prompt:
Chapter: ACT II. SCENE 1.

France. Before the walls of Angiers.

[Enter, on one side, the ARCHDUKE OF AUSTRIA and Forces; on the
other, PHILIP, King of France, LOUIS, CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and
Forces.]

KING PHILIP.
Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.--
Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,
Richard, that robb'd 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.

ARTHUR.
God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion'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 Angiers, duke.

LOUIS.
A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?

AUSTRIA.
Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,
As seal to this indenture of my love,--
That to my home I will no more return,
Till Angiers, and the right thou hast in France,
Together with that pale, that white-fac'd shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
And coops from other lands her islanders,--
Even till that England, hedg'd in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure
And confident from foreign purposes,--
Even 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.

CONSTANCE.
O, 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!

AUSTRIA.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords
In such a just and charitable war.

KING PHILIP.
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 royal bones,
Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood,
But we will make it subject to this boy.

CONSTANCE.
Stay for an answer to your embassy,
Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood:
My Lord Chatillon 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.

KING PHILIP.
A wonder, lady!--lo, upon thy wish,
Our messenger Chatillon is arriv'd.

[Enter CHATILLON.]

What England says, say briefly, gentle lord;
We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.

CHATILLON.
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 stay'd, 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,
An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife;
With her her neice, the Lady Blanch of Spain;
With them a bastard of the king's deceas'd:
And all the unsettled humours of the land,--
Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,
With ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens,--
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er
Did never float upon the swelling tide
To do offence and scathe in Christendom.

[Drums beat within.]

The interruption of their churlish drums
Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand;
To parley or to fight: therefore prepare.

KING PHILIP.
How much unlook'd-for is this expedition!

AUSTRIA.
By how much unexpected, by so much
We must awake endeavour for defence;
For courage mounteth with occasion:
Let them be welcome, then; we are prepar'd.

[Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD,
PEMBROKE, Lords, and Forces.]

KING JOHN.
Peace be to France, if France in peace permit
Our just and lineal entrance to our own!
If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,
Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct
Their proud contempt that beats his peace to heaven!

KING PHILIP.
Peace be to England, if that war return
From France to England, there 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 under-wrought 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 Geffrey's face:--
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:
This little abstract doth contain that large
Which died in Geffrey; and the hand of time
Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,
And this his son; England was Geffrey's right,
And this is Geffrey's: in the name of God,
How comes it then, that thou art call'd a king,
When living blood doth in these temples beat,
Which owe the crown that thou o'er-masterest?

KING JOHN.
From whom hast thou this great commission, France,
To draw my answer from thy articles?

KING PHILIP.
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.

KING JOHN.
Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

KING PHILIP.
Excus,--it is to beat usurping down.

ELINOR.
Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?

CONSTANCE.
Let me make answer;--thy usurping son.

ELINOR.
Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,
That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world!

CONSTANCE.
My bed was ever to thy son as true
As thine was to thy husband; and this boy
Liker in feature to his father Geffrey
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, an if thou wert his mother.

ELINOR.
There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

CONSTANCE.
There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

AUSTRIA.
Peace!

BASTARD.
Hear the crier.

AUSTRIA.
What the devil art thou?

BASTARD.
One that will play the devil, sir, with you,
An 'a may catch your hide and you alone.
You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard:
I'll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right;
Sirrah, look to 't; i' faith I will, i' faith.

BLANCH.
O, well did he become that lion's robe
That did disrobe the lion of that robe!

BASTARD.
It lies as sightly on the back of him
As great Alcides' shows upon an ass:--
But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back,
Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

AUSTRIA.
What cracker is this same that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?

KING PHILIP.
Louis, determine what we shall do straight.

LOUIS.
Women and fools, break off your conference.--
King John, this is the very sum of all,--
England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur, do I claim of thee:
Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thy arms?

KING JOHN.
My life as soon:--I do defy thee, France.
Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;
And out of my dear love, I'll give thee more
Than e'er the coward hand of France can win:
Submit thee, boy.

ELINOR.
Come to thy grandam, child.

CONSTANCE.
Do, child, go to it' grandam, child;
Give grandam kingdom, and it' grandam will
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig.
There's a good grandam!

ARTHUR.
Good my mother, peace!
I would that I were low laid in my grave:
I am not worth this coil that's made for me.

ELINOR.
His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

CONSTANCE.
Now, shame upon you, whe'er 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:
Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib'd
To do him justice, and revenge on you.

ELINOR.
Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

CONSTANCE.
Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!
Call not me slanderer: thou and thine usurp
The dominations, royalties, and rights,
Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eldest son's son,
Infortunate 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.

KING JOHN.
Bedlam, have done.

CONSTANCE.
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, plagu'd for her
And with her plague, her sin; his injury
Her injury,--the beadle to her sin;
All punish'd in the person of this child,
And all for her: a plague upon her!

ELINOR.
Thou unadvised scold, I can produce
A will that bars the title of thy son.

