For all the treasure that thine uncle owes : 1
Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arthur. O, now you look like Hubert! all this

while

You were disguised.

Peace; no more.

Adieu.

Hubert.
Your uncle must not know but you are dead;
I'll fill these doggèd spies with false reports:
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless 2 and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

Arthur.

O heaven! I thank you, Hubert. Hubert. Silence; no more: go closely 3 in with me: Much danger do I undergo for thee.

ACT V

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII. The Orchard at Swinstead Abbey. (Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot.) Prince Henry. It is too late the life of all his blood

Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain,

Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it makes

Foretell the ending of mortality.

(Enter Pembroke.)

Pembroke. His highness yet doth speak, and holds

belief

1

owns.

2 fearless.

3 secretly.

That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality

Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

Prince Henry. Let him be brought into the orchard

here.

Doth he still rage?

Pembroke.

[Exit Bigot.

He is more patient

Than when you left him; even now he sung.

Prince Henry. O vanity of sickness! fierce ex

tremes

In their continuance will not feel themselves.

Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them insensible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds. With many legions of strange fantasies,

Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should

sing.

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings

His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Salisbury. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born

To set a form upon that indigest1

Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

(Enter Attendants, and Bigot, carrying King John in a

chair.)

King John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow

room;

1 chaos.

It would not out at windows nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

Prince Henry. How fares your majesty?

King John. Poison'd, -ill fare-dead, forsook,

cast off;

And none of you will bid the winter come
And thrust his icy fingers in my maw,

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north.
To make his bleak winds kiss my parchèd lips
And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait

And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

Prince Henry. O that there were some virtue in my tears,

That might relieve you!

King John.

The salt in them is hot.

Within me is a hell; and there the poison

Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize

On unreprievable condemnèd blood.

(Enter Faulconbridge.)

Faulconbridge. O, I am scalded with my violent

motion

And spleen1 of speed to see your majesty!

1 passion.

King John. O cousin, thou art come to set 1 mine

eye;

The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd

And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail
Are turned to one thread, one little hair;
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou seest is but a clod
And module 2 of confounded royalty.

Faulconbridge. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,

Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him; For in a night the best part of my power,

As I upon advantage did remove,

Were in the Washes all unwarily

Devoured by the unexpected flood. (The King dies.) Salisbury. You breathe these dead news in as dead.

an ear.

My liege! my lord!

But now a king, now thus.

Prince Henry. Even so must I run on, and even so stop.

What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a king, and now is clay?

*

Faulconbridge. O, let us pay the time but needful

woe,

Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.

This England never did, nor never shall,

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,

But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them.

rue,

Nought shall make us

If England to itself do rest but true.

SIMON DE MONTFORT, EARL OF
LEICESTER

JAMES LINCOLN

HENRY III. was a weak and pleasure-loving king. In his coronation oath he had sworn to abandon the evil practices of John's reign, but he broke his pledge, defied the law, and plundered the poor without mercy. The barons rose against Henry as they had risen against John, and forced him to abide by the Charter. The revolt was led by Simon de Montfort. This greatest of English patriots was a Frenchman by birth, but he stood high in favor with Henry, who bestowed on him the earldom of Leicester. Earl Simon's steadfast loyalty to right and justice brought him into frequent conflict with the king. Thrice he was banished from the realm, and twice he levied an army to meet the royal troops sent against him. In the battle of Lewes (1264) King Henry and Prince Edward were taken prisoners. In the battle of Evesham (1265) De Montfort was killed and his following cut to pieces. But the final victory was with the champion of the nation's rights. When Prince Edward came to the throne, he governed in accordance with the principles maintained by Simon de Montfort.

Born and bred in a castle of France,

He wore an English sword.

He was Henry's pearl, made belted earl
And seated high at board,

Till the King's own sister loved his glance
And had him for wedded lord.