Classic Audiobook Collection - Life and Death of King John by William Shakespeare ~ Full Audiobook [history]

Episode Date: April 28, 2025

Life and Death of King John by William Shakespeare audiobook. Genre: history William Shakespeare's Life and Death of King John thrusts listeners into a turbulent medieval England where a crown is never simply inherited, it is argued, bargained, and fought for. King John sits on an uneasy throne, challenged by France and by the claim of young Arthur, whose supporters insist the boy is the rightful heir. As embassies harden into armies, shifting alliances and public ceremonies of loyalty reveal how quickly principles bend under pressure. At the center of the storm are vivid, conflicting voices: the fierce and grieving Constance, who turns personal loss into a political reckoning; the calculating church powers led by Cardinal Pandulph, for whom obedience carries a price; and Philip the Bastard, a sharp-tongued outsider who watches noble posturing with skeptical wit while trying to decide what honor truly means. Battles, negotiations, and betrayals collide as England's fate hinges on questions of legitimacy, conscience, and the cost of authority. By turns biting, passionate, and grimly ironic, this play explores how leaders are made and unmade when power depends on the stories nations choose to believe. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:03:01) Chapter 2 (00:19:13) Chapter 3 (00:52:32) Chapter 4 (01:28:06) Chapter 5 (01:58:51) Chapter 6 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

act one of the life and death of king john by william shakespeare act one scene one king john's palace enter king john queen eleanor pembroke essex salisbury and others with chatillon now say chatelon what would france with us thus after greeting speaks the king of france in my behaviour to the majesty the borrowed majesty of england here a strange beginning Borrowed Majesty. Silence, good mother. Hear the embassy. Philip of France, in right and true behalf of thy deceased brother, Geoffrey's son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim to this fair island and the territories, to Ireland, Poitiers, and Jew, to reign, Maine, desiring thee to lay aside the sword, which sways usurpingly these several titles,

and put these same into young Arthur's hand, thy nephew and right royal sovereign. What follows if we disallow of this? The proud control of fierce and bloody war to enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. Here have we war for war and blood for blood, controlment for controlment, so answer France. Then take my king's defiance from my mouth,

the farthest limit of my embassy. Bear mind to him and so depart in peace. Be thou as like, in the eyes of France, for ere thou canst report I will be there, the thunder of my cannon shall be heard, so hence, be thou the trumpet of our wrath and sullen presage of your own decay. An honourable conduct let him have. Pembroke, look to it. Farewell, Chateaun. Exciant, Chantillon, and Penbroke. What now, my son? Have I not ever said how that ambitious Constance would not cease, till she had kindled France and all the world upon the right. and party of her son. This might have been prevented and made whole with very easy arguments of love, which now the manage of two kingdoms must, with fearful bloody issue, arbitrate. Our strong possession and our right for us.

Your strong possession much more than your right, or else it must go wrong with you and me. So much my conscience whispers in your ear, which none but heaven and you and I shall hear. Enter a sheriff. My liege, here is the strangest controversy that from country to be judged by you, that ere I heard, shall I produce the men? Let them approach. Our abbeys and our priory shall pay this expedition's charge. Enter Robert and the bastard. What men are you? Your faithful subject, I, a gentleman born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, as I suppose, Robert Falkenbridge, a soul.

by the honour-giving hand of Curdily or knighted in the field. What art thou? The son and heir to that same Fulken Bridge. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother, then it seems. Most certain of one mother, mighty king, that is well known, and as I think, one father. But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you all to heaven and to my mother. Of that, I doubt, as all men's children may.

Out on thee, rude man, thou dost shame thy mother, and wound her honour with this diffidence. I, madam? No, I have no reason for it. That is my brother's plea, and none of mine, the which, if he can prove, a pops me out at least from fair five hundred pounds a year. Heaven guard my mother's honour and my land. A good blunt fellow. Why being younger born doth he lay claim to thine inheritance.

I know not why, except to get the land, but once he slandered me with bastardy. But whether I be as true begot or no, that still I lay upon my mother's head. But that I am as well-begot, my liege, fair for all the bones that took the pains for me, compare our faces and be judge yourself. If old Sir Robert did beget us both,

and were our father and this son like him, O old Sir Robert, Father on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here. He hath the trick of Curr de Nion's face. The accent of his tongue affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son

In the large composition of this man. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect, Richard. Sir R speak. What doth move you to claim your brother's land? Because he hath a half-face like my father. With half that face would he have all my land, a half-faced groat five hundred pound a year.

My gracious liege, when that my father lived, your brother did employ my father much. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land, your tale must be how he employed my mother. And once dispatched him in an embassy to Germany. there with the Emperor to treat of high affairs touching that time. The advantage of his absence took the king, and in the meantime sugeoned at my father's. Where how he did prevail I shame to speak, but truth is truth.

Large lengths of seas and shores between my father and my mother lay, as I have heard my father speak himself, when this same lusty gentleman was got. Upon his deathbed, he by will bequeathed his lands to me, and took it on his death that this my mother's son was none of his, and if he were, he came into the world full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then good my liege, let me have what is mine, my father's land, as was my father's word. As was my father's Well, sirrah, your brother is legitimate. Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him, and if she did play false, the fault was hers, which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands that marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother, who, as you say, took pains to get this son, had of your father claimed this son for his?

Insooth, good friend, your father might have kept this calf bred from his cow from all the world. Insooth he might. Then if he were my brother, my brother might not claim him, nor your father, being none of his, refuse him. This concludes, my mother's son did get your father's heir. Your father's heir must have your father's land. Shall then my father's will be of no force to dispossess that child which is not his? Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, than was his will to get me as I think. Whether hadst thou rather be a falcon bridge, and like thy brother, to in your brother, to Enjoy thy land, or the reputed son of Courde-Leon, Lord of thy presence, and no land beside.

Madam, and if my brother had my shape, and I had his, Sir Robert's his, like him, and if my legs were two such riding-rods, my arm such eelskin stuffed, my face so thin that in mine ear I doth not stick a rose lest men should say, look where three farthings goes, and to his shape were heir to all this land. What I might never stir from off this place, I would give it every foot to have this face. I would not be Sir Nob in any case.

I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune? Bequeath thy land to him and follow me. I am a soldier and now bound to France. Brother, take you my land. I'll take my chance. Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, yet sell your face for fivepence and tis dear.

Madam, I'll follow you unto the death. Nay, I would have you go before me thither. Our country manners give our better's way. What is their name? Philip, my liege, so is my name begun. Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's Elbe. eldest son. From henceforth bear his name who's from thou beest. He'll thou down, Philip, but rise more great. Arise, Sir Richard, and Plantagenet.

Brother, by the mother's side, give me your hand. My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now blessed by the hour by night or day when I was got Sir Robert was away. The very spirit of Plantagenet. I am that. By Grandin, Richard, call me so. Madam, by chance, but not by truth, what though? Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else or the hatch, Who dares not stir by day, must walk by night,

And hab is have is have, however men do catch. Near or far off, well one is still well shot, And I am I, howe'er I was begot. Go, Falkenbridge, now hast thou thy desire Our landless knight makes thee a landed squire Come, madam, and come, Richard, We must be for France, for France, for it is more than need.

Brother Adieu, good fortune come to thee, For thou wast got to the way of honesty. Exeunt all, but bastard. A foot of honour better than I was, But many are many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I mean? make any Joan a lady. Good den, Sir Richard. God a mercy, fellow.

And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter. For new maid honour doth forget men's names. Tis too respective and too sociable for your conversion. Now your traveller, he and his toothpick at my worship's mess, and when my knightly stomach is sufficed, why then I suck my teeth and catacies, my picked man of countries. My dear sir, thus leaning on my elbow, I begin, I shall beseech you.

That is question now, and then comes answer, like an absy book. Oh, sir, says answer, at your best command, at your employment, at your service, sir. No, sir, says question. Aye, sweet sir, at yours. And so, ere answer knows what question would, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the River Po,

It draws towards supper, in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself. For he is but a bastard to the time that doth not smack of observation. And so am I, whether I smack or no, and not alone in habit and device, exterior form, outward accoutrement, but from the inward motion to deliver sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth, which, though I will not practice to deceive, yet to avoid deceit, I mean to learn, for it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.

But who comes in such haste in riding-robes? What woman post is this? Has she no husband that will take pains to blow a horn before her? Enter Lady Falconbridge and Gurney. Oh, me, it is my mother. How now, good lady, what brings you here to court so hastily? Where is that slave, thy brother? Where is he?

that holds in chase mine honour up and down. My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son? Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man. Is it Sir Robert's son that you seek so? Sir Robert's son? Aye, thou unreverend boy, Sir Robert's son. Why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert's son? He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou.

James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave a while? Good leave, good Philip. Philip, Sparrow, James, there's toys abroad. Anon, I'll tell thee more. Exit, Gurney. Madam, I was not, old Sir Robert's son. Sir Robert might have at his part in me upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast. Sir Robert could do well, Mary, to confess, could he get me?

Sir Robert could not do it. We know his handiwork. therefore, good mother, to whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never hoped to make this leg. Hast thou conspired with thy brother, too, that for thine own gain, shust defend mine honour? What means this scorn thou most untoward knave? Night, knight, good mother, basilisco like, what I am dubbed, I have it on my shoulder. But, mother, I am not, Sir Robert. Robert's son. I have disclaimed Sir Robert and my land. Legitimation name and all is gone.

