Puslapio vaizdai

For thus his royalty doth speak in me:
He is prepar'd, and reafon too he should.
This apifh and unmannerly approach,


This harness'd mask, and unadvised revel,
This 'unhair'd' fawcinefs and boyifh troops,
The King doth fimile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, thefe pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.

That hand which had the ftrength ev'n at your door
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch,
To dive like buckets in concealed wells,
To crouch in litter of your ftable-planks,
To lye like pawns, lock'd up in chefts and trunks,
To herd with fwine, to feek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and fhake
Ev'n at the crying of our nation's Crow,
Thinking his voice an armed English man;
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No: know the gallant Monarch is in arms;
And, like an Eagle o'er his Aiery, tow'rs,
To souse annoyance that comes near his neft.
And you degen❜rate, you ingrate revolters,
You bloody Nero's, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for fhame.
For your own Ladies, and pale-vifag'd maids,
Like Amazons, come tripping after drums;
Their thimbles into armed gantlets change,
Needles to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lewis. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in thou canft out-fcold us; fare thee well: We hold our time too precious to be spent

We grant

With fuch a babler.


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Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war
Plead for our int'reft, and our being here.

Baft. Indeed your drums, being beaten, will cry out And fo fhall you, being beaten; do but start An echo with the clamour of thy drum, And ev'n at hand a drum is ready brac'd, That fhall reverb'rate all as loud as thine. Sound but another, and another shall As loud as thine rattle the welkin's ear, And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder. For at hand (Not trufting to this halting Legate here, Whom he hath us'd rather for fport than need) Is warlike John; and in his forehead fits. A bare-ribb'd death, whofe office is this day To feaft upon whole thousands of the French, Lewis. Strike up our drums, to find this danger out. Baft. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.


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The Field of Battle.

Alarms. Enter King John and Hubert.

K. John. HOW goes the day with us? oh, tell me, Hubert. Hub. Badly, I fear; how fares your Majesty?

K. John. This feaver that hath troubled me fo long, Lyes heavy on me: oh, my heart is fick!

Enter a Messenger.

Mef. My Lord, your valiant kinfman Faulconbridge Defires your Majefty to leave the field,

And fend him word by me which way you go.

K. John. Tell him, tow'rd Swinftead, to the Abby there.
Mef. Be of good comfort: for the great supply

That was expected by the Dauphin here,

Are wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin-fands.
M 2


This news was brought to Richard but ev❜n now,
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.
K. John. Ah me! this tyrant feaver burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on tow'rd Swinftead; to my litter ftrait,
Weakness poffeffeth me, and I am faint.




Enter Salisbury, Pembroke and Bigot.

Sal. Did not think the King fo ftor'd with friends. Pemb. Up once again; put fpirit in the French:

If they mifcarry, we mifcarry too.

Sal. That mif-begotten devil Faulconbridge,

In fpight of fpight, alone upholds the day.

Pemb. They fay, King John fore fick hath left the field.

Enter Melun wounded.

Melun. Lead me to the revolts of England here.
Sal. When we were happy, we had other names.
Pemb. It is the Count Melun.

Sal. Wounded to death.

Melun. Fly, noble English, you are bought and fold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

And welcome home again difcarded faith..
Seek out King John, and fall before his feet:"
For if the French be Lords of this loud day,
He means to recompence the pains you take,
By cutting off your heads; thus hath he fworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at St. Edmondsbury,

Even on that altar where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

Sal. May this be poffible? may this be true?

Melun. Have I not hideous death within my view Retaining but a quantity of life,

Which bleeds away, ev'n as a form of wax


Refolveth from its figure 'gainft the fire?

What in the world fhould make me now deceive,
Since I muft lofe the ufe of all deceit?

Why should I then be falfe, fince it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I fay again, if Lewis win the day,

He is forefworn if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the Eaft:

But ev❜n this night, whofe black contagious breath
Already fmoaks about the burning creft

Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied fun,
Ev'n this ill night, your breathing fhall expire;
Paying the fine of rated treachery,

Ev'n with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your affiftance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your King;
The love of him, and this refpect befides
For that my grandfire was an Englishman,
Awakes my confcience to confefs all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noife and rumour of the field;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my foul,
With contemplation, and devout defires.

Sal. We do believe thee, and befhrew my foul

But I do love the favour and the form

Of this moft fair occafion, by the which
We will untread the fteps of damned flight;
And like a 'bated and retiring flood,

Leaving our ranknéfs and irregular courfe,

Stoop low within thofe bounds we have o'er-look'd,

And calmly run on in obedience

Ev'n to our Ocean, to our great King John.

My arm fhall give thee help to bear thee hence,
For I do fee the cruel pangs of death

'Pight in thine eyes.

Away, my friends, and fly!
[Exeunt, leading Melun.

M 3

7 Right

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Lewis.THE fun of heav'n methought was loth to fet,
But ftaid, and made the western welkin blush,
When th' English measur'd backward their own ground
In faint retire: oh, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needlefs.shot,
After fuch bloody toil we bid good night,
And wound our tatter'd colours clearly up,
Laft in the field, and almoft Lords of it.

Enter a Messenger.

Mef. Where is my Prince, the Dauphin?
Lewis. Here, what news?

Mef. The Count Melun is flain; the English Lords
By his perfwafion are at length fall'n off,

And your fupply which you have wifh'd fo long

Are caft away and funk on Goodwin-fands.

Lewis. Ah foul fhrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart,

I did not think to be fo fad to-night

As this hath made me. Who was he that faid

King John did fly an hour or two before

The ftumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mef. Who ever spoke it, it is true, my Lord. [night'; Lewis. Well; keep good quarter, and good care toThe day fhall not be up fo foon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow,



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