’Tis a girl Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your Queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger. ’Tis as like you As cherry is to cherry.

KING. Lovell.

LOVELL. Sir?

KING. Give her an hundred marks. I’ll to the Queen.

[_Exit King._]

OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I’ll ha’ more. An ordinary groom is for such payment. I will have more or scold it out of him. Said I for this the girl was like to him? I’ll have more, or else unsay’t. And now, While ’tis hot, I’ll put it to the issue.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Lobby before the council-chamber.

Enter Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.

CRANMER. I hope I am not too late, and yet the gentleman That was sent to me from the Council prayed me To make great haste. All fast? What means this? Ho! Who waits there?

Enter Keeper.

Sure you know me?

KEEPER. Yes, my lord, But yet I cannot help you.

CRANMER. Why?

KEEPER. Your Grace must wait till you be called for.

Enter Doctor Butts.

CRANMER. So.

BUTTS. [_Aside_.] This is a piece of malice. I am glad I came this way so happily. The King Shall understand it presently.

[_Exit._]

CRANMER. [_Aside_.] ’Tis Butts, The King’s physician. As he passed along, How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace. For certain, This is of purpose laid by some that hate me— God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice— To quench mine honour. They would shame to make me Wait else at door, a fellow councillor, ’Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures Must be fulfilled, and I attend with patience.

Enter the King and Butts at a window above.

BUTTS. I’ll show your Grace the strangest sight.

KING. What’s that, Butts?

BUTTS. I think your Highness saw this many a day.

KING. Body o’ me, where is it?

BUTTS. There, my lord: The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury, Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants, Pages, and footboys.

KING. Ha! ’Tis he, indeed. Is this the honour they do one another? ’Tis well there’s one above ’em yet. I had thought They had parted so much honesty among ’em— At least good manners—as not thus to suffer A man of his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts, there’s knavery! Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close. We shall hear more anon.

[_Exeunt._]

A council table brought in with chairs and stools and placed under the state. Enter Lord Chancellor, places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand, a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury’s seat. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gardiner seat themselves in order on each side; Cromwell at lower end, as secretary.

CHANCELLOR. Speak to the business, master secretary. Why are we met in council?

CROMWELL. Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.

GARDINER. Has he had knowledge of it?

CROMWELL. Yes.

NORFOLK. Who waits there?

KEEPER. Without, my noble lords?

GARDINER. Yes.

KEEPER. My lord Archbishop, And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.

CHANCELLOR. Let him come in.

KEEPER. Your Grace may enter now.

Cranmer approaches the council table.

CHANCELLOR. My good lord Archbishop, I’m very sorry To sit here at this present and behold That chair stand empty. But we all are men, In our own natures frail, and capable Of our flesh—few are angels—out of which frailty And want of wisdom, you that best should teach us, Have misdemeaned yourself, and not a little, Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains’— For so we are informed—with new opinions, Divers and dangerous, which are heresies And, not reformed, may prove pernicious.

GARDINER. Which reformation must be sudden too, My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses Pace ’em not in their hands to make ’em gentle, But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur ’em Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man’s honour, this contagious sickness, Farewell, all physic. And what follows then? Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state, as of late days our neighbours, The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress Both of my life and office, I have laboured, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the end Was ever to do well. Nor is there living— I speak it with a single heart, my lords— A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace than I do. Pray heaven the King may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face And freely urge against me.

SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord, That cannot be. You are a councillor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.

GARDINER. My lord, because we have business of more moment, We will be short with you. ’Tis his Highness’ pleasure And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower, Where, being but a private man again, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly— More than, I fear, you are provided for.

CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you. You are always my good friend. If your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are so merciful. I see your end: ’Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition. Win straying souls with modesty again; Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary, That’s the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness.

CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little, By your good favour, too sharp. Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been. ’Tis a cruelty To load a falling man.

GARDINER. Good master secretary, I cry your honour mercy: you may worst Of all this table say so.

CROMWELL. Why, my lord?

GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect? Ye are not sound.

CROMWELL. Not sound?

GARDINER. Not sound, I say.

CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest! Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language.

CROMWELL. Do. Remember your bold life too.

CHANCELLOR. This is too much. Forbear, for shame, my lords.

GARDINER. I have done.

CROMWELL. And I.

CHANCELLOR. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be conveyed to th’ Tower a prisoner, There to remain till the King’s further pleasure Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords?

ALL. We are.

CRANMER. Is there no other way of mercy But I must needs to th’ Tower, my lords?

GARDINER. What other Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome. Let some o’ th’ guard be ready there.

Enter the guard.

CRANMER. For me? Must I go like a traitor thither?

GARDINER. Receive him, And see him safe i’ th’ Tower.

CRANMER. Stay, good my lords, I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords. By virtue of that ring, I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men and give it To a most noble judge, the King my master.

CHAMBERLAIN. This is the King’s ring.

SURREY. ’Tis no counterfeit.

SUFFOLK. ’Tis the right ring, by heaven! I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, ’Twould fall upon ourselves.

NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords, The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vexed?

CHAMBERLAIN. ’Tis now too certain. How much more is his life in value with him? Would I were fairly out on’t!

CROMWELL. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye!

Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat.

GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince, Not only good and wise, but most religious; One that, in all obedience, makes the Church The chief aim of his honour and, to strengthen That holy duty out of dear respect, His royal self in judgement comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

KING. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To hear such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin and bare to hide offences. To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe’er thou tak’st me for, I’m sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [_To Cranmer_.] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee. By all that’s holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

SURREY. May it please your Grace—

KING. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my Council, but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man—few of you deserve that title— This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber door? And one as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a councillor to try him, Not as a groom. There’s some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean, Which ye shall never have while I live.

CHANCELLOR. Thus far, My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed Concerning his imprisonment was rather, If there be faith in men, meant for his trial And fair purgation to the world than malice, I’m sure, in me.

KING. Well, well, my lords, respect him. Take him, and use him well; he’s worthy of it. I will say thus much for him: if a prince May be beholding to a subject, I Am, for his love and service, so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him. Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury, I have a suit which you must not deny me: That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism. You must be godfather and answer for her.

CRANMER. The greatest monarch now alive may glory In such an honour. How may I deserve it, That am a poor and humble subject to you?

KING. Come, come, my lord, you’d spare your spoons. You shall have two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk and Lady Marquess Dorset. Will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man.

GARDINER. With a true heart And brother-love I do it.

CRANMER. And let heaven Witness how dear I hold this confirmation.

KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. The common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus: “Do my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.” Come, lords, we trifle time away. I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one, lords, one remain. So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. The palace yard.

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man.

PORTER. You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the court for Parish Garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

ONE. [_Within_.] Good master porter, I belong to th’ larder.

PORTER. Belong to th’ gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones. These are but switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

PORTER’S MAN. Pray, sir, be patient. ’Tis as much impossible— Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons— To scatter ’em as ’tis to make ’em sleep On May-day morning, which will never be. We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ’em.

PORTER. How got they in, and be hanged?

PORTER’S MAN. Alas, I know not. How gets the tide in? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot— You see the poor remainder—could distribute, I made no spare, sir.

PORTER. You did nothing, sir.

PORTER’S MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow ’em down before me; but if I spared any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again— And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

ONE. [_Within_.] Do you hear, master porter?

PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.— Keep the door close, sirrah.

PORTER’S MAN. What would you have me do?

PORTER. What should you do, but knock ’em down by th’ dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.

PORTER’S MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door—he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose. All that stand about him are under the line; they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me. He stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once and hit that woman, who cried out “Clubs!” when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th’ broomstaff to me; I defied ’em still, when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles that I was fain to draw mine honour in and let ’em win the work. The devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely.

PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples, that no audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of ’em in _Limbo Patrum_, and there they are like to dance these three days, besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too. From all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves? You’ve made a fine hand, fellows! There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these Your faithful friends o’ th’ suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening.

PORTER. An’t please your honour, We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a-pieces, we have done. An army cannot rule ’em.

CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, If the King blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all By th’ heels, and suddenly, and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. You’re lazy knaves, And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound! They’re come already from the christening. Go break among the press, and find a way out To let the troops pass fairly, or I’ll find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.

PORTER. Make way there for the Princess!

PORTER’S MAN. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

PORTER. You i’ th’ camlet, get up o’ th’ rail! I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. The palace.

Enter Trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his marshal’s staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great standing bowls for the christening gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks.

GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth.

Flourish. Enter King and Guard.

CRANMER. [_Kneeling_.] And to your royal Grace and the good Queen, My noble partners and myself thus pray All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy May hourly fall upon ye!

KING. Thank you, good lord Archbishop. What is her name?

CRANMER. Elizabeth.

KING. Stand up, lord.

[_The King kisses the child._]

With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee, Into whose hand I give thy life.

CRANMER. Amen.

KING. My noble gossips, you’ve have been too prodigal. I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady, When she has so much English.

CRANMER. Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they’ll find ’em truth. This royal infant—heaven still move about her!— Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be— But few now living can behold that goodness— A pattern to all princes living with her And all that shall succeed. Saba was never More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her; Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her. She shall be loved and feared. Her own shall bless her; Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her. In her days every man shall eat in safety Under his own vine what he plants, and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. God shall be truly known, and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new create another heir As great in admiration as herself, So shall she leave her blessedness to one, When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness, Who from the sacred ashes of her honour Shall star-like rise as great in fame as she was And so stand fixed. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him. Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and make new nations. He shall flourish, And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches To all the plains about him. Our children’s children Shall see this and bless heaven.

KING. Thou speakest wonders.

CRANMER. She shall be to the happiness of England An aged princess; many days shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to crown it. Would I had known no more! But she must die, She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin, A most unspotted lily, shall she pass to the ground, And all the world shall mourn her.

KING. O lord Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man. Never before This happy child did I get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleased me That when I am in heaven I shall desire To see what this child does and praise my Maker. I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, And you, good brethren, I am much beholding. I have received much honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords. Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye; She will be sick else. This day, no man think ’Has business at his house, for all shall stay. This little one shall make it holiday.

[_Exeunt._]

Epilogue

Enter Epilogue.

EPILOGUE. ’Tis ten to one this play can never please All that are here. Some come to take their ease, And sleep an act or two—but those, we fear, We’ve frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear, They’ll say ’tis naught—others, to hear the city Abused extremely and to cry “That’s witty!”— Which we have not done neither—that I fear All the expected good we’re like to hear For this play at this time is only in The merciful construction of good women, For such a one we showed ’em. If they smile And say ’twill do, I know within a while All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap.

[_Exit._]

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN

Contents

ACT I Scene I. Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace.

ACT II Scene I. France. Before the walls of Angiers.

ACT III Scene I. France. The French King’s tent. Scene II. The same. Plains near Angiers Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. The French King’s tent.

ACT IV Scene I. Northampton. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace. Scene III. The same. Before the castle.

ACT V Scene I. Northampton. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. Near Saint Edmundsbury. The French Camp. Scene III. The same. The Field of Battle. Scene IV. The same. Another part of the same. Scene V. The same. The French camp. Scene VI. An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey. Scene VII. The orchard of Swinstead Abbey.

Dramatis Personæ

KING JOHN. PRINCE HENRY, son to King John; afterwards KING HENRY III. ARTHUR, Duke of Brittany, nephew to King John. EARL OF PEMBROKE. EARL OF ESSEX. EARL OF SALISBURY. ROBERT BIGOT, Earl of Norfolk. HUBERT DE BURGH, Chamberlain to the King. ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge. The BASTARD, PHILIP FAULCONBRIDGE, his half-brother, bastard son to King Richard I. JAMES GURNEY, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. PETER OF POMFRET, a prophet

KING PHILIP II., King of France. LOUIS, the Dauphin; son to King Philip II. DUKE OF AUSTRIA, also called Limoges. MELUN, a French lord. CHATILLION, Ambassador from France to King John. CARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope’s legate.