Then good, my mother, let me know, my father. Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother? Hast thou denied thyself a falcon bridge? As faithfully as I deny the devil. King Richard Curder Leon was thy father. By long and vehement suit I was seduced. To make room for him my husband's bed. Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge. Thou art the issue of my dear offence, which was so strongly urged past my defence. Now by this light, were I to get again, madam, I would not wish a better father. Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, and so doth yours. Your fault was not your folly. Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, subjected tribute to commanding love, against whose fury and unmatched force the orliss lion could not wage the fight, nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.

He that perforce robs lions of their hearts may easily win a woman's. I, my mother, with all my heart I thank thee for my father. Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well when I was God? I'll send his soul to hell. Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin, and they shall say, when Richard me begot, If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin. Who says it was, he lies? I say, t was not. Exeant.

End of Act 1. Act 2. Of the life and death of King John by William Shakespeare. This is a Librevox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Act 2, Scene 1, France, before Angiers. Enter Austria and forces, drums, etc. on one side.

On the other, King Philip and his power, Lewis, Arthur, Constance and attendance. Before Angier, well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robbed the lion of his heart and fought the holy wars in Palestine, by this brave duke came early to his grave. And for amends to his posterity, at our importance, hither is he come, to spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, and to rebuke the usurpation of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him. Give him welcome hither. God shall forgive you Coeur de Lyon's death,

the rather that you give his offspring life, shadowing their right under your wings of war. I give you welcome with a powerless hand, but with a heart full of unstained love. Welcome before the gates of Angier, Duke. A noble boy, who would not do thee right? Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss as sealed to this indenture of my love,

that to my home I will no more return, till Angier and the right thou hast in France, together with that pale, that white-faced shore, whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides, and coops from other lands her islanders, e'en till that England, hedged in with the main, that water-walled bulwark, still secure and confident from foreign purposes,

e'en till that utmost corner of the west salute thee for her king, till then fair boy will I not think of home but follow arms. Oh, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks, till your strong hand shall help to give him strength to make a more requital to your love. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords

in such a just and charitable war. Well then, to work, our cannon shall be bent against the brows of this resisting town. Call for our chiefest men of discipline to cull the plots of best advantages? We'll lay before this town our rubek, royal bones. Weighed to the marketplace in Frenchman's blood, but we will make it subject to this boy. Stay for an answer to your embassy, lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood.

My lord Chathion may from England bring that right in peace which here we urge in war, and then we shall repent each drop of blood that hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter Chantillon. A wonder, lady, lo, upon thy wish. Our messenger, Chantillon is arrived. What England says, say briefly, General Lord, we coldly pause for thee. Chantillon, speak. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege and stir them up against a mightier task. England, impatient of your just demands, hath put himself in arms. The adverse winds, whose leisure I have stayed, have given him time to land his legions all as soon as I. His marches

are expedient to this town, his forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother queen, and Ati, stirring him to blood and strife. With her, her niece, the Lady Blanche of Spain, with them a bastard of the king's deceased, and all the unsettled humors of the land, rash, inconsiderate fiery voluntaries, with ladies' faces and fierce dragon's spleen have sold their fortunes at their native homes, bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, to make hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits than now the English bottoms have waftor, did nearer float upon the swelling tide to do a fence and scathe in Christendom.

Drumbeats. The interruption of their churlish drums cuts off more circumstance. are at hand to parley or to fight therefore prepare how much on look for is this expedition by how much unexpected by so much we must awake endeavor for defense for courage mounteth with occasion let them be welcome then we are prepared enter king john queen eleanor blanche the bastard lords and forces peace be to france if france in peace permit our just and lydial entrance to our own if not bleed france and peace ascend to heaven whilst we god's wrathful agent to correct their proud contempt that beats his peace to heaven peace be to england if that war returned from france to england they're to live in peace england we love and for that england's sake with burden of our armour here we sweat this toil of ours should be a work of thine, but thou from loving England art so far, that thou hast underwrought his lawful king, cut off the sequence of posterity, outfaced infant state, and done a rape upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geoffrey's face. These eyes, these brows,

were molded out of his. This little abstract doth contain that large which died in Geoffrey, and the hand of time shall draw this brief into as huge a volume, that Geoffrey was thy elder brother born, and this his son. England was Geoffrey's right, and this is Jeffreys. In the name of God, how comes it then that thou art called a king? When living blood doth in these temples beat, which owe the crown that thou are masterst. From whom hast thou this great commission, France, to draw my answer from thy articles? from that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts in any breast of strong authority to look into the blots and stains of right that judge hath made me guardian to this boy under whose warrant i impeach thy wrong and by whose help i mean to chastise it alack thou dost usurp authority excuse it is to beat usurping down who is it thou dost call usurper france let me make answer thy usurping Out, insolent!

Thy bastard shall be king, that thou mayst be a queen and check the world. My bed was ever to thy son as true as thine was to thy husband. And this boy, liker in feature to his father, Jeffrey, than thou and John in manners, being as like as rain to water or devil to his dam. My boy a bastard! By my soul I think his father never was so true begot. It cannot be, and if thou wert his mother. There's a good mother boy that blots thy father.

There's a good grandam boy that would blot thee. Peace. Hear the crier. What's the devil art thou? One that will play the devil, sir, with you. And I may catch or hide, and you alone. You are the hair of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard.

I'll smoke your skin coat, I catch you right, Sarah, look to it. If faith, I will effaith. Oh, well, did he become that lion's robe that did disrobe the lion of that robe. It lies as sightly on the back of him, as great al-Sidy shows upon an ass. But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back, or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. What cracker is this same that defts our ears with this abundance of superfluous breath. Lewis, determine what we shall do straight. Women and fools break off your conference. King John, this is the very sum of all. England and Ireland, Anjou, Turin, Maine. In right of Arthur do I claim of thee. Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?

My life as soon. I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Britannia, yield thee to my hand, and out of my dear love, I'll give thee more than ere the coward hand of France can win. Submit thee, boy. Come to thy grand-a-on, child. Do, child, go to it grandam, child. Give grand-dam kingdom, and at grandam will give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig. There's a good grand-dam.

Good, my mother, peace. I would that I were low-laid in my grave. I'm not worth this coil it's made for me. His mother shames him. Boy, he weeps. Now shame upon you whether she does or no. His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames, draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, which heaven shall take in nature of a fee.

I, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed to do him justice and revenge on you. Thou monstrous slander of heaven and earth! Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth. Call not me slanderer. Thou and thine usurp the domination's royalties and rights of this oppressive boy. This is thy else's son, son, unfortunate in nothing but in thee. Thy sins are visited in this poor child. The canon of the law is laid on him, being but the second generation removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

Bedlam have done. I have but this to say, that he is not only plagued for her sin, but God hath made her sin and her the plague on this removed issue. Plague for her and with her plague. Her sin, his injury. Her injury, the beetle to her sin. All punished in the person of this child, and all for her. A plague upon her.

Thou unadvised scold! I can produce a will that bars the title of thy son. I, who doubts that? A will, a wicked will. A woman's will, a cankered Grandam's will. Peace, lady, pause, or be more temperate. It ill beseems this presence to cry aim to these ill-tuned repetitions. Some trumpet summon hither to the walls these men of Angiers.

Let us hear them speak whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's. Trumpet sounds, enter certain citizens upon the walls. O is it that hath warned us to the walls? Tis France, for England. England for itself, you men of Angiers, and my loving subjects. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects, Our trumpet called you to this general parley. For our advantage, therefore hear us first.

These flags of France that are advanced here, before the eye and prospect of your town have hither marched to your endangement. The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, and ready-mounted are they to spit forth their iron-in-lawed. indignation against your walls. All preparation for a bloody siege. All merciless proceeding by these French confronts your city's eyes, your winking gates, and but for our approach those sleeping stones that, as a waste doth girdle you about, by the compulsion of their ordinance, by this time from their fixed beds of lime, had been dishabited, and wide havoc made for bloody power to rush

upon your peace. But on the sight of us, your lawful king, who painfully with much expedient march, have brought a counter-check before your gates, to save unscratched to your city's threatened cheeks. Behold, the French amazed vouchsaith a parley. And now, instead of bullets, wrapped in fire, to make a shaking fever in your walls, they shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, to make a faithless error in your ears, which trust accordingly, kind citizens, and let us in, your king, whose laboured spirit, for wearied in this action of swift speed crave harbourage within your city walls when i have said make answer to us both lo in this right hand whose protection is most divinely vowed upon the right of him it holds stands young plantagenet son to the elder brother of this man and king o'er him and all that he enjoys

for this downtrodden equity we tread in warlike march these greens before your town being no further enemy to you than the constraint of hospitable zeal in the relief of this oppressed child religiously provokes. Be pleased, then, to pay that duty which you truly owe to that owes it, namely this young prince. And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, save an aspect, hath all offense sealed up. Our cannon's malice vainly shall be spent against the invulnerable clouds of heaven, and with a blessed and unvexed retire, with unhacked swords and helmets all unbruised. we will bear home that lusty blood again, which here we came to spout against your town, and leave your children, wives, and you in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffered offer,

tis not the roundur of your old-faced walls can hide you from our messengers of war, though all these English, and their discipline, were harbored in their rude circumference. Then tell us, shall your city call us Lord, in that behalf which we have challenged it, Or shall we give the signal to our rage, and stalk in blood to our possession? In brief we are the King of England's subjects, for him and in his right we hold this town. Acknowledge then the King and let me in. That can we not, but he that proves the King, to him will we prove loyal, till that time have we rammed up our gates against the world.