CONSTANCE.
Ay, who doubts that? a will, a wicked will;
A woman's will; a canker'd grandam's will!

KING PHILIP.
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 citizens upon the walls.]

FIRST CITIZEN.
Who is it that hath warn'd us to the walls?

KING PHILIP.
 'Tis France, for England.

KING JOHN.
England for itself:--
You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,--

KING PHILIP.
You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects,
Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle.

KING JOHN.
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 march'd to your endamagement;

The cannons have their bowels full of wrath,
And ready mounted are they to spit forth
Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls:
All preparation for a bloody siege
And merciless proceeding by these French
Confronts your city's eyes, your winking gates;
And, but for our approach, those sleeping stones
That as a waist 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 countercheck before your gates,
To save unscratch'd your city's threatn'd cheeks,--
Behold, the French, amaz'd, vouchsafe a parle;
And now, instead of bullets wrapp'd 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 labour'd spirits,
Forwearied in this action of swift speed,
Craves harbourage within your city-walls.

KING PHILIP.
When I have said, make answer to us both.
Lo, in this right hand, whose protection
Is most divinely vow'd 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 down-trodden equity we tread
In war-like 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 him that owes it, namely, this young prince:
And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,
Save in aspect, hath all offence seal'd up;
Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent
Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven;
And with a blessed and unvex'd retire,
With unhack'd swords and helmets all unbruis'd,
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 proffer'd offer,
'Tis not the roundure of your old-fac'd walls
Can hide you from our messengers of war,
Though all these English, and their discipline,
Were harbour'd in their rude circumference.
Then, tell us, shall your city call us lord
In that behalf which we have challeng'd it?
Or shall we give the signal to our rage,
And stalk in blood to our possession?

FIRST CITIZEN.
In brief: we are the King of England's subjects:
For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

KING JOHN.
Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.

CITIZEN.
That can we not; but he that proves the king,
To him will we prove loyal: till that time
Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world.

KING JOHN.
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,--

BASTARD.
Bastards, and else.

KING JOHN.
To verify our title with their lives.

KING PHILIP.
As many and as well-born bloods as those,--

BASTARD.
Some bastards too.

KING PHILIP.
Stand in his face, to contradict his claim.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Till you compound whose right is worthiest,
We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

KING JOHN.
Then God forgive the sin of all those souls
That to their everlasting residence,
Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,
In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king!

KING PHILIP.
Amen, Amen!--Mount, chevaliers; to arms!

BASTARD.
Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e'er since
Sits on his horse' back at mine hostess' door,
Teach us some fence!--Sirrah [To AUSTRIA.], were I at home,
At your den, sirrah, with your lioness,
I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide,
And make a monster of you.

AUSTRIA.
Peace! no more.

BASTARD.
O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

KING JOHN.
Up higher to the plain; where we'll set forth
In best appointment all our regiments.

BASTARD.
Speed, then, to take advantage of the field.

KING PHILIP.
It shall be so;--[To LOUIS.] and at the other hill
Command the rest to stand.--God and our right!

[Exeunt severally.]

[After excursions, enter a French Herald, with trumpets, to the
gates.]

FRENCH HERALD.
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates
And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,
Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lie scatter'd on the bleeding ground;
Many a widow's husband grovelling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth;
And victory, with little loss, doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French,
Who are at hand, triumphantly display'd,
To enter conquerors, and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne England's king and yours.

[Enter an ENGLISH HERALD, with trumpets.]

ENGLISH HERALD.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:
King John, your king and England's, doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day:
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;
There stuck no plume in any English crest
That is removed by a staff of France,
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes:
Open your gates and give the victors way.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Heralds, from off our towers, we might behold,
From first to last, the onset and retire
Of both your armies; whose equality
By our best eyes cannot be censured:
Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows;
Strength match'd 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.

[Enter, on one side, KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, and
Forces; at the other, KING PHILIP, LOUIS, AUSTRIA, and Forces.]

KING JOHN.
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?
Say, shall the current of our right run on?
Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment,
Shall leave his native channel, and o'erswell
With course disturb'd even thy confining shores,
Unless thou let his silver water keep
A peaceful progress to the ocean.

KING PHILIP.
England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood
In this hot 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-borne arms,
We'll put thee down, 'gainst 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.

BASTARD.
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 undetermin'd differences of kings.--
Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?
Cry, havoc, kings! back to the stained field,
You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits!
Then let confusion of one part confirm
The other's peace: till then, blows, blood, and death!

KING JOHN.
Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

KING PHILIP.
Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king?

FIRST CITIZEN.
The King of England, when we know the king.

KING PHILIP.
Know him in us, that here hold up his right.

KING JOHN.
In us, that are our own great deputy,
And bear possession of our person here;
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

FIRST CITIZEN.
A greater power than we denies all this;
And till it be undoubted, we do lock
Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates;
King'd of our fears, until our fears, resolv'd,
Be by some certain king purg'd and depos'd.

