University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE the French Court.
Pandulph alone.
Pan.
Discourag'd! no; this Battle, like a Blow,
Upon the burning Cheek of injur'd Honour,
Shall turn the holy Vengeance to destroy him.
Such daring Outrage, Heresy so flagrant,
Should, as a midnight Fire, wake the whole Christian World
To quench the Flame. No, never can we bear
The Glories of our Papal Pow'r should stoop
To the inferior Sway of temp'ral Princes.
France bears but ill this fierce Rebuke of Fortune;
Therefore, in him to rouze the wonted Zeal,
The fiery Spirit, needful to our Cause,
Must be our Work of instant Policy.
He comes with wringing Discontent, Reproach,
Vexation on his Brow—it will be so!
Passions, like sudden Floods, must run their Course,
'Till of themselves they ebb, and straight are fordable.

Enter King Philip and Dauphin.
K Philip.
Now, rash Legate, what have thy Counsels done?
Are these thy promis'd Blessings from above?
Now see the just Reward of broken Peace,
Of Faith betray'd! Is not the Hand of Heav'n
Against us? Arthur taken, Angiers lost!
Our Arms disgrace the Talk of vulgar Tongues!
While John, victorious from our bleeding Fields,
With Spoils of France in Triumph sails to England.

Dauph.
O mournful Blanch! how wilt thou now receive me?
[Exit Dauphin.

Pand.
Thus Heav'n, by Suff'rings, forms the great Virtue;
Affliction bends the Soul to Piety.
The Heart of Man, made proud by Pow'r, is apt
To swell with Self-Opinion, to presume,
As Fortune and Success were held his Vassals.
Yet think not Heav'n forsakes, but by this Stroke
Incites thee rather to pursue this Heretick;
As Chance of War has made our Cause more desp'rate,
So are we bound, with double Duty, to retrieve it.

K. Philip.
Preach to the Seas! France is not now himself:
Recal the yester Sun! make me what then
I was, with Patience then—but not 'till then
With Patience can I hear thee; ha! see there!
Behold a Sorrow that exceeds our own.
Enter Constance led by her Woman.
Reproach like this, what mortal Breast can bear!
Battles hard fought the bravest Sword may lose,
But by our broken Faith we chuse our Shame!
O fair Distress! well are thy Wrongs reveng'd!

Const.
What is thy Loss to my Calamity?
Thy Wounds bleed only from the Pride of Pow'r
Defeated; mine a tender Mother feels:
Ambition never knew the Throes of Nature.

K. Philip.
If Shame, Disgrace, and Ruin on thy Head,
That wrought thy Sorrows, can assuage them,
Ease then thy wounded Heart on my Disasters.

Const.
Has then Affliction taught thee this Compassion?
Constance yet never knew a Partner in
Her Woe: I came to triumph o'er thy Fate;
But my Reproach, suppress'd by thy Contrition,
Blends with my own a Sigh to thy Misfortunes.

Pand.
These social Sorrows, streaming to a Point,
But swell the Flood, and make our Purposes
Impracticable— [Apart.]
Lady, be advis'd;
Let not your ill-tim'd Grief dissolve the King
In this unprofitable Softness—
Could you urge ought to animate our Cause,
That to his martial Spirit might recal him,
Then better might his Sword than Sighs relieve you.

K. Philip.
O never will that Day return! Advice
Is irksome now as is a twice told Tale,
Vexing the sick Man's Ear that fain would slumber.

Const.
If Kings on Earth are Substitutes of Heav'n,
Why wouldst thou warn him from its Attributes?
O if thy Heart be human, thou must know
That Pity, though it swells our Grief, relieves it.

Pand.
And yet 'twere kinder to redress than to augment it.

Const.
I prithee let me grieve! is that deny'd me? No,
I will not be debar'd the Right of Lamentation:
O that my Wailings had the Thunder's Voice,
That I might rive the very inmost Earth,
'Till from its hollow Womb grim Death might rise
To give my Miseries their only Cure.