Doth not the Crown of England prove the King? And if not that, I bring you witnesses. Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed. Bastards and else. To verify our title with their lives. As many and as well-born bloods as those. Some bastards, too. Stand in his face to contradict his claim.

Till you compound whose right is worthiest, we for the worthiest hold the right from both. Then God forgive the sin of all those souls that to their everlasting residence before the Jew of evening fall shall fleet in dreadful trial of our kingdom's king. Amen, amen. Mount Chevaliers to arms. St. George, that swinge the dragon

and ere since since on his horseback at mine hostess door, teach us some fence. To Austria. Sirrah, were I at home, at your den, sirra, with your lioness. I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide and make a monster. of you. Peace no more. Oh, tremble, for you hear the lion roar. Up higher to the plain, where we'll set forth in best appointment all our regiments. Speed, then, to take advantage of the field. It shall be so, and at the other hill command the rest to stand. God and our right.

Exeunt, hereafter excursions, enter the Herald of France, with trumpets, to the gates. Open wide your gates, and let young Arthur, Duke of Bratagne, in, who by the hand of France this day has made much work for tears in many an English mother, whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground. Many a widow's husband groveling lies, coldly embracing the discoloured earth, and victory with little loss, doth play upon the dancing banners of the French, who are at hand, triumphantly displayed,

to enter conquerors and to proclaim Arthur of Britannia, England's king and yours. Enter English Herald with trumpet. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells. King John, your king and England's death approach. Commander of this hot malicious day, their armors that marched hence so silver-bright, hither returned all guilt with Frenchmen's blood. There stuck no plume in any English crest that is removed by a staff of France. colors do return in those same hands that did display them when they first marched forth and like a troop of jolly huntspin come our lusty english all with purpled hands dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes open your gates and give the victor's way heralds from off our towers we might behold from first to last the onset and retireer of both your armies whose equality by our best eyes cannot be censored blood hath bought blood

blood and blows have answered blows strength matched with strength and power confronted power both are alike and both alike we like one must prove greatest while they weigh so even we hold our town for neither yet for both re-enter king john and king philip with their powers severally france hast thou yet more blood to cast away say shall the current of our right run on whose passage vexed with thy impediment shall leave his native channel and o'erswell with course disturbed even thy confining shores unless thou let his silver water keep a peaceful progress to the ocean England, thou hast not saved one drop of blood, in this hut trial, more than we of France, rather lost more. And by this hand, I swear, that sways the earth this climate overlooks, before we will lay down our just-born arms, we will put thee down, against whom these arms we bear, or add a royal number to the dead,

gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss with slaughter coupled to the name of kings. Ha, majesty! How high thy glory towers when the rich blood of kings is set on fire! O now doth death line his dead chaps with steel, the swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs, and now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, in undetermined differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry havoc kings, back to the stained field, you equal potence, fiery kindled spirits, then let confusion of one part confirm the other's peace, till then blows blood and death. Whose party did the townsman yet admit?

Speak, citizens, for England. Who's your king? The king of England, when we know the king. Know him in us, that here hold up his rights. In us that are our own great deputy and bear possession of our person here, Lord of our presence and jeers and of you. A greater power than we denies all this, and till it be undoubted we do lock our former scruple in our strong-barred gates, king of our fears until our fears resolved, be by some

certain king perched and deposed. By heaven! These scroils of Angier flout you kings and stand securely on their battlements as in a theatre, whence they gape and point at your industrious scenes and acts of death. Your royal presence is be ruled by me. Do, like the mutings of Jerusalem, be friends a while, and both conjointly bend your sharpest deeds of malice on this town. By east and west, let France and England mount their battering cannon-shard to the mouths, till their soul-fearing clamours have brawled down the flinty ribs of this contemptuous city.

I'll play incessantly upon these jades, even till unfenced desolation leave them as naked as the vulgar air. That done, dissever your united strengths, and part your mingled colours once again. turn face to face and bloody point to point. Then, in a moment, fortune shall cull forth out of one side her happy minion, to whom in favour she shall give the day, and kiss him with a glorious victory. How like you, this wild council mighty states, smacks it not something of the policy. Now by the sky that hangs above our heads I like it well.

France, shall we knit our powers and lay the Sanjia's even to the ground, then after fight who shall be king of it? And if thou hast the metal of a king, being wronged as we are by this peevish town, turn thou the mouth of thy artillery as we will ours against these saucy walls. And when that we have dashed them to the ground, why then defy each other and pell-mell make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell? Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? We from the west will send destruction into this city's bosom.

I from the north. Our thunder from the south shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. O prudent discipline, from north to south, Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth. I'll stir them to it. Come, away, away! Hear us great kings. Vouch safe a while to stay. and I shall show you peace and fair-faced league. Win you the city without stroke or wound.

Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds. That here come sacrifices for the field. Persevere not, but hear me, mighty kings. Speak on with favor. We are bent to hear. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanche, is niece to England. Look upon the years of Louis' the Defoe and that lovely maid. If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, where should he find

it fairer than in Blanche? If Silous love should go in search of virtue, where should he find it purer than in Blanche? If love ambitious sought a match of birth, whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanche? Such as she is in beauty, virtue, birth is the young Dauphin every way complete, if not complete of say he is not she. And she again wants nothing to name want, if want it be not that she is not he. He is the half-part of a blessed man left to be be finished by such as she. And she, a fair divided excellence, whose fullness of perfection lies in him. O, two such silver currents when they join,

do glorify the banks that bound them in, and to such shores, to two such streams made one, two such controlling bounds shall you be kings, to these two princes if you marry them. This union shall do more than battery can to our fast-closed gates, for at this match with swifter spleen than powder can enforce. The mouth of passage shall we fling wide oak and give you entrance.

But without this match, the sea enraged is not half so deaf, lions more confident, mountains and rocks more free from motion. No, not death himself in mortal fury half so peremptory, as we to keep the city. Here's a stay that shakes the rotten carcass of old death out of his rags. Here's a large mouth indeed that spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas, talks as familiarly of roaring lions as maids of thirteen do of puppy dogs. What canineer begot this lusty blood.

He speaks plain cannon fire and smoke and bounce. He gives the bastin'-off. He gives the bastin order with his tongue. Our ears are cuddled. Not a word of his, but Buffett's better than a fist of France. Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words since I first called my brother's father-dad. Son, lift to this conjunction, make this match. Give with our niece a dowry large enough,

For by this not thou shalt so surely tie thy now unsure assurance to the crown, that yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe, the bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. I see a yielding in the looks of France. Mark how they whisper, urge them while their souls are capable of this ambition, lest zeal now melted by the windy breath of soft petitions, pity and remorse,

cool and congeal again to what it was. Why answer not the double majesty, this friendly treaty of our threatened town. Speak England first, that hath been forward first to speak under this city. What say you? If that the door found there, thy princely son, can in this book of beauty read, I love, her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen, for Anjou and fair terrain, Maine, Poitier, and all that we upon this side the sea, except this city now by us beseech.

find liable to our crown and dignity shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich in titles honours and promotions as she in beauty education blood holds hand with any princess of the world what sayest thou boy look in the lady's face i do my lord and in her eye i find a wonder or a wondrous miracle the shadow of myself formed in her eyes which being but the shadow of your son becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow. I do protest. I never loved myself till now. In Fix it I beheld myself drawn in the flattering table of her eye. Whispers with Blanche. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

hanged in the frowning wrinkle of her brow and quartered in her heart, he doth espy himself love's traitor. This is pity now, that hanged and drawn and quartered there should be in such a love so vile a lout as he. My uncle's will in this respect is mine. If he see Ottenew that makes him like, that's anything he sees which moves his liking, I can with ease translate it to my will.

Or if you will to speak more properly, I will enforce it easily to my love. Further, I will not flatter you, my lord, that all I see in you is worthy love than this. That nothing do I see in you, though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge, that I can find should merit any hate. What say these young ones? What say you, my niece? That she is bound in honour still to do what you and wisdom still vouchsafed to say. speak then prince d'ofan can you love this lady nay ask me if i can refrain from love for i do love her most unfeignardly then i do give volkerson terrain main poitiers and anjou these five provinces with her to thee

and this edition more full thirty thousand marks of english coin philippa franz if thou be pleased with all command thy son and daughter to join It likes us well. Young princes, close your hands. And your lips, too, for I am well assured that I did so when I was first assured. Now, citizens of Angiers, open your gates, let in that amity which you have made, for at St. Mary's Chapel presently the rights of marriage shall be solemnized. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? I know she is not, for this match made up, her presence would have interrupted much. Where is she and her son? Tell me, who knows? She is sad and passionate at your

highness' tent. And, by my faith, this league that we have made will give her sadness very little cure. Brother of England, how may we content this widow lady? In her right we came, which we, God knows, have turned another way, to our own vantage. We will heal up all, for we'll create young arthur duke of britannia and earl of richmond and this rich fair town we make him lord of call the lady constance some speedy messenger bid her repair to our solemnity i trust we shall if not fill up the measure of her will yet in some measure satisfy her so that we shall stop her exclamation go we as well as haste will suffer us to this unlooked-for unprepared pomp Exceant all but the bastard. Oh, mad world. Mad kings.

