ACT V. SCENE 1. England. KING JOHN'S palace  Enter KING JOHN, PANDULPH, and attendants    KING JOHN. Thus have I yielded up into your hand     The circle of my glory.   PANDULPH.  [Gives back the crown]  Take again     From this my hand, as holding of the Pope,     Your sovereign greatness and authority.   KING JOHN. Now keep your holy word; go meet the French;     And from his Holiness use all your power     To stop their marches fore we are inflam'd.     Our discontented counties do revolt;     Our people quarrel with obedience,     Swearing allegiance and the love of soul     To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.     This inundation of mistemp'red humour     Rests by you only to be qualified.     Then pause not; for the present time's so sick     That present med'cine must be minist'red     Or overthrow incurable ensues.   PANDULPH. It was my breath that blew this tempest up,     Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope;     But since you are a gentle convertite,     My tongue shall hush again this storm of war     And make fair weather in your blust'ring land.     On this Ascension-day, remember well,     Upon your oath of service to the Pope,     Go I to make the French lay down their arms.                 Exit   KING JOHN. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet     Say that before Ascension-day at noon     My crown I should give off? Even so I have.     I did suppose it should be on constraint;     But, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary.                   Enter the BASTARD    BASTARD. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out     But Dover Castle. London hath receiv'd,     Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers.     Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone     To offer service to your enemy;     And wild amazement hurries up and down     The little number of your doubtful friends.   KING JOHN. Would not my lords return to me again     After they heard young Arthur was alive?     BASTARD. They found him dead, and cast into the streets,     An empty casket, where the jewel of life     By some damn'd hand was robbed and ta'en away.   KING JOHN. That villain Hubert told me he did live.   BASTARD. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.     But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad?     Be great in act, as you have been in thought;     Let not the world see fear and sad distrust     Govern the motion of a kingly eye.     Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;     Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow     Of bragging horror; so shall inferior eyes,     That borrow their behaviours from the great,     Grow great by your example and put on     The dauntless spirit of resolution.     Away, and glister like the god of war     When he intendeth to become the field;     Show boldness and aspiring confidence.     What, shall they seek the lion in his den,     And fright him there, and make him tremble there?     O, let it not be said! Forage, and run     To meet displeasure farther from the doors     And grapple with him ere he come so nigh.   KING JOHN. The legate of the Pope hath been with me,     And I have made a happy peace with him;     And he hath promis'd to dismiss the powers     Led by the Dauphin.   BASTARD. O inglorious league!     Shall we, upon the footing of our land,     Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,     Insinuation, parley, and base truce,     To arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy,     A cock'red silken wanton, brave our fields     And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,     Mocking the air with colours idly spread,     And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms.     Perchance the Cardinal cannot make your peace;     Or, if he do, let it at least be said     They saw we had a purpose of defence.   KING JOHN. Have thou the ordering of this present time.   BASTARD. Away, then, with good courage!     Yet, I know     Our party may well meet a prouder foe.                     Exeunt     SCENE 2. England. The DAUPHIN'S camp at Saint Edmundsbury  Enter, in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and soldiers    LEWIS. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out     And keep it safe for our remembrance;     Return the precedent to these lords again,     That, having our fair order written down,     Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes,     May know wherefore we took the sacrament,     And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.   SALISBURY. Upon our sides it never shall be broken.     And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear     A voluntary zeal and an unurg'd faith     To your proceedings; yet, believe me, Prince,     I am not glad that such a sore of time     Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt,     And heal the inveterate canker of one wound     By making many. O, it grieves my soul     That I must draw this metal from my side     To be a widow-maker! O, and there     Where honourable rescue and defence     Cries out upon the name of Salisbury!     But such is the infection of the time     That, for the health and physic of our right,     We cannot deal but with the very hand     Of stern injustice and confused wrong.     And is't not pity, O my grieved friends!     That we, the sons and children of this isle,     Were born to see so sad an hour as this;     Wherein we step after a stranger-march     Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up     Her enemies' ranks-I must withdraw and weep     Upon the spot of this enforced cause-     To grace the gentry of a land remote     And follow unacquainted colours here?     What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove!     That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about,     Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself     And grapple thee unto a pagan shore,     Where these two Christian armies might combine     The blood of malice in a vein of league,     And not to spend it so unneighbourly!   LEWIS. A noble temper dost thou show in this;     And great affections wrestling in thy bosom     Doth make an earthquake of nobility.     O, what a noble combat hast thou fought     Between compulsion and a brave respect!     Let me wipe off this honourable dew     That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks.     My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,     Being an ordinary inundation;     But this effusion of such manly drops,     This show'r, blown up by tempest of the soul,     Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz'd     Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven     Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.     Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,     And with a great heart heave away this storm;     Commend these waters to those baby eyes     That never saw the giant world enrag'd,     Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,     Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.     Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep     Into the purse of rich prosperity     As Lewis himself. So, nobles, shall you all,     That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.                  Enter PANDULPH      And even there, methinks, an angel spake:     Look where the holy legate comes apace,     To give us warrant from the hand of heaven     And on our actions set the name of right     With holy breath.   PANDULPH. Hail, noble prince of France!     The next is this: King John hath reconcil'd     Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,     That so stood out against the holy Church,     The great metropolis and see of Rome.     Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up     And tame the savage spirit of wild war,     That, like a lion fostered up at hand,     It may lie gently at the foot of peace     And be no further harmful than in show.   LEWIS. Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not back:     I am too high-born to be propertied,     To be a secondary at control,     Or useful serving-man and instrument     To any sovereign state throughout the world.     Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars     Between this chastis'd kingdom and myself     And brought in matter that should feed this fire;     And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out     With that same weak wind which enkindled it.     You taught me how to know the face of right,     Acquainted me with interest to this land,     Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;     And come ye now to tell me John hath made     His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?     I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,     After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;     And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back     Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?     Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,     What men provided, what munition sent,     To underprop this action? Is 't not I     That undergo this charge? Who else but I,     And such as to my claim are liable,     Sweat in this business and maintain this war?     Have I not heard these islanders shout out     'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns?     Have I not here the best cards for the game     To will this easy match, play'd for a crown?     And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?     No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.   PANDULPH. You look but on the outside of this work.   LEWIS. Outside or inside, I will not return     Till my attempt so much be glorified     As to my ample hope was promised     Before I drew this gallant head of war,     And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world     To outlook conquest, and to will renown     Even in the jaws of danger and of death.                                                      [Trumpet sounds]     What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?               Enter the BASTARD, attended    BASTARD. According to the fair play of the world,     Let me have audience: I am sent to speak.     My holy lord of Milan, from the King     I come, to learn how you have dealt for him;     And, as you answer, I do know the scope     And warrant limited unto my tongue.   PANDULPH. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,     And will not temporize with my entreaties;     He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms.   BASTARD. By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,     The youth says well. Now hear our English King;     For thus his royalty doth speak in me.     He is prepar'd, and reason too he should.     This apish and unmannerly approach,     This harness'd masque and unadvised revel     This unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops,     The King doth smile at; and is well prepar'd     To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,     From out the circle of his territories.     That hand which had the strength, even 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 stable planks,     To lie like pawns lock'd up in chests and trunks,     To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out     In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake     Even at the crying of your nation's crow,     Thinking this voice an armed Englishman-     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 aery tow'rs     To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.     And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,     You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb     Of your dear mother England, blush for shame;     For your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids,     Like Amazons, come tripping after drums,     Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,     Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts     To fierce and bloody inclination.   LEWIS. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;     We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee well;     We hold our time too precious to be spent     With such a brabbler.   PANDULPH. Give me leave to speak.   BASTARD. No, I will speak.   LEWIS. We will attend to neither.     Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war,     Plead for our interest and our being here.   BASTARD. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;     And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start     And echo with the clamour of thy drum,     And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd     That shall reverberate 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 trusting to this halting legate here,     Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need-     Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits     A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day     To feast upon whole thousands of the French.   LEWIS. Strike up our drums to find this danger out.   BASTARD. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.     Exeunt     SCENE 3.  England. The field of battle  Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT    KING JOHN. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.   HUBERT. Badly, I fear. How fares your Majesty?   KING JOHN. This fever that hath troubled me so long     Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick!                    Enter a MESSENGER    MESSENGER. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,     Desires your Majesty to leave the field     And send him word by me which way you go.   KING JOHN. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.   MESSENGER. Be of good comfort; for the great supply     That was expected by the Dauphin here     Are wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands;     This news was brought to Richard but even now.     The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.   KING JOHN. Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up     And will not let me welcome this good news.     Set on toward Swinstead; to my litter straight;     Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.                    Exeunt     SCENE 4.  England. Another part of the battlefield  Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and BIGOT    SALISBURY. I did not think the King so stor'd with friends.   PEMBROKE. Up once again; put spirit in the French;     If they miscarry, we miscarry too.   SALISBURY. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,     In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.   PEMBROKE. They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field.                   Enter MELUN, wounded    MELUN. Lead me to the revolts of England here.   SALISBURY. When we were happy we had other names.   PEMBROKE. It is the Count Melun.   SALISBURY. Wounded to death.   MELUN. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;     Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,     And welcome home again discarded faith.     Seek out King John, and fall before his feet;     For if the French be lords of this loud day,     He means to recompense the pains you take     By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn,     And I with him, and many moe with me,     Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury;     Even on that altar where we swore to you     Dear amity and everlasting love.   SALISBURY. May this be possible? May this be true?   MELUN. Have I not hideous death within my view,     Retaining but a quantity of life,     Which bleeds away even as a form of wax     Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?     What in the world should make me now deceive,     Since I must lose the use of all deceit?     Why should I then be false, since it is true     That I must die here, and live hence by truth?     I say again, if Lewis do will the day,     He is forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours     Behold another day break in the east;     But even this night, whose black contagious breath     Already smokes about the burning crest     Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,     Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire,     Paying the fine of rated treachery     Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives.     If Lewis by your assistance win the day.     Commend me to one Hubert, with your King;     The love of him-and this respect besides,     For that my grandsire was an Englishman-     Awakes my conscience to confess all this.     