QUEEN ELEANOR, Mother to King John and Widow of King Henry II. CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur. BLANCHE OF SPAIN, Daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile, and Niece to King John. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, Mother to the Bastard and Robert Faulconbridge.

Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Executioners, Messengers and other Attendants.

SCENE: Sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.

ACT I

SCENE I. Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter King John, Queen Eleanor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury and others with Chatillion.

KING JOHN. Now, say, Chatillion, what would France with us?

CHATILLION. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrow’d majesty, of England here.

QUEEN ELEANOR. A strange beginning: “borrow’d majesty”!

KING JOHN. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

CHATILLION. Philip of France, in right and true behalf Of thy deceased brother Geoffrey’s son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poitiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur’s hand, Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

KING JOHN. What follows if we disallow of this?

CHATILLION. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

KING JOHN. Here have we war for war and blood for blood, Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

CHATILLION. Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth, The farthest limit of my embassy.

KING JOHN. 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 honourable conduct let him have. Pembroke, look to ’t. Farewell, Chatillion.

[_Exeunt Chatillion and Pembroke._]

QUEEN ELEANOR. What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till 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.

KING JOHN. Our strong possession and our right for us.

QUEEN ELEANOR. 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.

Enter a Sheriff, who whispers to Essex.

ESSEX. My liege, here is the strangest controversy, Come from the country to be judg’d by you, That e’er I heard. Shall I produce the men?

KING JOHN. Let them approach.

[_Exit Sheriff._]

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition’s charge.

Enter Robert Faulconbridge and Philip, his Bastard brother.

What men are you?

BASTARD. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, A soldier by the honour-giving hand Of Cœur-de-lion knighted in the field.

KING JOHN. What art thou?

ROBERT. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

KING JOHN. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems.

BASTARD. 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.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Out on thee, rude man! Thou dost shame thy mother And wound her honour with this diffidence.

BASTARD. 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, he pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year. Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land!

KING JOHN. A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

BASTARD. I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander’d me with bastardy. But whe’er 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!

KING JOHN. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!

QUEEN ELEANOR. He hath a trick of Cœur-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?

KING JOHN. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother’s land?

BASTARD. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that face would he have all my land: A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year!

ROBERT. My gracious liege, when that my father liv’d, Your brother did employ my father much—

BASTARD. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land. Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother.

ROBERT. And once dispatch’d him in an embassy To Germany, there with the emperor To treat of high affairs touching that time. Th’ advantage of his absence took the King And in the meantime sojourn’d 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 bequeath’d His lands 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.

KING JOHN. 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 claim’d 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.

ROBERT. Shall then my father’s will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his?

BASTARD. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me, as I think.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Whether hadst thou rather be: a Faulconbridge And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-lion, Lord of thy presence and no land besides?

BASTARD. Madam, and 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 stuff’d, 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.

QUEEN ELEANOR. 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.

BASTARD. Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my chance. Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear. Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

BASTARD. Our country manners give our betters way.

KING JOHN. What is thy name?

BASTARD. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun; Philip, good old Sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son.

KING JOHN. From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearest. Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great, Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet.

BASTARD. Brother by th’ mother’s side, give me your hand. My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, Sir Robert was away!

QUEEN ELEANOR. The very spirit of Plantagenet! I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so.

BASTARD. 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.

KING JOHN. 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.

BASTARD. Brother, adieu, good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i’ th’ way of honesty.

[_Exeunt all but the Bastard._]

A foot of honour 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 honour doth forget men’s names: ’Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize 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, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po, 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 practise 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? What woman-post is this? Hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her?

Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney.

O me, ’tis my mother!—How now, good lady? What brings you here to court so hastily?

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave, thy brother? Where is he That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

BASTARD. 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?

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. 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.

BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip.

BASTARD. Philip?—sparrow!—James, There’s toys abroad. Anon I’ll tell thee more.

[_Exit Gurney._]

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 … get me. Sir Robert could not do it. We know his handiwork. Therefore, good mother, To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour? What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

BASTARD. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. What! I am dubb’d! I have it on my shoulder. But, mother, I am not Sir Robert’s son. I have disclaim’d 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?

