« AnteriorContinuar »
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.
HUBERT AND ARTHUR.
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
Thy evil spirit, Brutus,
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 ?
thou so criedst out?
cry. Bru. Yes, that thou didst: didst thou
see anything? Luc. Nothing, my lord. Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah
Ay: saw you anything?
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
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 ?
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 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
Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
a mote in yours,
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,
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
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
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.
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