Pand.
This more is Madness than the Voice of Sorrow.

Const.
Thou art not holy to belye me so;
I am not mad, I know my Wretchedness;
This Breast I beat, these Hairs I rend are mine;
My Name is Constance, Arthur is my Son,
The rightful, the imprison'd Heir of England.
Think me not mad, or thou wilt make me so.

K. Philip.
Disturb not, give her Griefs the way.

Const.
—O would
To Heav'n I were, that Madness might relieve me.
Preach some Philosophy to make me mad,
And I will call thee charitable Father:
For while thou seest me sensible, thou seest
Me wretched as the Sense of Woe can make me.

Pand.
O fair Affliction! be thy Soul at Peace;
I meant not to awake but hush thy Sorrows;
Yet think that Resignation is a Duty;
For righteous ever is the Will of Heav'n.

Const.
O 'tis too true, too rashly has, I fear,
My murm'ring Heart complain'd—'tis I, 'tis I,
Constance has drawn these dire Afflictions down;
The Life of Arthur was too young t' offend;
Therefore to double Wailings am I doom'd,
That on my poor Child's Head my Sins are fallen!

Pand.
Despair not, Lady, let your Patience shew,
Amidst its Wrath, your Trust is still in Heav'n.

Const.
He talks to me, that never had a Son.

K. Philip.
Be not more fond of Grief than of your Son.

Const.
I have no Son, Grief now supplies his room,
Fills up his vacant Garments with his Form,
Lies in his Bed, walks Hand in Hand along,
Puts on his pretty Looks, repeats his Words,
Remembers me of all his gracious Parts;
Must the dear Memory of these be lost?
And what, but Grief, can print them in my Mind?

Enter Melun, who presents a Packet to King Philip.
K. Philip.
To us, Melun, from whence?

Melun.
—Express from England.
These to the Lord Cardinal are address'd;
And the same Post brought others to the Dauphin.

K. Philip.
What hear we of the Enemy?

Melun.
—King John
This Night, we are inform'd, sets out for Calais;
Prince Arthur, Madam, to some frontier Castle is
Confin'd, where Hubert has the Charge of him.

Const.
Tho' Death in all its Terrors were his Guard,
Dauntless Despair from Fort to Fort shall seek him:
So when her Fawn the Hunters Toils have snar'd,
The bounding Doe forsakes the safer Herd;
Wild o'er the Fields to his vain Help she flies,
And, press'd by Fear, on pointed Javelins dies.
[Exit Constance.

Enter Dauphin with Letters.
Dauph.
Now to our Cause, Sir, bring we Life reviv'd!
Howe'er proud John may boast his Feats in France,
Fortune, in England, will with Frowns receive him:
His murmuring Barons, ripe for a Revolt,
Recounting here at large their Grievances,
Invite our Arms to give their Cause Assistance.

K. Philip.
To the same Purport our Advices speak:
Here, from the Lords of Pembroke, Arundel,
Warren, and Salisbury, with farther Pow'rs
Associate, and by secret Oaths assur'd,
Receive we, by their own Hands attested,
Offers of fair Advantage to our Crown.

Pand.
Here the same Nobles have our holy Pow'r
Implor'd, to aid and sanctify their Arms.
Now mark! how secret are the Ways of Heaven!
That, from this Battle lost, has only mov'd
The War to surer Ground, from France to England!
O! never let Dejection droop the Head!
While thus the Arm of Providence supports thee!
That, when thy Hopes were sinking, raises them
To Conquest, Vengeance, and extended Empire!

K. Phil.
To England's Empire, what vain Hope can raise us?

Pand.
Not Hope, but Right, shall to thy lineal Blood
Confirm thy Claim! O! Royal Philip, hear me!
For now prophetick Spirit bids me speak!
Here, here before thee, stands the Heir of England!