BASTARD.
By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers 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 presences be rul'd by me:--
Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,
Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend
Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town:
By east and west let France and England mount
Their battering cannon, charged to the mouths,
Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city:
I'd 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 counsel, mighty states?
Smacks it not something of the policy?

KING JOHN.
Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,
I like it well.--France, shall we knit our powers,
And lay this Angiers even with the ground;
Then, after, fight who shall be king of it?

BASTARD.
An if thou hast the mettle of a king,--
Being wrong'd, 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 dash'd them to the ground,
Why then defy each other, and, pell-mell,
Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell!

KING PHILIP.
Let it be so.--Say, where will you assault?

KING JOHN.
We from the west will send destruction
Into this city's bosom.

AUSTRIA.
I from the north.

KING PHILIP.
Our thunder from the south
Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

BASTARD.
O prudent discipline! From north to south,--
Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth:
I'll stir them to it.[Aside.]--Come, away, away!

FIRST CITIZEN.
Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,
And I shall show you peace and fair-fac'd league;
Win you this city without stroke or wound;
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds
That here come sacrifices for the field:
Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

KING JOHN.
Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.

FIRST CITIZEN.
That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,
Is niece to England:--look upon the years
Of Louis the Dauphin and that lovely maid:
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?
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 finished by such a she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
O, two such silver currents, when they join
Do glorify the banks that bound them in;
And two 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 ope,
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 this city.

BASTARD.
Here's a stay
That shakes the rotten carcase 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 cannoneer begot this lusty blood?
He speaks plain cannon,--fire and smoke and bounce;
He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
Our ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his
But buffets better than a fist of France.
Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words
Since I first call'd my brother's father dad.

ELINOR.
Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;
Give with our niece a dowry large enough;
For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie
Thy now unsur'd 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.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Why answer not the double majesties
This friendly treaty of our threaten'd town?

KING PHILIP.
Speak England first, that hath been forward first
To speak unto this city: what say you?

KING JOHN.
If that the Dauphin 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.

KING PHILIP.
What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

LOUIS.
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.]

BASTARD.
[Aside.] Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!--
  Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow,
And quarter'd in her heart!--he doth espy
  Himself love's traitor! 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 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.

KING 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.

KING JOHN.
Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?

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

KING 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.

KING PHILIP.
It likes us well.--Young princes, close your hands.

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

KING PHILIP.
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.

LOUIS.
She is sad and passionate at your highness' tent.

KING PHILIP.
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 turn'd another way,
To our own vantage.

KING 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.

[Exeunt all but the BASTARD. The Citizens retire from the Walls.]