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the devil.

LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Cœur-de-lion was thy father. By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d 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 offence, Which was so strongly urg’d, past my defence.

BASTARD. 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 unmatched 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.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. France. Before the walls of Angiers.

Enter, on one side, the Archduke of Austria and Forces; on the other, Philip King of France, Louis, Constance, Arthur and Forces.

LOUIS. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb’d 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 colours, boy, in thy behalf, And to rebuke the usurpation Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

ARTHUR. God shall forgive you Cœur-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 unstained love. Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

LOUIS. A noble boy. Who would not do thee right?

AUSTRIA. 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, Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, Together with that pale, that white-fac’d shore, Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides And coops from other lands her islanders, Even till that England, hedg’d in with the main, That water-walled bulwark, still secure And confident from foreign purposes, Even till that utmost corner of the west Salute thee for her king; till then, fair boy, Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

CONSTANCE. O, take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s thanks, Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength To make a more requital to your love!

AUSTRIA. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords In such a just and charitable war.

KING PHILIP. Well then, to work; our cannon shall be bent Against the brows of this resisting town. Call for our chiefest men of discipline, To cull the plots of best advantages. 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.

CONSTANCE. Stay for an answer to your embassy, Lest unadvis’d you stain your swords with blood. My Lord Chatillion 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.

Enter Chatillion.

KING PHILIP. A wonder, lady! Lo, upon thy wish, Our messenger Chatillion is arriv’d. What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; We coldly pause for thee; Chatillion, speak.

CHATILLION. 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 stay’d, 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 Blanche of Spain; With them a bastard of the King’s deceas’d. And all th’ unsettled humours of the land; Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er Did never float upon the swelling tide To do offence and scathe in Christendom.

[_Drums beat within._]

The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance. They are at hand, To parley or to fight, therefore prepare.

KING PHILIP. How much unlook’d-for is this expedition!

AUSTRIA. By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence, For courage mounteth with occasion. Let them be welcome, then; we are prepar’d.

Enter King John, Eleanor, Blanche, the Bastard, Pembroke, Lords and Forces.

KING JOHN. 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, Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that beats his peace to heaven.

KING PHILIP. 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 armour here we sweat. This toil of ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far That thou hast underwrought his lawful king, Cut off the sequence of posterity, Outfaced infant state, and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geoffrey’s face; These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his: This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geoffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. That Geoffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was Geoffrey’s right, And this is Geoffrey’s. In the name of God, How comes it then that thou art call’d a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat, Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest?

KING JOHN. From whom hast thou this great commission, France, To draw my answer from thy articles?

KING PHILIP. 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.

KING JOHN. Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

KING PHILIP. Excuse it is to beat usurping down.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?

CONSTANCE. Let me make answer: thy usurping son.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Out, insolent! Thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world!

CONSTANCE. My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geoffrey 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, and if thou wert his mother.

QUEEN ELEANOR. There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

CONSTANCE. There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

AUSTRIA. Peace!

BASTARD. Hear the crier!

AUSTRIA. What the devil art thou?

BASTARD. One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An he may catch your hide and you alone. You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard. I’ll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right; Sirrah, look to ’t; i’ faith I will, i’ faith.

BLANCHE. O, well did he become that lion’s robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe!

BASTARD. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass. But, ass, I’ll take that burden from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

AUSTRIA. What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath?

KING PHILIP. Louis, determine what we shall do straight.

LOUIS. Women and fools, break off your conference.

KING PHILIP. 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?

KING JOHN. My life as soon: I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Brittany, 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.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Come to thy grandam, child.

CONSTANCE. 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.

ARTHUR. 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.

QUEEN ELEANOR. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

CONSTANCE. Now, shame upon you, whe’er 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 brib’d To do him justice, and revenge on you.

QUEEN ELEANOR. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

CONSTANCE. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth! Call not me slanderer. Thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties, and rights Of this oppressed boy. This is thy eldest son’s son, Infortunate 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 Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

KING JOHN. Bedlam, have done.

CONSTANCE. 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, plagued for her And with her plague; her sin his injury Her injury the beadle to her sin, All punish’d in the person of this child, And all for her. A plague upon her!