Dauph.
What means your Eminence? explain this Wonder.

K. Phil.
Were John destroy'd, yet Royal Arthur lives;
And while he lives, what Claim steps in before him?

Pand.
Think you the Date of Arthur's Days a Bar?
Is not his Life in John of England's Pow'r?
O! never will he count his Crown secure,
Ne'er will his Fears know Rest, or Heart have Ease,
Till Life lies cold within the Veins of Arthur!

K. Philip.
Alas! unhappy Prince! I fear his Fate!

Pand.
Grant me then Arthur lost, (as sure you must,
Unless, against his Nature, John turn Saint)
Then, in the Right of Blanch the Dauphiness,
(John standing out-law'd by his Crimes to Rome)
Your Blood comes lineal to the Crown of England!

K. Phil.
Yet say that John intends not Arthur's Death?

Pand.
Is he not dead already were the Question!

Dauph.
Why in so close a Prison should he guard him?

Pand.
Unless to end him were a Cruelty
Unprofitable—or say he dies not now:
Yet when the warlike Dauphin's Trumpet fills
The English Air, that Instant Sound destroys him!
(For John dreams not of yours, but Arthur's Claim)
Thence falls the strong Impression on his Fears!—
And if he kills him, what can save himself?
How shall our holy Vengeance then pursue him!
Tempting, like Hounds, his Commons from Allegiance,
To snarl and scramble for the Bones of Majesty!

Dauph.
A People so misus'd deserve a Leader.

Pand.
Methinks I see this Hurly all on Foot!
Revolt and Rage in every Face!
Whose Prejudice and Zeal so fierce shall flame,
That not a common Vapour in the Air,
Or distant Thunder in the Clouds, shall roll,
But shall as Prodigies, and dire Portent, be deem'd
Of destin'd Vengeance on his impious Head!

K. Philip.
I see, I see it now! The Will of Heav'n ordains it!
And warlike Preparations shall obey:
Melun, lose not an Hour! collect your Troops,
Recruit the broken; be their Numbers doubled!
Our Edicts o'er the Land once more shall drain
The Purse of Nobles, and the Peasantry:
And O! Lord Cardinal—

Pand.
—We know thy Wants!
Nor shall the exempted Clergy here be free:
The sov'reign Pontiff, in a Cause so righteous,
Shall suffer thee to draw from sacred Coffers,
Though, by this Aid, their Charities were stinted!
No, not a Mendicant, in all thy Realms,
But shall his Mite contribute to the Cause!

K. Philip.
Go then, our eldest Hope! be thine the Glory!
Waft thee with earliest Winds to head this War;
Drive from fair Albion's Isle this Infidel!
Assert thy Right, and mount his forfeit Throne!
To thy sage Counsels, Father, we commend him.

Pand.
Not my own Life more precious in my Care.

Dauph.
Nor Life more pleasing than this glorious Charge!

K. Philip.
Farewel, my Boy! if thou speed'st well—for ever.
Never was Breast in Parting so divided!
If thou in England reign'st, thy Right in France,
While we survive, admits not thy Return.
Thus while thy Welfare we of Heav'n implore,
Our highest Hope—is never to behold thee more.

[Exeunt severally.
SCENE changes to a Chamber in the Castle of Roan.
Enter King John with Hubert.
K. John.
This strict Observance of my Orders, Hubert,
Commends thee to a better Charge: Men of
Such Vigilance are scarce, and should be cherish'd.

Hub.
The Trouble you have taken to convince your Eyes,
Coming in Person to observe my Care;
As it has made me proud to have been prov'd;
So shews it, Sir, how near this Boy concerns you!
And therefore shall it mend my Vigilance.

K. John.
Think not a Doubt of thee has brought me hither!
I came, my Hubert, to assist thy Care!
T'inform—instruct thee—to explain my Orders!
Nay to conceal them from the World beside;
For not within my Realms know I a Soul,
Whose friendly Bosom I would sooner make
The Casket of my secret Deeds, than Hubert.

