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.

Cit. Why answer not the double Majesties

This friendly treaty of our threatened town?

K. Phi. Speak England first, that hath been forward first

To speak unto this city: what say you?

K. John. If that the Dolphin 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 Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,
And all that we upon this side the sea
(Except this city now by us besieg'd)
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.
K. Phi. What say'st thou, boy?

lady's face.

Look in the

Lou. I do, my lord; and in her eye I find

A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

The shadow of myself form'd in her eye,

Which, being but the shadow of your son,

Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow.
I do protest I never lov'd myself,

Till now infixed I beheld myself

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

[Whispers with BLANCH.

Bast. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye,

Hang'd in the frowning

And quarter'd in her heart!

Himself love's traitor.

wrinkle of her brow, - he doth espy This is pity now,

That hang'd and drawn and quarter'd, there should

be,

In such a love so vile a lout as he.

Blanch. My uncle's will in this respect is mine: If he see aught in you that makes him like, That any-thing 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. Farther 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.

K. John. What say these young ones? What say

you, my niece?

Blanch. That she is bound in honour still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

K. John. Speak then, Prince Dolphin: can you love this lady?

Lou. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly.

K. John. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine,

Maine,

Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces,
With her to thee; and this addition more,
Full thirty thousand marks of English coin..
Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal,
Command thy son and daughter to join hands.
K. Phi. It likes us well. Young Princes, close
your hands.

Aust. And your lips too; for, I am well assur'd, That I did so, when I was first assur'd.

K. Phi. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,

Let in that amity which you have made;
For at Saint Mary's chapel presently

The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd.
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? Lou. She is sad and passionate at your Highness'

tent.

K. Phi.

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'd lady? In her right we came ;
Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way,
To our own vantage.

K. John.

We will heal up all;

For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne,
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 unlook'd for, unprepared pomp.

Bast.

[Exeunt into the town all but the Bastard. The Citizens retire from the walls.

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 it self is peized 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 indifferency,
From all direction, purpose, course, intent:
And this same bias, this commodity,
This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,
Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aim,
From a resolv'd and honourable war
To a most base and vile-concluded peace.

And why rail I on this commodity?

But for because he hath not woo'd me yet:
Not that I have the power to clutch my hand
When his fair angels would salute my palm;
But for my hand, as unattempted yet,
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, whiles 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.

SCENE II.

[ACT III. Sc. I.-Theobald.]

The Same.

The French King's Tent.

CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY.

Const. Gone to be married? gone to swear a

peace?

False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to

friends?

be

Shall Louis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?

It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard:
Be well advis'd; tell o'er thy tale again:
It cannot be; thou do'st 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 punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears;

Oppress'd 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 vex'd 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 rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er 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.