QUEEN ELEANOR. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A will that bars the title of thy son.

CONSTANCE. Ay, who doubts that? A will, a wicked will; A woman’s will; a cankered grandam’s will!

KING PHILIP. Peace, lady! Pause, or be more temperate. It ill beseems this presence to cry aim To these ill-tuned repetitions.— 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 sounds. Enter Citizens upon the walls.

CITIZEN. Who is it that hath warn’d us to the walls?

KING PHILIP. ’Tis France, for England.

KING JOHN. England for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects—

KING PHILIP. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects, Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle—

KING JOHN. For our advantage; therefore hear us first. These flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march’d to your endamagement. The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls. All preparation for a bloody siege And 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 fixed 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 countercheck before your gates, To save unscratch’d your city’s threatened cheeks, Behold, the French, amaz’d, vouchsafe a parle; And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d 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 labour’d spirits Forwearied in this action of swift speed, Craves harbourage within your city walls.

KING PHILIP. When I have said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vow’d 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 offence seal’d up; Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent Against th’ invulnerable clouds of heaven; And with a blessed and unvex’d retire, With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruis’d, 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 proffer’d offer, ’Tis not the roundure of your old-fac’d walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English, and their discipline Were harbour’d in their rude circumference. Then, tell us, shall your city call us lord In that behalf which we have challeng’d it? Or shall we give the signal to our rage And stalk in blood to our possession?

FIRST CITIZEN. In brief, we are the King of England’s subjects. For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

KING JOHN. Acknowledge then the King, and let me in.

CITIZEN. That can we not; but he that proves the King, To him will we prove loyal. Till that time Have we ramm’d up our gates against the world.

KING JOHN. Doth not the crown of England prove the King? And if not that, I bring you witnesses, Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed—

BASTARD. Bastards and else.

KING JOHN. To verify our title with their lives.

KING PHILIP. As many and as well-born bloods as those—

BASTARD. Some bastards too.

KING PHILIP. Stand in his face to contradict his claim.

FIRST CITIZEN. Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

KING JOHN. 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!

KING PHILIP. Amen, Amen!—Mount, chevaliers! To arms!

BASTARD. Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e’er since Sits on ’s horseback at mine hostess’ door, Teach us some fence! [_To Austria_.] 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.

AUSTRIA. Peace! No more.

BASTARD. O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

KING JOHN. Up higher to the plain; where we’ll set forth In best appointment all our regiments.

BASTARD. Speed, then, to take advantage of the field.

KING PHILIP. It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to stand. God and our right!

[_Exeunt severally._]

Here, after excursions, enter a Herald of France with Trumpets, to the gates.

FRENCH HERALD. You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, And let young Arthur, Duke of Brittany, in, Who by the hand of France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scatter’d on the bleeding ground. Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth; And victory, with little loss, doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d, To enter conquerors, and to proclaim Arthur of Brittany England’s king and yours.

Enter English Herald with Trumpet.

ENGLISH HERALD. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and England’s, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day. Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright, Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood; There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of France, Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when we first march’d forth; And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes: Open your gates and give the victors way.

FIRST CITIZEN. 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 answer’d blows; Strength match’d 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.

Enter on one side King John, Eleanor, Blanche, the Bastard and Forces; on the other, King Philip, Louis, Austria and Forces.

KING JOHN. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away? Say, shall the current of our right run on, Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, Shall leave his native channel, and o’erswell With course disturb’d even thy confining shores, Unless thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean?

KING PHILIP. England, thou hast not sav’d 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, Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

BASTARD. 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 undetermin’d differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry havoc, kings! Back to the stained field, You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits! Then let confusion of one part confirm The other’s peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death!

KING JOHN. Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

KING PHILIP. Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your king?

FIRST CITIZEN. The King of England, when we know the king.

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

KING JOHN. In us, that are our own great deputy, And bear possession of our person here, Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

FIRST CITIZEN. A greater power than we denies all this; And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates: Kings of our fear, until our fears, resolv’d, Be by some certain king purg’d and depos’d.