Mad composition. John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole, hath willingly departed with a part, and France, whose armour conscience buckled on, whom zeal and charity brought to the field as God's own soldier, rounded in the ear with that same purpose-changer, That sly devil, that broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, that daily break vow, He that wins of all, of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, who having no external

thing to lose but the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that, that smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity. Commodity, the bias of the world. The world, who of itself, who of itself, is pised well, made to run even upon even ground, till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, this sway of motion, this commodity, makes it take head from all indifference, from all direction, purpose, course, intent, and this same bias, this commodity, this board, to this broker, this all-changing word, clapped on the outward eye of fickle France, hath drawn him from his own determined aid, from a resolved and honourable war, to a most base and vile concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for because he has not

wooed me yet. Not that I have the power to clutch my hand when his fair aim would salute my palm, but for my hand, as unattempted yet, like a poor beggar raileth on the rich. Well, whilst I am a beggar, I will rail and say there is no sin but to be rich. And being rich, my virtue then shall be to say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, gain be my lord, for I will worship thee. Exit. End of Act 2. Act 3 of the life and death of King John by William Shakespeare. This is the Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org.

Act 3, Scene 1 The French King's Pavilion. Enter Constance, Arthur and Salisbury. to be married, gone to swear apiece. False blood to false blood joined, gone to be friends? Shall Lewis have blanch and blanch those provinces? It is not so. Thou hast misspoke, misheard. Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again. It cannot be. Thou dost but say tis so. I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word is but the vain breath of a common man. Believe me, I do not believe thee, man. I have a king's oath to the contrary. Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening me, for I am sick and capable of fears, oppressed with wrongs and therefore full of fears,

a widow husbandless subject to fears, a woman naturally born to fears. And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, with my vexed spirits I cannot take a truce, but they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable room like a proud river peering or his bounds? Be these sad signs, confirmers of thy words? Then speak again, not all thy former tale, but this one word, whether thy tale be true. As true as I I believe you think them false that give you cause to prove my saying true. Oh, thou teach me to believe this sorrow.

Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die. And let belief and life encounter so as doth the fury of two desperate men which in the very meeting fall and die. Louis-Mary Blanche! Oh, boy, then where art thou? France, friend with England, what becomes of me? "'Fellow, be gone. I cannot brook thy sight. This news hath made thee a most ugly man. "'What other harm have I, good lady, done, bespoke the harm that is by others done?'

"'Which harm within itself so heinous is as it makes harmful all that speak of it?' "'I do beseech you, madam. Be content.' "'If thou that bids me be content were it grim, ugly, and slanderous to thy mother's womb, full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, lame, foolish, crooked, swart prodigious, patched with foul moles and eye offending marks, I would not care. I then would be content,

for then I should not love thee. No, nor thou become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, nature and fortune joined to make thee great. Of nature's gifts thou mayest with lilies boast and with the half-blown rose. But fortune, oh, she is corrupted, changed and won from thee.

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, and with her golden hand have plucked on France to tread down fair respect of sovereignty, and made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to fortune and King John, that strumpet fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn, And venom him with words, Or get thee gone and leave those woes alone,

Which I alone am bound to underbear. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the kings. Thou mayest thou shalt, I will not go with thee. I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief, let kings assemble. For my grief so great that no supporter but the huge

firm earth can hold it up. Here I and sorrows sit. Here is my throne. Bid kings come bow to it. Seats herself on the ground. Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanche, Queen Eleanor, The Bastard, Austria, and Attendance.

Tis true, fair daughter, and this blessed day ever in France shall be kept festival. To solemnize this day, the glorious sun stays in his course and plays the alchemist, turning with splendor of his precious eye the meager clotty earth to glittering gold. The yearly course that brings this day about shall never see it but a holiday. A wicked day, and not a holy day. Rising.

What hath this day deserved? What hath it done that it in golden letters should be set among the high tides in the calendar? May rather turn this day out of the week, this day of shame, oppression, perjury. Or if it must stand still, let wives with child pray that their burdens may not fall this day, lest that their hopes prodigiously be crossed. But on this day let semen fear no wreck, no bargains break that are not this day made. This day, all things begun come to ill end, yea faith itself to hollow falsehood change. By heaven, lady.

You shall have no cause to curse the fair proceedings of this day? Have I not pawned to you, my majesty? You have beguiled me with a counterfeit, resembling majesty, which, being touched and tried, proves valueless. You are forsworn, forsworn! You came in arms to spill mine enemy's blood, but now in arms you strengthen it with yours. The grappling vigor and rough frown of war is cold in amity and painted peace,

and our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens against these perjured kings. A widow cries, be husband to me, heavens. Let not the hours of this ungodly day wear out the day in peace. But ere sunset set armid discord twixt these perjured kings, Hear me, oh, hear me. Lady Constance, peace. War, no peace?

Peace is to me a war. O Limoges, oh Austria, thou dost shame that bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward. Thou little valiant, great in villainy, thou ever strong upon the stronger side. Thou fortunes champion that dost never fight but when her humorous ladyship is by to teach thee safety. Thou art perjured too and soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou. A ramping fool to brag and stamp and swear upon my party.

Thou, cold-blooded slave, hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength, and dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion's hide? Doth it for shame and hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs. O that a man should speak these words to me! And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs. Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life. And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs.

We like not this. Thou dost forget thyself. Enter Cardinal Pandolf. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope. Hail you, anointed deputies of heaven, to thee, King John, my holy errand is. I pandal of Fair Milan, cardinal, and from Pope Innocent the legatee. Do in his name religiously demand, why thou against the church, our holy mother,

so willfully dost spurn, and force perforce keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop of Canterbury, from that holy sea? This, in our foresaid Holy Father's name, Pope Inocent, I do demand of thee. what earthy name to interrogatories can task the free breath of a sacred king thou canst not cardinal devise a name so slight unworthy and ridiculous to charge me to an answer as the pope tell him this tale and from the mouth of england add thus much more that no italian priest shall tithe or toll in our dominions but as we under heaven our supreme head so under him that great supremacy where we do reigns we will alone uphold without the assistance of a mortal hand. So tell the Pope. All reverence set apart to him and his usurped authority. Brother of England, you blessed theme in this.

Though you and all the kings of Christendom are led so grossly by this meddling priest, dreading the curse that money may buy out, and by the merit of vile gold dross, dust, purchase corrupted pardon of a man, who in that sale sells pardon from himself, though you and all the rest so grossly led this juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish yet i alone alone do me oppose against the pope and count his friends my foes then by the lawful power that i have thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate and blessed shall he be that doth revolt from his allegiance to an heretic and meritorious shall that hand be called canonized and worshiped as a saint that takes away by any secret course thy hateful life. O lawful, let it be that I have room with Rome to curse a while.

Good father, cardinal, cry thou amen to my keen curses, for without my wrong there is no tongue hath power to curse him right. There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse. And for mine too. When law can do no right, let it be lawful that law bar no wrong. Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, for he that holds his kingdom holds the law. Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, how can the law forbid my tongue to curse? Philip of France on peril of a curse, let go the hand of that arch heretic, and raise the power of France upon his head, unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Looks thou pale, France. Do not let go thy hand. Look to that devil, lest that France repent And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul King Philip, listen to the Cardinal And hang a calf-skin on his recreant limbs Well, Rothian, I must pocket up these wrongs Because your breeches best may carry them Philip, what sayest thou to the Cardinal?

What should he say but as the Cardinal? Bethink you, father, for the difference is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome or the light loss of England for a friend. Forgo the easier. That's the curse of Rome. O Lewis standfast. The devil tempts

thee here in likeness of a new untrimmed bride. The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith but from her need. Oh, if thou grant my need which only lives but by the death of faith that need must needs infer this principle, that faith would

live again by death of need. O, then tread down my need and faith mounts up, keep my need up and faith is trodden down. The king is moved and answers not to this. O, be removed from him and answer well. Do so, King Philip. Hang no more in doubt. Oh, hang nothing but a calf-skin, most sweet, lout. I am perplexed, and know not what to say. What canst thou say, but will perplex thee more, if thou shalt?

standings communicate and cursed. Good Reverend Father, make my person yours, and tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, and the conjunction of our inward souls married in league, coupled and linked together with

all religious strength of sacred vows. The latest breath that gave the sound of words was deep sworn faith, peace, amity, true love between our kingdoms and our royal selves, and even before this truce, but knew before, no longer than we well could wash our hands to clap this royal bargain up of peace,

heaven knows, they were besmeared and overstained with slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint the fearful difference of incensed kings, and shall these hands, so lately purged of blood, so newly joined in love, so strong in both, unyoke this seizure and this kind regrreet, play fast and loose with faith, so just with heaven, make such unconstant children of our as now again to snatch our palm from palm, unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage bed of smiling peace to march a bloody host, and make a riot on the general brow of truth's sincerity? Oh, holy sir, my reverend father, let it not be so. Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose some

gentle order, and then we shall be blessed to do your pleasure and continue friends. All form is formless, order orderless, say what is opposite to England's love. Therefore, to arms, be champion of our church, or let the church our mother breathe her curse, a mother's curse on her revolting son. France thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, a chaffed lion by the mortal paw, a fasting tiger safer by the tooth, then keep in peace that half. hand which thou dost hold. I may destroy in my hand, but not my faith.