Hub.
I hope, Sir, you have many more as faithful!
Yet this I know! had I a Secret here,
Unfit for other Knowledge than your own;
If Force or Torture would insist to know it, this
Within my Heart should hide it from the World.

[Shews a Dagger.
K. John.
Hubert, thy Hand, thou art thy Master's Master!
There's scarce a Joy or Sorrow in my Soul,
But longs to find its Fellowship in thee!
I had a Thing to say—I know thou'rt secret:
Yet 'tis of such a Nature—now I dare not!
The Sun is in the Heav'ns! and his gay Beams,
Exciting Mirth and Pleasure through the World,
Are all too wanton and too full of Gauds
To give me Audience—No, Hubert, the Time
For Speech like mine—were when the midnight Bell,
With Sound of iron Tongue, proclaim'd the dead
And drousy Truce of worldly Cares and Labour!
The Place—some dark Church-yard or Charnel-house,
Where Tombs, or Bones, and Sculls, might only catch
My Words! There could I meet thee, swoll'n with Wrongs,
When that thy surly Spirit Melancholy
Had bak'd thy Blood, and made it heavy, stagnate!
Which else runs trickling up and down the Veins,
Making that Idiot Laughter fill Mens Eyes,
Straining their Cheeks to idle Merriment,
A Passion hateful to my Purposes.

Hub.
Have you a Purpose, Sir, more fell than Death?
To give, or to receive it, frights not Hubert;
Why then this Pause, this Diffidence of Soul?

K. John.
O! Hubert! could'st thou without Eyes behold me;
Hear without Ears, or make without a Tongue
Reply, using Conceit alone, to sound my Wishes;
Then, in the Face of this broad beaming Day,
Would I into thy Bosom pour my Thoughts,
With the same Confidence my Brain conceives them:
But to a Man like thee, whose Sense compleat
Might weigh against his Deeds their Consequence,
I dare not, Hubert, O, I dare not hint them.

Hub.
Then, Sir, to ease your Heart, I will be plain;
I guess the Secret that distresses you:
Fear not to trust me, Sir, I'll do the Deed.

K. John.
Thou flatter'st me—

Hub.
—I'll serve you, Sir, but yet—

K. John.
What yet? hast thou a Doubt of me?

Hub.
—I've none.
Howe'er, because 'tis possible I may
Mistake your full Intentions, you too must
Be plain, and trust me with each Circumstance:
And, Sir, to shew you how secure you are,
There's my Dagger; if, when you name the Deed,
You find me change, or shew Confusion in
My Looks, or start in my Reply a Doubt,
Or Scruple, to alarm your Jealousy,
Then, from my craven Heart, rip out your Trust!
When you have kill'd me, you resume the Secret.

K. John.
Do I not know thee faithful?—Keep thy Dagger,
It may be useful—

Hub.
—Where?

K. John.
—Must I then speak it?

Hub.
Or how shall I be sure that I obey you?

K. John.
And yet, methinks, in Darkness I could better—
This Light offends—Shut forth the Sun and hear me!

[Hubert darkens the Windows.
K. John.
So,—so,—this Gloom befits our Purpose—

Hub.
—Now, Sir,

K. John.
O! Hubert! Hubert! Arthur—is alive!

Hub.
There lies your Grief, and you would have him—

K. John.
—Dead!
He is a very Serpent in my Way!
A Pain to see, and Danger to my Steps!
If thou'rt my Friend,—remove him.

Hub.
—When?

K. John.
This Night.—

Hub.
—By Death.—

K. John.
—A Grave.—

Hub.
—He shall not live.

K. John.
Enough, my Fears are hush'd! and now with Joy,
I can embrace thee. O, think! think, my Friend!
Howe'er I've worn my Crown—Thy Hand alone
Can make it easy on my Brow—This Night
To England set we forward—When 'tis done,
Bring thou the News—There full Reward shall wait thee.