BASTARD.
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-fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity,--
Commodity, the bias of the world;
The world, who of itself is peised 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 aid,
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.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Outside the town of Angers, King Philip of France walks with the Dauphin Louis, Constance, Arthur, and the Duke of Austria. Arthur and Constance thank Austria for joining the forces gathered against the English. Philip urges his men to ready themselves for an attack on Angers if the town doesn't swear allegiance to Arthur. Chatillon returns from his journey to England and urges Philip to turn the troops to a mightier battle, against the gathered English forces who are right behind him. Led by King John, who is accompanied by Eleanor and Lady Blanche of Spain, these forces are enormous and even include the bastard son of Richard the Lionhearted. John enters with Eleanor, Blanche, the Bastard, and Pembroke. John offers peace to the French, but only if they accept his royal lineage. Philip too wishes John peace, but only if he takes his forces back to England without a fight and gives Arthur the crown of England. John asks Philip what has made him the judge of the situation, and Philip replies that heaven above has made him guardian of Arthur and a champion of his rights. Eleanor interrupts, calling Arthur a bastard. Constant replies angrily, accusing Eleanor of infidelity to her husband, Henry II. Austria and the Bastard exchange insults, until Philip interrupts both parties. He lists Arthur's claims to John, which include full possession of English lands in Ireland and France. John says he would rather fight than lay down the throne. Eleanor calls to Arthur, trying to lure him away from the French, but Constance mocks Arthur to keep him in line. The sweet-tempered Arthur weeps, wishing he were not in the middle of the argument. Constance and Eleanor exchange harsh words again; Constance insists that the law says Arthur is the rightful king and accuses Eleanor of having committed adultery in giving birth to John, whom she again calls a bastard. Philip silences them again and suggests that they ask the citizens of Angers whether they will accept John or Arthur's claim to the throne. John asks the citizens to open their gates, threatening destruction otherwise. Philip, speaking for Arthur, tells the citizens of Arthur's claim to the throne and asks that they accept him instead. The citizens acknowledge that they are England's subjects, but they will not open the gates until John or Arthur is able to prove they are the king. John offers his crown and his troops as proof of his leadership; Philip says as many men stand against him to contradict that claim. The citizens repeat their decision, so John and Philip urge their armies on and exit to battle. A French and an English herald appear at Angers's gates, announcing the bloody outcome of the struggles and ask that the gates of the city be opened for their respective leaders. However, the citizens of Angers have seen that the armies are equally matched, neither able to prove itself superior. Therefore they will keep their gates closed until one side proves greater. Each king, with his train, reenters the scene, threatening to bring about the deaths of more soldiers in battle. They appeal to the citizens, who again refuse to open their doors. The Bastard comments that the citizens of Angers flout both Philip and John, and they stand on their walls, watching the battle below like a play performed for them. He urges the two armies to merge temporarily and punish Angers for its audacity. Once they destroy Angers, they can break their alliance and continue to fight one another. John likes the suggestion, and Philip agrees. The citizens call to the kings and urge them not to follow this path of destruction, but instead to listen to another idea. A citizen points out Blanche, the daughter of the King of Spain, a niece of the English royal family. Then he points out young Louis, who would make such a good match for her. Such an ambitious marriage would join several kingdoms in bonds of peace, and it would open the gates of Angers so much more easily than war. The Bastard comments to himself that the citizen's idea surprises him; his success at urging each side on to war has been trumped by the words of the citizen. Eleanor advises John to agree to the match, for such a tie with France would assure John's hold on the crown. John tells the French that if Louis likes Blanche, he will offer a dowry of several English-held French territories. Philip asks Louis how he feels about Blanche, and Louis replies that he is transfixed by her. The Bastard comments to himself on Louis's swift enrapturement, as Blanche replies that she will do as John commands, but she also looks favorably on Louis. Both kings agree to the match, and Louis and Blanche join hands and kiss. Philip asks the citizens of Angers to open their gates, then looks around for Constance. Louis thinks she must be in her tent, upset about the turn of events. John says they'll fix things by giving Arthur a dukedom. All depart except the Bastard, who comments on the madness of kings. In order to stop Arthur's claim to the throne, he gave away a part of his lands to Louis. France came to the battlefield full of conscientious efforts to help Arthur, but left with another result entirely. The desire for gain and commodity converted an honorable war into a vile and weak peace. But this commodity has not yet wooed him, the Bastard declares, and while he's still poor he will rail against the rich. But because even kings are willing to break their allegiances for the benefit of commodity, then he too will worship the gods of gain. At the French camp, Constance and Arthur receive news from Salisbury. Constance can't believe that Philip has broken his ties to her. When Blanche and Louis are married, Louis will gain the territories Arthur should have held. She curses Salisbury, while Arthur tries to soothe her. She tells Arthur she wishes he had been malformed at birth, for then she would not love him or think that he deserves a crown. But instead Arthur is blessed by Nature, if not by Fortune. Fortune has been turned by John, just as France was. Constance's grief is so great that nothing can support it but the Earth, where she sits.


prompt:
Chapter: ACT III. SCENE 1.

France. The FRENCH KING'S tent.

[Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY.]

CONSTANCE.
Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! gone to be friends!
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 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 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.

SALISBURY.
As true as I believe you think them false
That give you cause to prove my saying true.

CONSTANCE.
O, if 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 marry Blanch! O 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.

SALISBURY.
What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done?

CONSTANCE.
Which harm within itself so heinous is,
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

ARTHUR.
I do beseech you, madam, be content.

CONSTANCE.
If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, and slanderous to thy mother's womb,
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd 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 join'd to make thee great:
Of nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluck'd 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?
Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,
And leave those woes alone, which I alone
Am bound to under-bear.

SALISBURY.
Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the kings.

CONSTANCE.
Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee:
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
Let kings assemble; for my grief's 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, LOUIS, BLANCH, ELINOR, BASTARD,
AUSTRIA, and attendants.]

KING PHILIP.
 '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 splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:
The yearly course that brings this day about
Shall never see it but a holiday.

CONSTANCE.
[Rising.] A wicked day, and not a holy day!
What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done
That it in golden letters should be set
Among the high tides in the calendar?
Nay, 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 cross'd:
But on this day let seamen 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!

KING PHILIP.
By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the fair proceedings of this day.
Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty?

CONSTANCE.
You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit
Resembling majesty; which, being touch'd and tried,
Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn:
You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,
But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:
The grappling vigour 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 perjur'd 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 armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings!
Hear me, O, hear me!

AUSTRIA.
Lady Constance, peace!

CONSTANCE.
War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war.
O Lymoges! O 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 Fortune's champion that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety!--thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st 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! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs!

AUSTRIA.
O that a man should speak those words to me!

BASTARD.
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA.
Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.

BASTARD.
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

KING JOHN.
We like not this: thou dost forget thyself.

KING PHILIP.
Here comes the holy legate of the Pope.

[Enter PANDULPH.]

PANDULPH.
Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!--
To thee, King John, my holy errand is.
I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,
And from Pope Innocent the legate here,
Do in his name religiously demand
Why thou against the church, our holy mother,
So wilfully dost spurn; and, force perforce
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop
Of Canterbury, from that holy see?
This, in our foresaid holy father's name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

KING JOHN.
What earthly 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 are supreme head,
So, under him, that great supremacy,
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,
Without the assistance of a mortal hand:
So tell the pope, all reverence set apart
To him and his usurp'd authority.