In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence     From forth the noise and rumour of the field,     Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts     In peace, and part this body and my soul     With contemplation and devout desires.   SALISBURY. We do believe thee; and beshrew my soul     But I do love the favour and the form     Of this most fair occasion, by the which     We will untread the steps of damned flight,     And like a bated and retired flood,     Leaving our rankness and irregular course,     Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd,     And calmly run on in obedience     Even to our ocean, to great King John.     My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;     For I do see the cruel pangs of death     Right in thine eye. Away, my friends! New flight,     And happy newness, that intends old right.                                             Exeunt, leading off MELUN     SCENE 5.  England. The French camp  Enter LEWIS and his train    LEWIS. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set,     But stay'd and made the western welkin blush,     When English measure backward their own ground     In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,     When with a volley of our needless shot,     After such bloody toil, we bid good night;     And wound our tott'ring colours clearly up,     Last in the field and almost lords of it!                   Enter a MESSENGER    MESSENGER. Where is my prince, the Dauphin?   LEWIS. Here; what news?   MESSENGER. The Count Melun is slain; the English lords     By his persuasion are again fall'n off,     And your supply, which you have wish'd so long,     Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.   LEWIS. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart!     I did not think to be so sad to-night     As this hath made me. Who was he that said     King John did fly an hour or two before     The stumbling night did part our weary pow'rs?   MESSENGER. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.   LEWIS. keep good quarter and good care to-night;     The day shall not be up so soon as I     To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.                    Exeunt     SCENE 6.  An open place wear Swinstead Abbey  Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, severally    HUBERT. Who's there? Speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.   BASTARD. A friend. What art thou?   HUBERT. Of the part of England.   BASTARD. Whither dost thou go?   HUBERT. What's that to thee? Why may I not demand     Of thine affairs as well as thou of mine?   BASTARD. Hubert, I think.   HUBERT. Thou hast a perfect thought.     I will upon all hazards well believe     Thou art my friend that know'st my tongue so well.     Who art thou?   BASTARD. Who thou wilt. And if thou please,     Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think     I come one way of the Plantagenets.   HUBERT. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night     Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me     That any accent breaking from thy tongue     Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.   BASTARD. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?   HUBERT. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night     To find you out.   BASTARD. Brief, then; and what's the news?   HUBERT. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,     Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.   BASTARD. Show me the very wound of this ill news;     I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.   HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison'd by a monk;     I left him almost speechless and broke out     To acquaint you with this evil, that you might     The better arm you to the sudden time     Than if you had at leisure known of this.   BASTARD. How did he take it; who did taste to him?   HUBERT. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,     Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King     Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover.   BASTARD. Who didst thou leave to tend his Majesty?   HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back,     And brought Prince Henry in their company;     At whose request the King hath pardon'd them,     And they are all about his Majesty.   BASTARD. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,     And tempt us not to bear above our power!     I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,     Passing these flats, are taken by the tide-     These Lincoln Washes have devoured them;     Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd.     Away, before! conduct me to the King;     I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.                     Exeunt     SCENE 7.  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     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?                                    Exit BIGOT   PEMBROKE. He is more patient     Than when you left him; even now he sung.   PRINCE HENRY. O vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes     In their continuance will not feel themselves.     Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,     Leaves them invisible, 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 indigest     Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.         Re-enter BIGOT and attendants, who bring in                 KING JOHN in a chair    KING JOHN. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;     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     To 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 parched 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 confin'd to tyrannize     On unreprievable condemned blood.                   Enter the BASTARD    BASTARD. O, I am scalded with my violent motion     And spleen of speed to see your Majesty!   KING JOHN. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye!     The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt,     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 of confounded royalty.   BASTARD. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,     Where God He knows how we shall answer him;     For in a night the best part of my pow'r,     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?   BASTARD. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind     To do the office for thee of revenge,     And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,     As it on earth hath been thy servant still.     Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres,     Where be your pow'rs? Show now your mended faiths,     And instantly return with me again     To push destruction and perpetual shame     Out of the weak door of our fainting land.     Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;     The Dauphin rages at our very heels.   SALISBURY. It seems you know not, then, so much as we:     The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,     Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin,     And brings from him such offers of our peace     As we with honour and respect may take,     With purpose presently to leave this war.   BASTARD. He will the rather do it when he sees     Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.   SALISBURY. Nay, 'tis in a manner done already;     For many carriages he hath dispatch'd     To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel     To the disposing of the Cardinal;     With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,     If you think meet, this afternoon will post     To consummate this business happily.   BASTARD. Let it be so. And you, my noble Prince,     With other princes that may best be spar'd,     Shall wait upon your father's funeral.   PRINCE HENRY. At Worcester must his body be interr'd;     For so he will'd it.   BASTARD. Thither shall it, then;     And happily may your sweet self put on     The lineal state and glory of the land!     To whom, with all submission, on my knee     I do bequeath my faithful services     And true subjection everlastingly.   SALISBURY. And the like tender of our love we make,     To rest without a spot for evermore.   PRINCE HENRY. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks,     And knows not how to do it but with tears.   BASTARD. 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. Nought shall make us rue,     If England to itself do rest but true.                     Exeunt  THE END