Lew. There's nothing in this world can make me joy; Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought, but shame and bitterness.
Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,
On their departure most of all show evil.
What have you lost by losing of this day?
Lew. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
Pand. If you had won it, certainly, you had.
No, no; when fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
"Tis strange, to think how much King John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won.

Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?
Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak, with a prophetic spirit;
For even the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead

Thy foot to England's throne; and, therefore, mark.
John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be,

That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplaced John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.
A sceptre, snatched with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintained as gained;
And he that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;
So be it, for it cannot be but so.

Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall? Pand. You, in the right of lady Blanch, your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. Pand. How green are you, and fresh in this old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that steeps his safety in true blood, Shall find but bloody safety, and untrue. This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal; That none so small advantage shall step forth, To check his reign, but they will cherish it;

No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scape of nature, no distempered day,
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, presages, and tongues of Heaven,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lew. May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand. O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already,

Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him,
And kiss the lips of unacquainted change;
And pick strong matter of revolt, and wrath,
Out of the bloody fingers' ends of John.
Methinks I see this hurly all on foot;
And, O, what better matter breeds for you,
Than I have named!-The bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ransacking the church,
Offending charity. If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little snow, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain. O, noble dauphin,
Go with me to the king. 'Tis wonderful,
What may be wrought out of their discontent.
Now that their souls are topfull of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew. Strong reasons make strong actions.
If you say, ay, the king will not say, no.

Let us go;

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. Northampton. A Room in the Castle. Enter HUBERT and two Attendants.

Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot

Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair. Be heedful: hence, and watch.
1 Atten. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to't.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter ARTHur.

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.

Hub.
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be.-You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Good morrow, little prince.

Mercy on me!

Arth.
Methinks nobody should be sad but I;
Yet I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him.

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is't not; and I would to Heaven

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead.
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch.

[Aside.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day:

In sooth, I would you were a little sick;

That I might sit all night, and watch with you.

I warrant I love you more than you do me.

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now, foolish rheum!

Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

I must be brief, lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes, in tender, womanish tears.-
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.

[Aside.

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hub. Young boy, I must.

Arth.

Hub.

And will you?

And I will.

Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had; a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again;

And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will;

If Heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,

So much as frown on you?

Hub.

I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation

Even in the matter of mine innocence;

Nay, after that, consume away in rust,

But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,

And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's.

Hub. Come forth.

[Stamps. Re-enter Attendants, with cords, irons, &c.

Do as I bid you do.

Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me; my eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous-rough?

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb.

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word;
Nor look upon the iron angerly:

Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
1 Atten. I am best pleased to be from such a deed.
[Exeunt Attendants.

Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart.-
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

Hub.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth. Is there no remedy?

Hub.

None, but to lose you eyes.

Arth. O Heaven!-that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes.
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub.

I can heat it, boy.

Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be used

In undeserved extremes. See else yourself;

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strewed repentant ashes on his head.

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert.
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things, that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office; only you do lack

That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes;

Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised.

Hub.

Peace; no more. Adieu;

Your uncle must not know but you are dead: