For any foreign preparation,
Was levied in the body of a land!
The copy of your speed is learn'd by them;
For, when you should be told they do prepare,
The tidings come, that they are all arriv'd,
K. John. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?
Where hath it flept? Where is my mother's care?
That fuch an army could be drawn in France,
And the not hear of it?
Meff.
My liege, her ear
Is ftopp'd with duft; the first of April, died
Your noble mother: And, as I hear, my lord,
The lady Conftance in a frenzy died
Three days before: but this from rumour's tongue
I idly heard: if true, or falfe, I know not.
K. John. Withhold thy fpeed, dreadful occa-
O, make a league with me, till I have pleas'd My difcontented peers!-What! mother dead? How wildly then walks my estate in France!Under whofe conduct came thofe powers of France, That thou for truth giv'ft out, are landed here? Me. Under the Dauphin.
Enter the Baftard and Peter of Pomfret.
K. John. Thou haft made me giddy With thefe ill tidings.-Now, what fays the world To your proceedings? do not feek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is full.
Bast. But, if you be afeard to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head. K.John. Bear with me, coufin; for I was amaz' Under the tide: but now I breathe again Aloft the flood; and can give audience To any tongue, fpeak it of what it will. Baft. How I have fped among the clergymen,
The fums I have collected fhall exprefs.
But, as I travell'd hither through the land,
I find the people ftrangely fantafied;
Poffefs'd with rumours, full of idle dreams;
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear:
And here's a prophet, that I brought with me
From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found
With many hundreds treading on his heels;
To whom he fung, in rude harfh-founding rhymes,
That, ere the next Afcenfion-day at noon,
Your highness fhould deliver up your crown.
K. John. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didft
thou fo?
Peter. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out fo.
K. John. Hubert, away with him; imprison him; And on that day at noon, whereon, he fays, I fhall yield up my crown, let him be hang'd: Deliver him to fafety, and return,
For I must use thee.-O my gentle coufin,
[Exit HUBERT, with Peter. Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arriv'd? Baft. The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it:
Befides, I met lord Bigot, and lord Salisbury,
(With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,)
And others more, going to feek the grave
Of Arthur, who, they fay, is kill'd to-night
On your fuggeftion.
K. John.
Gentle kinfman, go,
And thrust thyself into their companies:
I have a way to win their loves again;
Bring them before me.
K. John. Nay, but make hafte; the better foot
O, let me have no fubject enemies,
When adverse foreigners affright my towns
With dreadful pomp of ftout invafion!--
Be Mercury, fet feathers to thy heels;
And fly, like thought, from them to me again.
Baft. The fpirit of the time fhall teach me speed.
[Exit.
K. John. Spoke like a fpriteful noble gentle.
Go after him; for he, perhaps, fhall need
Some meffenger betwixt me and the peers;
And be thou he.
With all my heart, my liege.
K. John. My mother dead!
Re-enter HUBERT.
Hub. My lord, they fay, five moons were seen
Four fixed; and the fifth did whirl about
'The other four, in wond'rous motion.
K. John. Five moons?
Hub.
in the streets
Do prophecy upon it dangerously:
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he, that fpeaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrift;
Whilft he, that hears, makes fearful action,
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I faw a fmith ftand with his hammer, thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth fwallowing a tailor's news;
Who, with his fhears and measure in his hand,
Standing on flippers, (which his nimble hafte
Had falfely thruft upon contráry feet,)
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattled and rank'd in Kent:
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death. K. John. Why feek'ft thou to poffefs me with thefe fears?
Why urgeft thou fo oft young Arthur's death? Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had mighty cause To with him dead, but thou hadft none to kill him.
Hub. Had none, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?
K. John. It is the curfe of kings, to be attended
By flaves, 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 majefty, when, perchance, it frowne
More upon humour than advis'd respect.
Hub. Here is your hand and feal for what I did.
K. John, O, when the laft account 'twixt heaven
and earth
Is to be made, then fhall this hand and feal
Witness against us to damnation!
How oft the fight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes deeds ill done! Hadeft not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted, and fign'd, to do a deed of fhame,
This murder had not come into my mind;
But, taking note of thy abhorr'd afpéct,
Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
Apt, liable, to be employ'd in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;
And thou, to be endeared to a king,
Made it no confcience to deftroy a prince
Hub. My lord,
K. John. Hadft thou but fhook thy head, or made a pause,
When I fpake darkly what I purpofed:
Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face,
As bid me tell my tale in exprefs words;
Deep fhame had ftruck me dumb, made me break off,
And thofe thy fears might have wrought fears in me:
But thou didst understand me by my figns,
And didft in figns again parley with fin:
Yea, without ftop, didft let thy heart confent,
And, confequently, thy rude hand to act
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to
Out of my fight, and never fee me more!
My nobles leave me; and my state is brav'd,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hoftility and civil tumult reigns
Between my confcience, and my coufin's death.
Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace between your foul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: This hand of mine
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimfon fpots of blood.
Within this bofom never enter'd yet
The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought,
And you have flander'd nature in my form;
Which, howfoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
K. John. Doth Arthur live? O, hafte thee to the peers,
Throw this report on their incenfed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience!
Forgive the comment that my paffion made
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,
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