KING PHILIP.
Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

KING JOHN.
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.

PANDULPH.
Then by the lawful power that I have,
Thou shalt stand curs'd and excommunicate:
And blessed shall he be that doth revolt
From his allegiance to an heretic;
And meritorious shall that hand be call'd,
Canonized, and worshipp'd as a saint,
That takes away by any secret course
Thy hateful life.

CONSTANCE.
O, lawful let it be
That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!
Good father Cardinal, cry thou amen
To my keen curses: for without my wrong
There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

PANDULPH.
There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

CONSTANCE.
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?

PANDULPH.
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.

ELINOR.
Look'st thou pale, France; do not let go thy hand.

CONSTANCE
Look to that, devil; lest that France repent
And, by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

AUSTRIA.
King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

BASTARD.
And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.

AUSTRIA.
Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,
Because--

BASTARD.
Your breeches best may carry them.

KING JOHN.
Philip, what say'st thou to the cardinal?

CONSTANCE.
What should he say, but as the cardinal?

LOUIS.
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.

BLANCH.
That's the curse of Rome.

CONSTANCE.
O Louis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here
In likeness of a new uptrimmed bride.

BLANCH.
The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,
But from her need.

CONSTANCE.
O, 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!

KING JOHN.
The king is mov'd, and answers not to this.

CONSTANCE.
O be remov'd from him, and answer well!

AUSTRIA.
Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

BASTARD.
Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.

KING PHILIP.
I am perplex'd, and know not what to say.

PANDULPH.
What canst thou say, but will perplex thee more,
If thou stand excommunicate and curs'd?

KING PHILIP.
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 link'd 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 new before,--
No longer than we well could wash our hands,
To clap this royal bargain up of peace,--
Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and overstain'd
With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint
The fearful difference of incensed kings:
And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood,
So newly join'd in love, so strong in both,
Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?
Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
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 gentle brow
Of true sincerity? O, 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 bless'd
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.

PANDULPH.
All form is formless, order orderless,
Save 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 chafed lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

KING PHILIP.
I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

PANDULPH.
So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;
And, like a civil war, sett'st oath to oath,
Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow
First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd,--
That is, to be the champion of our church.
What since thou swor'st is sworn against 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 indirection thereby grows direct,
And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire
Within the scorched veins of one new-burn'd.
It is religion that doth make vows kept;
But thou hast sworn against religion,
By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st;
And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth
Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure
To swear, swears only not to be forsworn;
Else what a mockery should it be to swear!
But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;
And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.
Therefore thy latter vows against thy first
Is in thyself rebellion to thyself;
And better conquest never canst thou make
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts
Against these giddy loose suggestions:
Upon which better part our prayers come in,
If thou vouchsafe them; but if not, then know
The peril of our curses fight on thee,
So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off,
But in despair die under the black weight.

AUSTRIA.
Rebellion, flat rebellion!

BASTARD.
Will't not be?
Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine?

LOUIS.
Father, to arms!

BLANCH.
Upon thy wedding-day?
Against the blood that thou hast married?
What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter'd men?
Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,--
Clamours of hell,--be measures to our pomp?
O husband, hear me!--ay, alack, how new
Is 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.

CONSTANCE.
O, upon my knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom
Forethought by heaven.

BLANCH.
Now shall I see thy love: what motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

CONSTANCE.
That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,
His honour:--O, thine honour, Louis, thine honour!

LOUIS.
I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,
When such profound respects do pull you on.

PANDULPH.
I will denounce a curse upon his head.

KING PHILIP.
Thou shalt not need.--England, I will fall from thee.

CONSTANCE.
O fair return of banish'd majesty!

ELINOR.
O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

KING JOHN.
France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

BASTARD.
Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,
Is it as he will? well, then, France shall rue.

BLANCH.
The sun's o'ercast with blood: fair day, adieu!
Which is the side that I must go withal?
I am with both: each army hath a hand;
And in their rage, I having hold of both,
They whirl 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 wishes thrive:
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
Assured loss before the match be play'd.

LOUIS.
Lady, with me: with me thy fortune lies.

BLANCH.
There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

KING JOHN.
Cousin, go draw our puissance together.--

[Exit BASTARD.]

France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;
A rage whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,--
The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood of France.

KING PHILIP.
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.

KING JOHN.
No more than he that threats.--To arms let's hie!

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE 2.

The same. Plains near Angiers

[Alarums. Excursions. Enter the BASTARD with AUSTRIA'S head.]

BASTARD.
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.]

KING JOHN.
Hubert, keep this boy.--Philip, make up:
My mother is assailed in our tent,
And ta'en, I fear.

BASTARD.
My lord, I rescu'd 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.

