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Clau.

Nor I, my lord. Bru. Go, and commend me to my brother

Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow.

Var., Clau. It shall be done, my lord.

ment:

HUBERT AND ARTHUR.

with me,

That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good

night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake

thee: If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instru. I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good

night. Let me see, let me see:-is not the leaf

turned down, Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

The Ghost of Cæsar enters. How ill this taper burns !-Ha! who comes

here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some

devil, That makest my blood cold, and my hair

to stare?
Speak to me what thou art.
Ghost.

Thy evil spirit, Brutus,
Bru. Why comest thou?
Ghost. To tell the thou shalt see me at

Philippi:
Bru. Well; then I shall see thee again?
Ghost.

Ay, at Philippi. Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then.

[Ghost vanishes. Now I have taken heart thou vanishest: Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with

thee. Boy, Lucius! - Varro! Claudius! sirs,

awake ! Claudius! Luc. The strings, my lord, are false. Bru. He thinks he is still at his instru.

ment. Lucius, awake!

Luc. My lord ?
Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that

thou so criedst out?
Luc. My lord, I do not know that I did

cry. Bru. Yes, that thou didst: didst thou

see anything? Luc. Nothing, my lord. Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah

Claudius!
Fellow thou, awake!
Var.

My lord?
Claudius.

My lord?
Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in

your sleep?
Var., Clau. Did we, my lord?
Bru.

Ay: saw you anything?
Var. No, my lord, I saw nothing.

Northampton. A room in the Castle.

Enter Hubert and two Attendants, Hubert. 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 Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence and

watch. I Attendant. 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. Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 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. Arth.

Mercy on me! 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. (aside). If I talk to him, with his

innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead; Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look

pale to-day.

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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. (aside). His words do take pos

session of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper. (Aside). How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out of mine eyes in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it? is it not fair writ? Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul

effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both

mine eyes ?
Hub. Young boy, I must,
Arth.

And will you?
Hub.

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 Many a poor man's son would have lain

still, And ne'er have spokea 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 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 this 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 ham.

mered 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. (stamps). Come forth ! Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do. Arth. Oh! save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out

(men. Even with the fierce looks of these bloody Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind

him here. Arth. Alas! what need you be so bois

terous-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 for

give you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone

with him. I Attend. 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 your eyes.
Arth. O Heaven !--that there were but

a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any anoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are bois-

terous there, Your vile attempt 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,

you ?"

me ill,

So I may keep mine eyes. Oh, 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 your.

self; 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 proceed

ings, 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. Oh, now you look like Hubert !

all this while
You were disguised.
Hub.
Peace! no more.

Adieu. You uncle must not know but you are

dead; I'll fill these dogged spies with false re

ports: And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and se

cure, That Hubert for the wealth of all the world Will not offend thee.

Arth. O Heaven! I thank you, Hubert.
Hub. Silence! no more: go closely in

with me;
Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.

DEATH OF KING JOHN.

The Orchard of Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. P. Henry. It is too late ; the life of all his

blood Is touched corruptibly; and his pure brain (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwell

ing-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. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the

orchard here. - (Exit Bigot. Doth he still rage? Pem.

He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he

sung. P. Hen. Oh, vanity of sickness ! fierce

extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves, Death, having preyed 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. Sal. 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. K. 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

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