So makes thou faith an enemy to faith, and like a civil war sets oath to oath, thy tongue against thy tongue. O let thy vow, first made to heaven, first be to heaven performed, that is to beat the champion of our church. What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself, thyself, and may not be performed by thyself, for that which thou hast sworn to do amiss is not

amiss when it is truly done. And being not done, where doing tends to ill, the truth is then most done not doing it. The better act of purposes mistook is to mistake again, though indirect, yet in direction thereby grows direct and falsehood falsehood cures as fire cools fire within the scorched veins o one nude burned it is religion that doth make vows kept but thou hast sworn against religion by what thou swarest against the thing thou swarest and makes an oath the surety of thy truth against an oath the truth thou art sure to swear swears only not to be forsworn, else what a mockery should it be to swear. But thou dost swear only to be foresworn, and most forsworn to keep what thou dost swear. Therefore thy later vows against thy first is in thyself rebellion to thyself, And better conquest never canst thou make,

then arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against these giddy loose suggestions upon which better part our prayers come in if thou vouchsafed them but if not then know the peril of our curses light on thee so heavy as thou shalt not shake them off but in despair die under their black weight rebellion flat rebellion will not be will not a calf-skin stop that mouth of thine father to arms upon my wedding-day against the blood that thou hast married what shall our feast be kept with slaughtered men shall brain trumpets and loud churlish drums clamours of hell be measures to our pomp o husband hear me i lack how new his husband in my mouth Even for that name which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms against mine uncle. O upon my knee, made hard with kneeling I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous, Ophins, alter not the doom forethought by heaven.

Now shall I see thy love. What motive may be stronger with thee than the name of wife? That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, his honour. O thine honour, Louis, thine honour! I muse your majesty doth seem so cold When such profound respects do pull you on. I will denounce a curse upon his head. Thou shall not need.

England, I will fall from thee. O fair return of banished majesty! O foul revolt of French inconstancy! France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour. Old time the clock-setter, that bald sex. in time, is it as he will? Well, then France shall rue. The suns are cast with blood. Fair day adieu. Which is the side that I must go with all? I am with both. Each army hath a hand, and in their rage, I having hold of both,

they swirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win. Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose. Father, I may not wish the fortune thine. Grandam, I will not wish thy fortunes thrive. Whoever wins on that side shall I lose. Assured loss before the match be played. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. Exit bastard. France, I am burned up with inflaming wrath, a rage whose heat has this condition, that nothing can allay, nothing but blood. The blood. and dearest valued blood of France.

Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn to ashes. Ere our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. No more than he that threats. To arms lets high. Excient. Scene two. The same, planes near Angiers.

Alarms, excursions, enter the bastard with Austria's head. Oh, now by my life this day grows wondrous hot. Some airy devil hovers in the sky and pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there while Philip breathes. Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip make up. My mother is assailed in our tent and tear in Nip fear.

My lord, I rescued her. Her Highness is in safety, fear you not. But on, my liege, for very little pains will bring this labour to an happy end. Xient. Scene three. The same. Alarms, excursions, retreat. Enter King John, Queen Eleanor, Arthur, the bastard, Hubert, and Lords.

King John, to Queen Eleanor. So shall it be. Your grace shall stay behind so strongly guarded. To Arthur. "'Cousin, look not sad. "'Thy Grandam loves thee, "'and thy uncle will as dear be to thee as thy father was. "'Oh, this will make my mother die with grief.'

"'To the bastard.' "'Cousin, away for England, haste before, "'and ere our coming see thou shake the bags of hoarding abbots, "'imprisoned angels set at liberty, "'the fat ribs of peace must by the hungry now be fed upon. "'use our commission in his utmost force.' bell bookin candle shall not drive me back when gold and silver becks me to come on i leave your highness grandam i will pray if ever i remember to be holy for your fair safety so i kiss your hand farewell gentle cousin c'ns-fairwell exit the bastard come hither little kinsman hark a word come hither hubert o my gentle hubert we owe thee much within this wall

the flesh there is a soul counts thee her creditor, and with advantage means to pay thy love. And my good friend, thy voluntary oath, lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, but I will fit it with some better time. By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed to say what good respect I have of thee. I am much bounden to your majesty. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, but thou shalt thou shalt thou shalt. have and creep time ne'er so slow yet it shall come from me to do thee good i had a thing to say but let it go the sun is in the heaven and the proud day attended with the pleasures of the world is all too wanton and too full of gourds to give me audience

if the midnight bell did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth sound on into the drowsy race of night if this same were a churchyard where we stand and thou possessed with a thousand wrongs or if that surly spirit melancholy had baked thy blood and made it heavy thick, which else runs tickling up and down the veins, making that idiot laughter, keep men's eyes and strain their cheeks to idle merriment, a passion hateful to my purposes, or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, hear me without thine ears, and make reply, without a tongue, using conceit alone, without eyes, ears, and harmful sounds of words. Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts, but, ah, I will not. Yet I love thee well,

and by my troth I think thou lovest me well. So well, that what you bid me undertake, though that my death were adjunct to my act, by heaven I would do it. Do not I know thou wouldst. Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thou an eye on yon, young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend.

He is a very servant. in my way, and wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, he lies before me. Dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. And I'll keep him so, that he shall not offend your majesty. Death. My lord? A grave.

He shall not live. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee. Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee. remember. Madam, fare you well. I'll send those powers over to your majesty. My blessing, go with thee. For England, cousin, go. Hubert shall be your man. Attend on you with all true duty. On, toward Calais, ho. Exeunt.

Scene four, the same, King Philip's tent. Enter King Philip, Lewis, Cardinal Pandolf, and attendance. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, a whole armado of convicted sail is scattered and disjoined from fellowship. Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well. What can go well, when we have run so ill? Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur tain prisoner?

Diverse dear friend slain? And bloody England into England gone. Or bearing interruption? spite of France? What he hath won? That hath he for. fortified, so hotter speed with such advice disposed, such temperate order in so fierce a cause doth want example. Who hath read or heard of any kindred action like to this?

Well, could I bear that England had this praise, so we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Constance. Look, who comes here, a grave unto a soul, holding the eternal spirit against her will, in the vile prison of afflicted breath? I prithee, lady, go away with me. Lo, now I see the issue of your peace. Patience, good lady, comfort, General Constance. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, but that which ends all counsel, true redress. Death, death, oh, amiable, lovely death, though o'adifference, stench, sound rottenness.

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, thou hate and terror to prosperity, and I will kiss thy detestable bones, and put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, and wring these fingers with thy household worms, and stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust and be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest and bust thee of it. as thy wife. Misery's love, oh, come to me. O fair affliction, peace? No, no, I will not having breath to cry. O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world and rouse from sleep that fell anatomy

which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, which scorns a modern invocation. Lady, you utter madness and not sorrow. Thou art not holy to belie me so. I am not mad. This hair I tear is mine. My name is Constance. I was Geoffrey's wife.

Young Arthur is my son and he is lost. I am not mad. I would to heaven I were. For then tis like I should forget myself. Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget? preach some philosophy to make me mad, and thou shalt be canonized, Cardinal, for being not mad but sensible of grief. My reasonable part produces reason how I may be delivered of these woes, and teaches me to kill or hang myself. If I were mad, I should forget my son, or madly think

a babe of clouts were he. I am not mad. Too well. Too well. Too well. Well, I feel the different plague of each calamity. Bind up those tresses. Oh, what love I note in the fair multitude of those her hairs. Where, but by chance, a silver drop hath fallen? Even to that drop, ten thousand wiry friends do glue themselves in sociable grief, like true, inseparable, faithful loves, sticking together in calamity. To England, if you will.

Bind up your hairs. Yes, that I will. "'and wherefore will I do it? "'I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud, "'Oh, that these hands could so redeem my son "'as they have given these hairs their liberty! "'But now I envy at their liberty, "'and will again commit them to their bonds

"'because my poor child is a prisoner. "'And Father Cardinal, "'I have heard you say that we shall see "'and know our friends in heaven. "'If that be true, I shall see my boy again. "'For since the birth of Cain, The first male child, to him that did but yesterday suspire, there was not such a gracious creature born.

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, and chase the native beauty from his cheek, and he will look as hollow as a ghost, as dim and meager as an ague's fit, and so he'll die. And rising so again, when I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him. therefore never, never must I behold my pretty Arthur more. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. He talks to me that never had a son. You are as fond of grief as of your child. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, remembers me of all his gracious parts, stuffs out his vacant garments with his form, then have I reason to be fond of grief? Fair you well. Had you such a loss as I,

I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head when there is such disorder in my wit. Oh Lord! My boy, my Arthur, my fair son. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world. My widow comfort and my sorrow's cure. Exit.

I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. Exit. 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 has spoiled the sweet world's taste that it yields naught but shame and bitterness. Before the curing of a strong disease, even in the instant of repair and health, the fittest strongest evils that take leave, on their departure most of all show evil. What have you lost by losing of disdain?