[Exeunt.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: King John enters holding the hand of King Philip. Louis and Blanche follow, then Eleanor, the Bastard, and Austria. Philip announces that the great day of the wedding will become an annual festival. Constance appears to contradict Philip, cursing the unfortunate and unlucky day when Philip let his family be joined with John's instead of Arthur's. Philip tries to calm her, but she accuses him of having treated her falsely; he swore to join her in defeating John's army, but now he has merged with John. Austria too tries to soothe her, but she curses him for having gone over to the other side. Cardinal Pandolf enters, arriving to speak on behalf of the Catholic pope. He turns to John and demands to know why he has barred the pope's chosen nominee from becoming the Archbishop of Canterbury. John replies that no Italian priest will tell him what to do in his kingdom, for he has the divine right to rule as he sees fit. Philip warns him against defying the church, but John rails against the meddling and corrupt powers of the Catholic Church. Pandolf announces that he will excommunicate John, and will celebrate any who go against John. Constance is delighted and asks Pandolf to support her curses against John. Pandolf says his curses, unlike hers, are lawful; but she declares that if the law can't give her child the throne because John controls the law, then law is inadequate and cannot stop her from cursing John. Pandolf calls for Philip to let go of John's hand and set his forces against John's. Constance, Eleanor, the Bastard, and Austria all urge Philip with conflicting suggestions. Louis says that it is worse to break with Rome than to lose a friend in England. Philip remains silent throughout the discussion, revealing only that he is perplexed. Pandolf threatens to also excommunicate Philip, but Philip asks Pandolf to put himself in Philip's place. Imagine, he says, that you've just joined the King of England in marriage, a legal tie of peace and love between the kingdoms. Should he destroy this new peace? He asks Pandolf to suggest another way. Pandolf urges him again to be the church's champion, and break with England. Philip says he will let go of John's hand, but he won't forgo his faith in their bond. Pandolf declares he thus sets his faith in John against his faith in the church. It is not immoral, he says, to break an immoral oath with England. He reminds Philip that his primary oath was to the church and asks him to honor his earlier oath by breaking his later allegiances to John. Blanche cries out against Pandolf, insisting that her wedding day not be marred with war and slaughtered men. She begs her new husband to hear her and not to go to battle against her Uncle John. Constance begs Louis to go ahead with the destruction of England, now apparently called for by the powers of fate. Philip remains silent, so Pandolf announces that he will curse him. But Philip finally relents, and he drops John's hand. John and his party assure Philip that he will regret his decision, while Blanche mournfully wonders whom she should side with, being now tied to both sides of the new conflict. Philip and John threaten each other and depart to prepare for battle. The battle breaks out. The Bastard emerges from the fray holding Austria's head. John enters with a captive Arthur, and he asks Hubert to look after him; he leaves to check on the safety of his mother.


prompt:
Chapter: SCENE 3.

The same.

[Alarums, Excursions, Retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR,
the BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS.]

KING JOHN.
[To ELINOR] 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.

ARTHUR.
O, this will make my mother die with grief!

KING JOHN.
Cousin [To the BASTARD], away for England; haste before:
And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags
Of hoarding abbots; imprison'd angels
Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon:
Use our commission in his utmost force.

BASTARD.
Bell, book, and 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.

ELINOR.
Farewell, gentle cousin.

KING JOHN.
Coz, farewell.

[Exit BASTARD.]

ELINOR.
Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

[She takes Arthur aside.]

KING JOHN.
Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much! within this wall of 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 asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.

HUBERT.
I am much bounden to your majesty.

KING JOHN.
Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for 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 gawds
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 bak'd 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 sound 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 lov'st me well.

HUBERT.
So well that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it.

KING JOHN.
Do not I know thou wouldst?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me: dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.

HUBERT.
And I'll keep him so
That he shall not offend your majesty.

KING JOHN.
Death.

HUBERT.
My lord?

KING JOHN.
A grave.

HUBERT.
He shall not live.

KING JOHN.
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 o'er to your majesty.

ELINOR.
My blessing go with thee!

KING JOHN.
For England, cousin, go:
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
With all true duty.--On toward Calais, ho!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE 4.

The same. The FRENCH KING's tent.

[Enter KING PHILIP, LOUIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.]

KING PHILIP.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood
A whole armado of convicted sail
Is scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship.

PANDULPH.
Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.

KING PHILIP.
What can go well, when we have run so ill.
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?
Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

LOUIS.
What he hath won, that hath he fortified:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,
Doth want example: who hath read or heard
Of any kindred action like to this?

KING PHILIP.
Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame.--
Look who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

[Enter CONSTANCE.]

I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

CONSTANCE.
Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!

KING PHILIP.
Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

CONSTANCE.
No, I defy all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death:--O amiable lovely death!
Thou odoriferous 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 ring 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 smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,
O, come to me!

KING PHILIP.
O fair affliction, peace!

CONSTANCE.
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.