[Exit King John.
Hub.
Now to my Office, let me think upon't,
As to the Time—the Place—the Means—why not
This very Hour? There, where he is—by this!
[Drawing his Dagger.
Yet hold—to see the Dagger ere he feels
The Blow; his Screams may give Alarm without;
That—that we must avoid—unseen prevents it.
Perhaps he sleeps—then, without Noise, we end him.
Steal on him softly, and observe—he prays!
The fitter for his Fate—a second Thought
Determines to my Wish—suppose, when dead,
Some Proof were left that he destroy'd himself;
The Means, kept secret, will be half the Merit:
That crowns the Work; by this his Beads are counted—
List—no—he's praying still—ha—what is't I hear!
Distraction to my Sense!—he prays for me!
For Hubert! who has made his Chains sit easy,
And thanks high Heav'n he has so kind a Keeper.
What means this damp Reluctance on my Brow?
These trembling Nerves, this Ague in my Blood?
Is Death more cruel from a private Dagger,
Than, in the Field, from murd'ring Swords of thousands?
Or does the Number slain make Slaughter glorious?
Why then is Conscience more restrain'd in me,
Than in a crown'd Ambition? Conscience there can sleep
Secure by Custom and Impunity:
Shall Custom, then, excuse the Crimes of Pow'r,
And shall the Brave be baffled by a Shadow?
Let sickly Conscience shake the vulgar Soul,
That Brute-like plods the beaten Paths of Life,
Without Reflexion on its Slavery—no,
Be Hubert's Actions, like his Thinking, free.
Enter Arthur.
He's here: Young Prince, I have to talk with thee.

Arth.
O! Hubert, I'm glad thou art return'd;
Thou told'st me thou would'st move my Uncle for
My Liberty, and hast thou seen him? ha!
What means that thoughtful Brow? those folded Arms?
And why this Noon-tide Gloom? this doleful Shade?
Art thou not well? I prithee tell me, Hubert;
Or has my Uncle's Answer made thee sad?
For me bad News is better than Suspense.

Hub.
Be satisfy'd—for thou must die a Prisoner.

Arth.
A Prisoner! Tedious Life! O, cruel Uncle!
Is there no Hope, dear Hubert? must I pine
Away my Days within these lonesome Walls?
For Life a Prisoner, said'st thou?—

Hub.
—Only Death
Can end thy Miseries—

Arth.
—Then Death were welcome!

Hub.
I take thee at thy Word. This Dagger shall
Release thee.—

Arth.
—Ha! Why dost thou fright me, Hubert?

Hub.
Thy Fate is in my Hand; raise not thy Voice
On Pain of lingring Wounds. Now, then observe me:
Those golden Tablets I have seen thee use,
Without Delay produce them, quick—

Arth.
—Here! here!
O! Hubert, I have a Diamond on my Finger too,
Take that: Within I've other Gems of Value;
My little Pray'r-book is with precious Stones
Beset, and clasp'd with Gold; I'll yield thee all.
Nay, more, my wretched Mother (give me Time
To write) I know will starve her State to save me!
Let me but live, though here in Misery;
And, Hubert, I will find the Means to make
Thy Life one live-long Age of Happiness.

Hub.
Think'st thou I came to rob thee of thy Toys?

Arth.
It is not Robbery: Why so harsh a Name?
It is thy Right, good Hubert; am I not
Thy Captive, fairly taken in the Field?
Therefore whate'er was mine, by the known Laws
Of War, is duly thine by glorious Claim,
Thy Right and Purchase of superior Valour.

Hub.
I let him talk too much: I must be speedy—
[Apart.
Down foolish Qualm; here, write as I shall dictate.

Arth.
Most willingly. O! any Thing t'appease thee.

