Arth. Are you fick, Hurbert? you look pale to Day; Infooth I would you were a little fick,

That I might fit all Night and watch with

I warrant I love you more than you

do me.

you.

Hub. His Words do take Poffeffion of my Bofom. Read here, young Arthur. How now foolish Rheume? Turning difpitious Torture out of Door?

I must be brief, left Refolution drop

Out at mine Eyes in tender Womanish Tears,
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for fo foul Effect.

Muft you with hot Irons burn out both mine Eyes?
Hub. Young Boy, I must.

Arth. And will you?

Hub. And I will.

Arth. Have you the Heart? When your Head did but ake, I knit my Handkerchief about your Brows,

(The best I had, a Princefs wrought it me)

And I did never ask it you again;

And with my Hand, at Midnight held your Head;
And like the watchful Minutes, to the Hour,
Still and anon chear'd up the heavy Time,

Saying, what lack you? and, where lyes your Grief?
Or what good Love may I perform for you?
Many a poor Man's Son would have lain ftill,
And ne'er have fpoke a loving Word to you:
But you, at your fick Service had a Prince;
Nay, you may think my Love was crafty Love,
And call it Cunning. Do, and if you will,
If Heav'n be pleas'd, that you muft ufe me ill,
Why then you muft. Will you put out mine Eyes?
Thefe Eyes, that never did, nor never shall
So much as frown on you.

Hub. I have fworn to do it;

And with hot Irons must I burn them out.

Arth. Ah, none but in this Iron Age would do it.
The Iron of it felf, though heat red hot,

Approaching near thefe Eyes, would drink my Tears,
And quench their fiery Indignation,

Even in the Matter of mine Innocence;
Nay, after that, confume away in Rust,

But

But for containing Fire to harm mine Eye.
Are you more ftubborn hard, than hammer'd Iron?
And if an Angel fhould have come to me,
And told me Hubert fhould put out mine Eyes,

I would not have believ'd him; no Tongue but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you do.

Arth. O fave me, Hubert, fave me; my Eyes are out Even with the fierce Locks of thefe bloody Men. Hub. Give me the Iron, I fay, and bind him here. Arth. Alas, what need you be fo boisterous rough? I will not ftruggle, I will ftand ftone-ftill.

• For Heav'n fake, Hubert, let me not be bound;
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these Men away,
And I will fit as quiet as a Lamb.

I will not ftir, nor wince, nor fpeak a Word,
Nor look upon the Iron angerly:

Thruft but these Men away and I'll forgive you,
Whatever Torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, ftand within; let me alone with him.
Exe. I am beft pleas'd to be from such a Deed.
Arth. Alas, I then have chide away my Friend,
He hath aftern Look, but a gentle Heart;
Let him come back, that his Compaffion may
Give Life to yours.

Hub. Come, Boy, prepare your felf.

Arth. Is there no Remedy?

Hub. None, but to lofe your Eyes.

Arth. O Heav'n, that there were but a Moth in yours, A Grain, a Duft, a Gnat, a wandring Hair,

Any Annoyance in that precious Sense;

Then feeling what fmall things are boisterous there,

Your vile Intent muft needs feem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promife? Go too, hold your Tongue. Arth. Hubert, the Utterance of a brace of Tongues, Muft 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 fpare mine Eyes, Though to no ufe, but ftill to look on you. Lo, by my troth, the Inftrument is cold, And would not harm me.

Hub.

Hub. I can heat it, Boy.

Arth. No, in good footh, the Fire is dead with Grief. Being create for Comfort, to be us'd

In undeferv'd Extreams; fee else your self,
There is no Malice in this burning Coal,
The Breath of Heav'n hath blown his Spirit out,
And ftrew'd repentant Aihes on his Head.

Hub. But with my Breath I can revive it, Boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with fhame of your Proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it perchance will fparkle in your Eyes;
And, like a Dog that is compell'd to fight,
Snatch at his Mafter that doth fet him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong
Deny their Office; only you do lack

That Mercy which fierce Fire, and Iron extends,
Creatures of note for Mercy, lacking Uses.

Hub. Well, fee to live; I will not touch thine Eye
For all the Treasure that thine Uncle owes:
Yet am I fworn, and I did purpose, Boy,
With this fame very Iron to burn them out.
Arth. O now you look like Hubert.

You were disguis'd.

All this while

Hub. Peace: No more. Adieu,
Your Unkle muft not know but you are dead.
I'll fill thefe dogged Spies with false Reports:
And, pretty Child, fleep doubtlefs, and secure,
That Hubert, for the Wealth of all the World,
Will not offend thee.

Arth. O Heav'n! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub. Silence, no more; go clofely in with me. Much Danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.

Enter John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords. K. John. Here once again we fit, once again crown'd, And look'd upon, I hope, with chearful Eyes. Pemb. This once again, but that your Highness pleas'd,' Was once fuperfluous; you were crown'd before,

And

And that high Royalty was ne'er pluck'd off:
The Faiths of Men, ne'er ftained with Revolt:
Fresh Expectation troubled not the Land
With any long'd-for Change, or better State.
Sal. Therefore to be poffefs'd with double Pomp,
To guard a Title that was rich before;

To gild refined Gold, to paint the Lilly,
To throw a Perfume on the Violet,

To smooth the Ice, or add another Hew
Unto the Rainbow, or with Taper-Light
To feek the beauteous Eye of Heav'n to garnish,
Is wafteful and ridiculous Excefs.

Pemb. But that your royal Pleasure must be done, This Act is as an ancient Tale new told,

And in the laft repeating troublesome,

Being urged at a time unfeafonable..

Sal. In this the antick and well noted Face
Of plain old Form is much disfigured,
And like a fhifted Wind unto a Sail,

It makes the courfe of Thoughts to fetch about,
Startles and frights Confideration:

Makes found Opinion fick, and Truth fufpected,

For putting on fo new a fashion'd Robe.

Pemb. When Workmen ftrive to do better than well,

They do confound their, Skill in Covetousness,

And oftentimes excufing of a Fault,

Doth make the Fault the worfe by the Excufe:

As Patches fet upon a little Breach,

Difcredit more in hiding of the Fault,

Than did the Fault before it was fo patch'd.

Sal. To this Effe&t, before you were new crown'd, We breath'd our Counfel; but it pleas'd your Highness To over-bear it, and we are all well pleas'd, Since all, and every part of what we would Doth make a ftand, at what your Highness will. K. John. Some Reasons of this double Coronation I have poffeft you with, and think them strong. And more, more ftrong, then lefs is my Fear I fhall endue you with: Mean time, but ask What you would have reform'd, that is not well, And well fhall you perceive, how willingly

I will both hear and grant you your Requefts.
Pemb. Then I, as one that am the Tongue of thefe
To found the Purposes of all their Hearts,

Both for my felf, and them; but chief of all,
Your Safety; for the which, my felf and them
Bend their beft Studies; heartily request
The Infranchisement of Arthur, whofe Reftraint
Doth move the murmuring Lips of Discontent
To break into this dangerous Argument.
If what in Reft you have, in Right you hold,
Why then your Fears, which as they fay, attend
The Steps of Wrong, fhould move you to mew up
Your tender Kinfman, and to choke his Days
With barbarous Ignorance, and deny his Youth
The rich Advantage of good Exercise,
That the Times Enemies may not have this
To grace Occafions: 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 Weal on you depending,
Counts it your Weal; he have his Liberty.
Enter Hubert.

K. John. Let it be fo: I do commit his Youth
To your Direction. Hubert, what News with you?
Pemb. This is the Man fhould do the bloody Deed:
He fhew'd his Warrant to a Friend of mine,

The Image of a wicked heinous Fault

Lives in his Eye; that clofe Afpect of his,
Does fhew the Mood of a much troubled Breaft,
And I do fearfully believe 'tis done,

What we fo fear'd he had a Charge to do.

Sal. The Colour of the King doth come and go,
Between his Purpose and his Confcience,

Like Heralds 'twixt two dreadful Battels fet:
His Paffion is fo ripe, it needs muft break.

Pemb. And when it breaks, I fear will iffue thence
The foul Corruption of a sweet Child's Death.

K. John. We cannot hold Mortality's ftrong Hand.
Good Lords, although my Will to give is living,
The Suit which you demand is gone, and dead.
He tells us Arthur is deceas'd to Night.

Sal.