PANDULPH.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

CONSTANCE.
Thou art not holy to belie me so;
I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey'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:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!--
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd 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 I feel
The different plague of each calamity.

KING PHILIP.
Bind up those tresses.--O, what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by a 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.

CONSTANCE.
To England, if you will.

KING PHILIP.
Bind up your hairs.

CONSTANCE.
Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud,
'O 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 meagre 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!

PANDULPH.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

CONSTANCE.
He talks to me that never had a son.

KING PHILIP.
You are as fond of grief as of your child.

CONSTANCE.
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.
Fare 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,

[Tearing off her head-dress.]

When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!

[Exit.]

KING PHILIP.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.

[Exit.]

LOUIS.
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 hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

PANDULPH.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils that take leave
On their departure most of all show evil;
What have you lost by losing of this day?

LOUIS.
All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

PANDULPH.
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.
'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won.
Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner?

LouIS.
As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

PANDULPH.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak with a 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 seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:
A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand
Must be boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:
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.

LOUIS.
But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?

PANDULPH.
You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,
May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

LOUIS.
And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

PANDULPH.
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 borne, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal,
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 distemper'd 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.

LOUIS.
May be he will not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

PANDULPH.
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.
Methinks I see this hurly all on foot:
And, O, what better matter breeds for you
Than I have nam'd!--The bastard Falconbridge
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 Dauphin,
Go with me to the king:--'tis wonderful
What may be wrought out of their discontent,
Now that their souls are topful of offence:
For England go:--I will whet on the king.

LOUIS.
Strong reasons makes strong actions: let us go:
If you say ay, the king will not say no.

[Exeunt.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: John enters the battle scene with Eleanor, Arthur, the Bastard, and Hubert. John instructs Eleanor to stay behind in France to look after the English territories there. He assures Arthur that he will be in good company on a return to France, but he is sure his mother will grieve. John sends the Bastard before his party in order to collect the wealth of the monasteries. John takes Hubert aside and thanks him for his loyal service. John says he wants to ask Hubert to do something, but says he changed his mind. Then he tries to ask him again and stops himself. Hubert assures the king that he loves him well enough to do anything he asks. John points out Arthur, saying he is a serpent who stands in his way. John reminds Hubert is Arthur's keeper. Hubert says he will keep him out of the king's way, but John suggests sending him to his grave might work best toward that end. Hubert says Arthur will not live. John is pleased, bids farewell to his mother, and sets off for England. Philip enters with Louis and Pandolf. Philip remarks on a storm, saying that it has destroyed his entire fleet. Pandolf encourages him, but Philip insists that he has lost; Angers has been lost, Arthur has been captured, and the English have returned to England. Constance enters with wild hair and a distracted appearance. She remarks on the unfortunate end of Philip's peace with John, and calls mournfully for death. Philip tries to soothe her, but she continues. Pandolf says she suffers from madness, not sorrow, but Constance disagrees. She was wife and mother to heirs to the English throne, she declares, and yet her son is now lost. She says she wishes she were mad so she could forget her son; being left in command of her reason, she can only imagine suicide as an end to her woes. Philip urges her to pull herself together, which she begins to do as she speaks to Pandolf about seeing her son again in heaven. As she remembers her son, she despairs, and exits, followed by Philip. Louis now expresses his own woe, saying nothing in the world can bring him joy again. Pandolf urges him to consider the losses of the day as a mere bad symptom on the way to health. Pandolf prophecies discord in England; John may have Arthur, but he won't have civic peace, and he will have to continue to defend his kingdom. He predicts that John will have to kill Arthur. Louis asks how he may benefit from Arthur's death, and Pandolf reminds him that with Blanche as his wife, he can make the same claim to the throne that Arthur had. Louis continues to despair. Pandolf remarks that when John kills Arthur, his citizens will be appalled and will turn against John, welcoming a change in ruler in the person of Louis. Louis is unconvinced, so Pandolf adds that the people will be enraged at reports of the Bastard stealing from monasteries. Pandolf is delighted with the opportunities provided by unrest in England and urges Louis to go to Philip and plan an assault.


prompt:
Chapter: ACT IV. SCENE 1.

Northampton. A Room in the Castle.

[Enter HUBERT and two Attendants.]

HUBERT.
Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
Within the arras: when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth
And bind the boy which you shall find with me
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

FIRST ATTENDANT.
I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

HUBERT.
Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to't.--

[Exeunt ATTENDANTS.]

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

[Enter ARTHUR.]

ARTHUR.
Good morrow, Hubert.

HUBERT.
Good morrow, little prince.

ARTHUR.
As little prince, having so great a tide
To be more prince, as may be.--You are sad.

HUBERT.
Indeed I have been merrier.

ARTHUR.
Mercy on me!
Methinks no body should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

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 despatch.

ARTHUR.
Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:
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.

HUBERT.
[Aside.] His words do take possession of my bosom.--
Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper.]