All days of glory, joy and happiness. 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 it is 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 as heartily as he is glad he has him your mind is all as youthful as your blood now hear me speak with the 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 whilst warm-life place 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 boisterous

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. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall? You, in the right of Lady Blanche, your wife, may then make all the claim that Arthur did. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. how green you are 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 seal that none so small advantage shall step forth to check his reign but they will cherish it No natural exhalation in the sky, no scope 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. Maybe he will not touch young Arthur's life but hold himself safe in his prisonment. 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. Me thinks I see this hurly all on foot, and, oh, what better matter breeds for you? you than I have named. The bastard, Falcon Bridge, 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 Dofan, go with me to the king, tis wonderful, what may be. be wrought out of their discontent now that their souls are topful of offence for england go i will wet on the king strong reasons make strong actions let us go if you say i the king will not say no

Excient. End of Act 3. Act 4 of the life and death of King John by William Shakespeare. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Act 4. Scene 1. A room in a castle. Enter Hubert and Executioners. 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. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Uncleanly scruples. Fear not you, look to it. Excient, executioners. Young lad, come forth. I have to say with you, Enter Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. Good morrow, little prince. As little prince, having so great a title to be more prince, as may be, you are sad. Indeed, I have been Maria.

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 knight, only for wantonness. By my christened him, so I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as much. merry as the day is long, and so I would be here, but that I doubt. My uncle practices more harm to me. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son? No, indeed it's not, and I would to heaven I were your son. So you would love me, Hubert. 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.

Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today. 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. Aside. His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur. Showing a paper. Aside. How now, foolish room. Turning despidious 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?

Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Young boy, I must. And will you? And I will. Have you the heart. When your head did but ache, I knit my hand orature about your brows, the best I had, a princess routed me, and I did never ask at 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 never has 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, and 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? I have sworn to do it, and with horions must I burn them out? 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? And 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. Come forth. Stamps.

Reenter executioners with a cord. irons, etc. Do as I bid you do. Oh, save me, Hubert. Save me. My eyes are out, even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 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 angrily. Thrust, but these men away, and I'll forgive you, whatever torment you do put me to. Go, stand within. Let me alone with him.

I'm best pleased to be from such a deed. Exeunt, executioners. Alas, I then have chied away my friend. He had the stern look, but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may give life. to yours. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Is there no remedy?

None but to lose your eyes. Oh, heaven that there were but a moat 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. Is this your promise? Go to hold your tongue. Hubert, the utterance of your own.

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 truth, the instrument is cold and would not harm me. I can heat it, boy. 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 has blown his spirit out And strode repentant ashes on his head But with my breath I can revive it, boy 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 tear 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. Well, see to live, I will not touch thine eye 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.

Oh, now you look like Hubert. All this while you were disguised. Peace, no more adieu. Your uncle must not know, but you are dead. I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports and, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, that Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, will not offend there.

Oh, heaven, I thank you, Hubert. Silence, no more. Go closely in with me. much danger do i undergo for thee exeunt scene two king john's palace enter king john pembroke salisbury and other lords here once again we sit once again crowned and looked upon i hope with cheerful eyes this once again but that your highness pleased was once superfluous you were crowned before and that high royalty was ne'er plucked off the faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt. Fresh expectation troubled not the land with any longed-for change or better state. Therefore, to be possessed with double pomp, to guard a title that was rich before, to gild be finite gold, to paint the lily, to throw a perfume on a violet,

to smooth the ice, or add another hue unto the rainbow, or with taper light, to seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, is wasteful and ridiculous, success. But that your royal pleasure must be done. This act is as an ancient tale new told, and in the last repeating troublesome, being urged at a time unseasonable. In this the antique and well-noted face of plain old form is much disfigured, and like a shifted wind unto a sail, it makes the course of thoughts to fetch a boat, startles and fright's

consideration, makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected for putting on so new a fashioned robe. When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness, and oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worst by the excuse. As patches set upon a little breach, discredit more in hiding of the fault than did the fault before it was so patched. To this effect, before you were new croned, we breathe our counsel, but he pleased Your Highness to overbear it, and we are all well pleased, since all and every part of what we would doth make a stand

at what Your Highness will. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possessed you with, and think them strong, and more, more strong than lesser is my fear I shall endure you with. Meantime but ask what you would have reformed that is not well, and well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you, your requests. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, to sound the purpose of all their hearts, both for myself and them, but, chief of all, your safety for the which myself and them bend their

best studies. Heartily request the enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint doth move the murmuring lips of discontent to break into this dangerous argument. If what in rest you have in right you hold, why then your fears, which, as they say, attend the steps of wrong? Should move you to mew up your tender kinsman, and to choke his days with barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth the rich advantage of good exercise? That the time's enemies may not have this to grace occasions, let it be our suit that you have bid us ask his liberty, which for our goods we do no further ask than whereupon

our wheel, on your depending, counts at your wheel he have his liberty. Hubert. Let it be so. I do commit his youth to your discretion. Hubert, what news with you? Taking him apart. This is the man should do the bloody deed. He showed his warrant to a friend of mine.

The image of a wicked heinous fault lives in his eye, that close aspect of his does show the mood of a much troubled breast. And I do fearfully believe tis done what we so feared he had a charge to do. The cooler the king doth come and go between his purpose and his conscience, like herald's twigs to dreadful battle set, his passion is so ripe it needs must break. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence the foul corruption of a sweet child's death. We cannot hold mortality's strong hand.

Good lords, although my will to give is living, the suit which you demand is gone and dead. He tells us Arthur is deceased tonight. Indeed we feared his sickness was past cure. Indeed we heard how near his death he was before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answered either here or hence. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me? Think you I bear the shears of destiny. Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

It is apparent foul play, and his shame that greatness should so grossly offer it So thrive it in your game, and so, farewell. Stay yet, Lord Salsbury, I'll go with thee, and find the inheritance of this poor child. His little kingdom of a forced grave that blood which owed the breadth of all this isle, three foot of it doth hold bad word the while. This must not be thus born, this will break out to all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt." Exeant Lords. They burn in indignation.

I repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, no certain life achieved by others' death. Enter a messenger. A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood that I have seen inhabit in those cheeks? So foul a sky clears not without a storm. Pour down thy weather.

How goes all in France? From France to England, never such a power of any foreign preparation was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learned by them, for when you should be told they do prepare. The headings come that they are all arrived. Oh, where hath our intelligence been drunk?

Where hath it slept? Where is my mother's care that such an army could be drawn in France and she not hear of it? My liege. Her ear is stopped with dust. The first of April died your noble mother, and, as I hear, my lord, the Lady Constance, in a frenzy, died three days before,

but this from rumours tongue I idly her. heard. If true or false, I know not. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion. Oh, make a leak with me till I have pleased my discontented beers. What? Mother dead! How wildly then walks my estate in France? Under whose conduct came those powers of France that thou for truth givest out are landed here. Under the Dauphine. Thou hast made me giddy with these tidings.

Enter the bastard and Peter of Pumphra. Now, what says the world to your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff my head with more ill news, for it is full. But if you be feared to hear the worst, then let the worst unheard fall on your head. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amazed under the tide, but now I breathe again, aloft the flood, and can give audience to any tongue, speak it of what it will. How I have sped among the clergymen, the sums I have collected shall express. But as I travelled hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied, possessed with rumours, full of idle dreams, not knowing what they fear, but full of fear. And here a prophet that I brought with me from forth the streets of Pompfort, whom I found with many hundreds treading on his heels,

to whom he sung in rude, harsh-sounding rhymes, that ere the next ascension day at noon your highness should deliver up your crown. thou idle dreamer wherefore didst thou so for knowing that the truth will fall out so hubert away with him imprison him and on that day at noon whenon he says i shall yield up my crown let him be hanged deliver him to safety and return for i must use thee Excient Hubert with Peter. Oh, my gentle cousin, Hest thou the news abroad, who are arrived? The French, my lord, men's mouths are full of it. Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury with eyes as red as new and kindled fire,

and others more going to seek the grave of Arthur, who they say is killed tonight on your suggestion. Gentle kinsman, go, and thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to win their loves again. bring them before me. I will seek them out. Nay, but make haste, the better foot before. Oh, let me have no subject, enemies,

when adverse foreigners are fright my town with dreadful pomp of stout invasion. Be mercury, set feathers to thy heels, and fly like thought from them to me again. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. Exit. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman. Go after him, for he perhaps shall need some messenger

betwixt me and the peers, and be thou he. With all my heart, my liege. Exit. My mother, dead. Reenter Hubert. My lord, they say five moons were seen tonight. Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about the other four in wondrous motion.

Five moons. Old men and belldoms in the streets to prophesy upon it dangerously. Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths, and when they talk of him, they shake their own. heads and whisper one another in the ear. And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, whilst he that hears makes fearful action with wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a Smith stand with his hammer thus, that whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, with open mouth swallowing a tailor's news, who, with his shears and measure, in his hand,

standing on slippers which his nimble haste had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, told of a many thousand warlike French that were ember-tailed and ranked in Kent, another lean unwashed artificer cuts off his tail and talks of Arthur's death. Why seek's thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death? Thy hand hath murdered him. I had a mighty cause to wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. "'No had, my lord? Why? Did you not provoke me?'

"'It is the curse of kings to be attended by slaves that take their humours for a warrant to break within the bloody house of life, and on the winking of authority to understand a law, to know the meaning of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns more upon humour than advised respect.' "'Here is your hand and seal for what I did.' "'Oh, when the last account twixt heaven and earth is to be made, And then shall this hand and seal witness against us to damnation. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, a fellow by the hand of nature marked, quoted and signed to do

a deed of shame, this murder had not come into my mind. But taking note of thy abhorred aspect, finding thee fit for bloody villainy, apt, liable to be employed in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death, and thou, to be endeared to a king, made it no conscience to destroy a prince. My lord! Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause when I speak darkly what I purposed, or turned an eye of doubt upon my face, as bid me tell my tale in express words, deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, and those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.

but thou didst understand me by my signs and didst in signs again parley with sin yea without stop didst thy let thy heart consent and consequently thy rude hand to act the deed which both our tongues held vile to name out of my sight and never see me more my nobles leave me and my state is braved even at my gates with ranks of foreign powers nay in the body of this Bless ye land, this kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, hostility and civil tumult reigns between my conscience and my cousin's death. Arm you against your other enemies, I'll make peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, not painted with the crimson spots of blood.

Within this bosom, never entered yet, the dreadful motion of a murderous thought, and you have slandered nature in my form which, howsoever rude exteriorly, is yet the cover of a fairer mind than to be butcher of an innocent child. Doth Arthur live? Oh, hasty to the peers, throw this report on their incensed rage, and make them tame to their obedience. Forgive the comment that my passion made upon thy feature, for my rage was blind,

and foul imaginary eyes of blood presented thee more hideous than thou art. O answer not, but to my closet, bring the angry lords with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly, run more fast. Xient Scene three. Before the castle. Enter Arthur on the walls. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down.

Good ground be pitiful, and hurt me not. There's few or none do know me. If they did, this shipboy's semblance hath disguised me quite. I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it. If I get down and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away. As good to die and go as die and stay. Leaps down. Oh, me!

My uncle's spirit is in these stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones. dies enter pembroke salisbury and bigot lords i will meet him at st edmundsbury it is our safety and we must embrace this gentle offer of the perilous time who bought that letter from the cardinal for count moulon a noble lord of france whose private with me of the dauphin's love is much more general than his lines import to-morrow morning let us meet him then Or rather than set forward, For it will be too long day's journey, lords, or ere we meet. Enter the bastard. Once more today well met, distempered lords,

The king by me requests your present straight. The king hath dispossessed himself of us. We will not line his thin, bestained cloak with our pure owners, nor attend the foot that leaves the print of blood where'er it works. Return, and tell him so. we know the worst. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best. Our griefs and not our manners reason now.

But there is little reason in your grief, therefore to a reason you had manners now. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. Tis true to hurt his master, no man else. This is a prison. What is he, lies here? Seeing Arthur. O death made proud with people. pure and princely beauty. The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Or when he doomed this beauty to a grave, found it to precious princely foregrave. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld, or have you read or heard? Or could you think, or do you almost think, although you see that you do see, Could thought, without this object, form such another? This is the very top, the height, the crest, or crest into the crest, of murder's arms. This is the bloodiest shame, the wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, that ever war-eyed wrath or staring rage presented to the tears of soft remorse. All murders pass to stand excused in this, and this, so soul and so unmatchable,

shall give a holiness, a purity, to the yet unbegotten sin of times, and prove a deadly bloodshed buttered jest, exempled by this heinous spectacle. It is a damned and a bloody work, the graceless action of a heavy hand, if that would be the work of any hand. If that it be the work of any hand, we had a kind of loit what would ensue.

It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand, the practice and the purpose of the king, from whose obedience I forbid my soul, kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, and breathing to his breathless excellence, the incense of a vow, a holy vow, never to taste the pleasures of the world, never to be infected with delight,

nor conversant with ease and idleness, till I have set a glory to this hand by giving it the worship of revenge. Our souls religiously confirm thy words. Huberd. Lord, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur doth live. The king has sent for you.

Oh, he is old and blushes not at death. I won't thou hateful villain. Get thee gone. I am no villain. Must I rub the law? Drawing his sword. Your sword is bright, sir. Put it up again.

Not till I sheath it in a murderous skin. Stand back, Lord's, Salisbury. Stand back, I say, by heaven, I think my swords as sharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget yourself, nor tempt the danger of my true defence, lest I, by marking of your rage, forget your worth, your greatness and nobility. Out, Dunghill, darest thou brave nobleman? Not for my life, but yet I dare defend my innocent life against an emperor.

Though art a murderer. Do not prove me so, yet I am none. Whose tongue soever speaks false, not truly speaks, Who speaks not truly, lies. Cut him to pieces. Keep the peace, I say. Stand by, or I shall gall you, folk and bridge. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury.

If thou would frown on me, or stir thy foot, or teach thy hasty spleen to do me, I'll strike thee dead. Put up by sword betime, or I'll so maul you and your toasting iron that you shall think the devil has come from hell. What will thou do, renowned Falconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer.

Lord Bigot, I am none. Who killed this prince? It is not an hour since I left him well. I honoured him. I loved him, and will weep my date of life out for his sweet life's loss. Thrus not those cunning waters of his eyes,

for villainy is not without such room, and he, long traded in it, makes it seem like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, old you whose souls abhor the uncleanly severs of a slaughterhouse, for I am stifled with this smell of sin. Away toward Barry, to the dolphin there. There tell the king he,

may inquire us out. Excient, Orids. Here's a good world. Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death art thou damned, Hubert. Do but hear me, sir. I'll tell thee what. Thou art damned as black, nay nothing is so black.

Thou art more deep damned than Prince Lucifer. There is not yet so ugly. a fiend of hell as thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. Upon my soul? If thou didst but consent to this most cruel act, do but despair. And if thou wants to cord the smallest thread that ever spider twisted from her womb will serve to strangle thee, her rush will be a beam to hang thee on, or which thou drown thyself, put but a little water in a spoon,

and it shall be as all the ocean, enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously. If I, in act, consent, or sin of thought, be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath, which was imbounded in this beauteous clay, let hell want pains enough to torture me. I left him well. Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up? From forth this morsel of dead royalty, the life, The right and truth of all this realm is fled to heaven, And England now is left to tug and scramble, And to part by the teeth the unowed interest of proud swelling state. Now for the bare-picked bone of majesty doth dogged war,

bristle his angry crest, and snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. Now powers from home and discontents at home meet in one line, and vast confusion waits, Has doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast, The imminent decay of rested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cinchre can hold out this tempest. Bear away that child and follow me with speed. all to the king a thousand businesses are brief in hand and heaven itself doth frown upon the land exeant end of act four act five of the life and death of king john by william shakespeare this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox dot org

act five scene one king john's palace enter king john cardinal pandolph and attendants thus have i yielded up into your hand the circle of my glory giving the crown take again from this my hand as holding of the pope your sovereign greatness and authority now keep your holy word go meet the french and from his holiness use all your power to stop their marches for we are inflamed. 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 mistempered humour rests by you only to be qualified.

Then pause not, for the present times so sick that present medicine must be ministered or overthrow incurable ensues. 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 blustering 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. Is this Ascension Day? Did not the prophet say that before Ascension Day, it

noon my crown I should give off. Even so I have. I did suppose it should be on constraint, but heaven be thanked. It is but voluntary. Enter the bastard. All Kent hath yielded. Nothing there holds out but Dover Castle. London hath received, like a kind host, the Dofan 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. Would not my lord's return to me again after they heard young Arthur was alive? They found him dead and cast into the streets an empty casket, where the jewel of life by some damned hand was robbed and tain away.

That villain Hubert told me he did live. 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 threatener, 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 wretched. war when he intendeth to become the field, show boldness and aspiring confidence. Watch, or they seek the line in his den and fright him there, and make him tremble there. Oh, let it not be said, forage, and run to meet displeasure farther from the doors, and grapple with him ere he come so nigh.

The legate of the Pope hath been with me, and I have made a happy peace with him, and he hath promised to dismiss the powers led by the Dauphin. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truth to arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cocker, 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 have thou the ordering of this present time away then with good courage yet i know our party may well meet a prouder foe exeunt scene two louis camp by st edmundsbury enter in arms louis salisbury mellon pembroke bigot and soldiers my lord milan 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 Upon our swedes, it never shall be broken, and a noble dauphin, albeit we swear a voluntary zeal on the unerged faith to your proceedings.

Yet believe me, Prince, I am not glad that such a sort of time should seek a plaster by contempt revolt, and heal the inveterate canker of one wound by making many. Oh, it grays my soul, that I must draw this metal. from my side to be a widow-maker. Oh, 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 confuse it wrong, and is not pity, oh, my grieved friends, that we, the sons and children of this isle, were born to see so side and her is this, wherein we step after a stranger march upon her gentle bosom and fill

up her enemy's ranks. I must withdraw and weep upon the spot of this enforced cause, to grace the gentry of a land remote, and follow unacquainted callers here. What? Here? Oh, Nesson, that those could remove, the Neptune's arms, who clipped thee a boat, 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 unnebally. A noble temper dost thou show in this, and great affections wrestling in thy bosom doth make an earthquake of nobility.