Hub.
For secret Reasons we must make thy Death
Seem to the World thy voluntary Choice—
Nay no Reluctance, do it.—

Arth.
—Cruel Hubert!
Must I do more than die? O! Mercy! Mercy!

Hub.
Suppress thy Voice, or thou art Days in dying.

Arth.
I will; O, spare me, Hubert, but a Moment!
But while I call once more on Heav'n! indeed,
I'll not be loud! alas! I need not, there
The softest supplicating Sigh is heard to Heav'n.

Hub.
First, as I bid thee, write; then shalt thou pray.

Arth.
What would thy Rage enjoin me?

Hub.
—Write me thus:
“From an injurious World and doleful Prison,
“By my own Hand this Dagger set me free.”
Write.

Arth.
—O! Hubert, kill not my Soul, nor let
Me send, in Death, a Falshood up to Heav'n!

Hub.
Write, or thou dy'st before a Pray'r can 'scape thee.

Arth.
Should I write this, what Pray'r could wash away
The Sin? No, Hubert, no, if I must die,
I dare not taint my Innocence; and since
Thy Heart has none—may Heav'n have Mercy on me!

[Drops the Tablets.
Hub.
Wilt thou provoke my Rage?

Arth.
—How can I help it!
If I refuse to write, I can at worst but die,
And should I write next Moment thou wilt kill me.
Was it for this I sent my Pray'rs for Hubert!

Hub.
—Ha!

Arth.
This very Hour I pray'd. O! if an Angel
Should have dropp'd from Heav'n t' have told me this,
So well I thought of Hubert, O! I could not,
Could not have believ'd him!—

[Hubert, after some Pause of Confusion, throws down the Dagger.
Hub.
I cannot bear this Innocence!—

Arth.
—O Heaven!
My Prayer is heard, Hubert is what he was.
In his relenting Eyes his Virtue lives,
And, like my Guardian Angel, wakes me from
This Dream of Death.—

Hub.
—Short-sighted Wretch
To think such Cruelty was practicable!
[To himself.
O! raise thee from the Earth, poor injur'd Prince!
Thy Youth, thy Innocence, thy blooming Virtue,
Have conquer'd and redeem'd my Soul from Ruin!

Arth.
Now thou hast taught my Eyes to weep for thee!
O Hubert! wilt thou spare me? shall I live?

Hub.
Not all thy Uncle's Treasure, nor his Honours
Shall tempt me to thy Harm! O Sleep secure!
Hence to some Fort in England will I bear thee:
There shall a short Concealment be thy Guard,
Till Fate and kinder Seasons may relieve thee.

Arth.
O might I once behold the Fields of England,
Tho' from a Prison-Tower, the Prospect would delight me.

Hub.
This Night shall speed us in our Voyage—Ha!
What knocking!

Arth.
—How I tremble!

Hub.
—Be compos'd.
Some Officer with notice from the Guard,
How now! the News?

Enter an Officer.
Off.
—The Lady Constance, Sir,
Is taken—

Arth.
—Ha! My Mother!

Hub.
—Where? from whence?

Off.
Hearing her Son was Pris'ner in this Castle,
Her Griefs have ventur'd, with a small Retinue,
To risk the Mercy of an Enemy,
In hope to have a Sight of him: She waits
Without, and begs in Tears to have an Audience.

Hub.
Conduct her to the Council Room—we attend her.
[Exit Officer.
Come, Prince; to dissipate thy Terrors past,
We'll venture to admit this Interview.
Short must it be—

Arth.
—It shall, indeed, dear Hubert.
I'll not misuse thy Goodness.—

Hub.
—O my Shame!
How will thy Terrors ever be aton'd!

Arth
Despair not, Hubert! let thy Comfort be,
Howe'er thy Soul has wander'd into Error,
No Virtue claims more Praise than Penitence;
Has not the holy Parable declar'd
That one poor Soul recover'd, from astray,
Does more triumphant Joy to Heav'n convey,
Than flows from ninety-nine, that never lost their Way.