Oh, 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 shower blown up by tempest of the soul startles mine eyes and makes me more amazed than had i seen the vaulty top of heaven figured quite o'er with burning meteors lift up thy brow renowned solesbury and with a great heart heave away the storm form. Commend these waters to those baby eyes that never saw the giant world enraged, 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 noble shall you all that knit your sinews to the strength of mine. And even there, methinks, an angel

spake. Enter Cardinal Pendulf. Look where the Holy Leggett comes apace to give us warrant from the hand of heaven and on our actions set the name of Wright with holy breath. Hail noble Prince of France. The next is this. King John hath reconciled himself to Rome. His spirit is come in that so stood out against the Holy Church the great metropolis and sea of Rome. therefore thy threatening 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 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-in instrument to any such a-y-lawful serving man-in instrument to any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars, between this

chastised kingdom and myself, and brought in matter that should feed this fire, and now it is 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 have 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 conquered, must I back because that John have made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome born, what men provided, what munitions sent to under-prop this action. Is 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 la Roi, as I have banked their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game to win this easy match played for a crown? And shall I now give awe the yielded set? No. No on my soul. It never shall be said. You look but on the outside of this work. 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 culled these fiery spirits from the world to outlook conquest

and to win renown, even in the jaws of danger and of death. Trumpet sounds. What lusty trumpet thus are thought. summon us. Enter the bastard attended. According to the fair play of the world, let me have audience. I am sent to speak. My holy lord of millen 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.

The dauphin is too willful opposite and will not temporize with my entreaties. He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms. By all the blood that ever fury breathed, the youth says well. Now, here are English king, for thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepared, and reason to he should, this apish and unmannily approach, this harnessed mask and unadvised revel, this unhaired saucinous and boyish troops, the king doth smile at, and is well prepared, to whip this dwarfish war, these pygmy arms, from out the circle of his territories.

That hand, which had the strength, even at your door, to cudgel you, and to make you take the hatch, to dive like bucket and conceal at wells, to crouch in litter of your stable planks, to lie like pawns locked 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 his voice an armoured Englishman, Shall that victorious hand be feebled here That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No! No, the gallant monarch is in arms,

And like an eagle or his airy towers to souse annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you in great revolts, You bloody Nero's ripping up the womb of your dear mother England, blush for shame. For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids like Amazons come tripping after drums, their thimbles into armoured gauntlets change, their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts to fierce and bloody inclination. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace. We grant thou canst out-scald us. Fair thee well. We hold our time too precious to be spent with such a brabler. Give me leave to speak. No, I will speak.

We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums and let the tongue of war plead for our interest and our being here. Indeed, your drums being beaten will cry out, and so shall you being beaten. Do but start an echo with the clamour of thy drum, and even at hand a drumming. ready brace 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-mouthed thunder, for at hand, not trusting to this halting legateeer, whom he hath used rather for sport than need, is warlike John, and in his forehead sits a bare-ribbed death, whose office is this day to feast upon whole thousands of the French. Strike up our drums to find this danger out.

And thou shalt find it, Dauphin. Do not doubt. Excient Scene three. The field of battle. Alarms. Enter King John and Hubert. How goes the day with us? Oh, tell me, Hubert.

Badly, I fear. How fairs your majesty? This fever that hath troubled me so long, lies heavy on me. Oh, my heart is sick. Enter a messenger. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Falconbridge, desires your majesty to leave the field and send him word by me which way you go.

Tell him towards Swinsted to the abbey there. Be of good comfort, for the great supply that was expected by the Dauphine here are wrecked three nights ago on Goodwin's Sands. This news was brought to Richard, but even now, the French fight coldly and retire themselves. I'm me. This tyrant fever burns me up and will not let me welcome this good news. Set on towards Swinsted to my litter strait. Weakness possesseth me and I am faint.

Exeant Scene 4. Another part of the field. Enter Salisbury, Pembroke and Bigot. I did not think the king so stored with friends. Up once again put spirit in the French. If they miscarry, we miscarry too. That misbegotten devil, Foken Bridge, in spite of spite, alone upholds the day. They say King John saw sick have left the field.

Entry Mellon, wounded. Lead me to the revolts of England here. When we were happy, we had other names. It is the Count Mellon. Wounded to death. fly noble english you are both 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 more with me, upon the altar, at St. Edmundsbury, even on that altar where we swore to you dear amity and everlasting love. May this be possible? May this be true?

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 against 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 Lou is due in the day, he is foresworn, 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 where son, even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, paying the fine-affraid of treachery, even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, if flu is by your assistance win the day. Command me to one you but with your king, the love of him and his respect besides,

for that my grandson 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 We do believe thee And beshrew my soul But I do love the fever And the form of this most fair Occasion By the which we will entread

The steps of damned flight and like a baited and retired flood, leaving our rankness and irregular course, stoop low within those bones we have overlooked, and cabby run on in obedience, even to our ocean, do our great king, John. My arms shall give thee help to bear thee hence, for I do see the cruel pangs of death right in nine-eye.

Away, my friends, new flight, and happy newness that intends old right. exeant leading off melon scene five the french camp enter lewis and his train the sun of heaven methought was loath to set but stayed and made the western welkin blush when english measure backward their own ground in faint retire oh bravely came we off when with a volley of our needless shot after such bloody toil we bid good-night and wound our tattering colours clearly up last in the field and almost lords of it. Enter a messenger. Where is my prince, the Dauphine? Here, what news?

The Count Moulin is slain. The English lords, by his persuasion, are again fallen off, and your supply, which you have wished so long, are cast away and sunk on Goodwin's sands. Half, foul shrewd news. Bishrew 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 powers. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. Well, keep good quarter and good care tonight. The day shall not be up so soon as I, to try the fair adventure of tomorrow. Excient Scene 6. An open place in the neighbourhood of Swinsted Abbey. Enter the bastard and Hubert, severally.

Who's there? Speak ho. Speak quickly or I shoot. A friend, what art thou? Of the part of England. Whither dost thou go? What's that to thee? Why may I not demand of thine affairs,

as well as thou of mine? Hubert, I think. Thou hast a perfect thought. I will upon all hazards well believe, thou art my friend that knowest my tongue so well. Who art thou? Who thou wilt? And if thou please, thou mayest befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets. Unkind remembrance, thou and Ilus Knight have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me, that any accent breaking from thy tongue should escape the true acquaintance of mine ear. Come, come, sans compliment. What news abroad? Why, here walk I in the black brow of night, to find you out. Brief, then, and what's the news? "'Oh, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,

"'black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. "'Show me the very wound of this ill news. "'I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.' "'The king, I fear, is poisoned 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.'

"'How did he take it?' Who did taste to him? A monk, I tell you, a resolved villain whose bow suddenly burst out. The king had speaks and peradventure may recover. Who didst thou leave to tend, His Majesty? Why, no you're not. The lords are all come back, and brought Prince Henry in their company, at whose request the king hath pardoned them,

and they are all about his majesty. 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 escaped. Away before, conduct me to the king. I doubt he will be dead where I come. Excient Scene 7. The Orchard in Swinsted Abbey.

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. It is too late. The life of a very late. The life of a very much of a few time. all his blood is touched 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. 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. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage.

Exit, bigot. He is more patient than when you will. left him, even now he sung. O vanity of sickness, fierce extremes in their continuance, will not feel themselves. Death, having preyed upon the outward parts, leaves them invisible, and his siege is now against the mind, the witch he pricks and wounds, with many legions of strange fantasies, which in their throng and pressed to that last hold confound themselves. It is strange that death should sing.

I am the signet 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. Be of good comfort, Prince, for you are born to set a form upon that indigest which she hath left so shapeless and so rude. Enter attendance and bigot, carrying King John in a chair. I am Mary. 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 bells crumble up to dust. I'm a scribbled form, drawn with a pen upon a parchment, and against this fire do I shrink up? How fairs, your majesty? Poisoned, ill fare, dead, forsook, cast off. And none of you will bid the winter come. to thrust his icy fingers in my moor, nor let my kingdom's rivers take their cause through my burned 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 straight and sowing. Grateful, deny me that. Oh, that there were some virtue in my tears that might relieve you. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell, and there the poison is as a fiend,

confined to tyrannize on unreprovable condemned blood. Enter the bastard. Oh, I am scolded with my violent motion and spleen of speed to see your majesty. O cousin, thou had come to set mine eye. the tackle of my heart is cracked 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 glut and module of confounded royalty. The dofan is preparing hitherward,

where heaven he knows how we shall answer him, for in a knight the best part of my power, his eye upon advantage did remove, were in the washes all unwarily devoured by the unexpected flood. King John dies. You breathe this dead news in his dead an ear. My liege, my lord,

but now a king now this 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 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 may move in your right spheres, where be your powers? 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 dofam rages at our very heels. It seems you know not, then, so much as we, the Cardinal Pandulf is within at rest, who half an hour since came from the dofam, and brings from him such aught. of our peace, as we with honour and respect may take, with purpose presently to leave this war.

He will the rather do it when he sees ourselves well sinned to our defence. Nay, it is in a manner done already. For many carriages he hath despatched to the seaside, and put his cause and quarrel to the disposing of the cardinal, with whom, yourself, myself, and other lords, if you think meat this afternoon will pose to consummate this business happily. Let it be so. And you, my noble prince, with other princes that may best be spared, shall wait upon your father's funeral. At worcester must his body be interred, for so he willed it.

Vither 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. And the like tender of our love we make To rest without the spot

Forevermore. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks And knows not how to do it, but with tears. 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 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. Excient. End of Act V. End of the life and death of King. John by William Shakespeare.