[Aside.]  How now, foolish rheum!
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.--
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

ARTHUR.
Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUBERT.
Young boy, I must.

ARTHUR.
And will you?

HUBERT.
And I will.

ARTHUR.
Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,--
The best I had, a princess wrought it me,--
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd 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 lien still,
And ne'er have 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, an if you will:
If heaven be pleas'd 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?

HUBERT.
I have sworn to do it!
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

ARTHUR.
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 hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd him,--no tongue but Hubert's.

HUBERT.
[Stamps.]  Come forth.

[Re-enter Attendants, with cords, irons, &c.]

Do as I bid you do.

ARTHUR.
O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

HUBERT.
Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

ARTHUR.
Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert!--drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

HUBERT.
Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

FIRST ATTENDANT.
I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.

[Exeunt Attendants.]

ARTHUR.
Alas, I then have chid away my friend!
He hath a stern look but a gentle heart:--
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

HUBERT.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTHUR.
Is there no remedy?

HUBERT.
None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTHUR.
O heaven!--that there were but a mote 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.

HUBERT.
Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

ARTHUR.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue,--let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use but still to look on you!--
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold
And would not harm me.

HUBERT.
I can heat it, boy.

ARTHUR.
No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extremes: see else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

HUBERT.
But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTHUR.
An 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 compell'd to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre 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.

HUBERT.
Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.

ARTHUR.
O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.

HUBERT.
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 thee.

ARTHUR.
O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

HUBERT.
 Silence; no more: go closely in with me:
Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE 2.

The same. A Room of State in the Palace.

[Enter KING JOHN, crowned, PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and other LORDS.
The KING takes his State.]

KING JOHN.
Here once again we sit, once again crown'd,
And look'd upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

PEMBROKE.
This once again, but that your highness pleas'd,
Was once superfluous: you were crown'd before,
And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off;
The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt;
Fresh expectation troubled not the land
With any long'd-for change or better state.

SALISBURY.
Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the 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 excess.

PEMBROKE.
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.

SALISBURY.
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 about;
Startles and frights consideration;
Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected,
For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.

PEMBROKE.
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 worse 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 patch'd.

SALISBURY.
To this effect, before you were new-crown'd,
We breath'd our counsel: but it pleas'd your highness
To overbear it; and we are all well pleas'd,
Since all and every part of what we would
Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

KING JOHN.
Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possess'd you with, and think them strong;
And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear,
I shall indue you with: meantime but ask
What you would have reform'd that is not well,
And well shall you perceive how willingly
I will both hear and grant you your requests.

PEMBROKE.
Then I,--as one that am the tongue of these,
To sound the purposes 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 weal, on you depending,
Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

KING JOHN.
Let it be so: I do commit his youth
To your direction.

[Enter HUBERT.]

Hubert, what news with you?

PEMBROKE.
This is the man should do the bloody deed;
He show'd his warrant to a friend of mine:
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Doth show the mood of a much-troubled breast;
And I do fearfully believe 'tis done
What we so fear'd he had a charge to do.

SALISBURY.
The colour of the king doth come and go
Between his purpose and his conscience,
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.
His passion is so ripe it needs must break.

PEMBROKE.
And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence
The foul corruption of a sweet child's death.

KING JOHN.
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 deceas'd to-night.

SALISBURY.
Indeed, we fear'd his sickness was past cure.

PEMBROKE.
Indeed, we heard how near his death he was,
Before the child himself felt he was sick:
This must be answer'd either here or hence.

KING JOHN.
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?

SALISBURY.
It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame
That greatness should so grossly offer it:
So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.

PEMBROKE.
Stay yet, Lord Salisbury, I'll go with thee
And find th' inheritance of this poor child,
His little kingdom of a forced grave.
That blood which ow'd the breadth of all this isle
Three foot of it doth hold:--bad world the while!
This must not be thus borne: this will break out
To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt.

[Exeunt LORDS.]

KING JOHN.
They burn in indignation. I repent:
There is no sure foundation set on blood;
No certain life achiev'd 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?

MESSENGER.
From France to England.--Never such a power
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 comes that they are all arriv'd.

KING JOHN.
O, 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?

MESSENGER.
My liege, her ear
Is stopp'd 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 rumour's tongue
I idly heard,--if true or false I know not.

KING JOHN.
Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!
O, make a league with me, till I have pleas'd
My discontented peers!--What! mother dead!
How wildly, then, walks my estate in France!--
Under whose conduct came those powers of France
That thou for truth giv'st out are landed here?

MESSENGER.
Under the Dauphin.

KING JOHN.
Thou hast made me giddy
With these in tidings.

[Enter the BASTARD and PETER OF POMFRET.]

Now! What says the world
To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff
My head with more ill news, for it is full.

BASTARD.
But if you be afear'd to hear the worst,
Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head.

KING JOHN.
Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz'd
Under the tide: but now I breathe again
Aloft the flood; and can give audience
To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

BASTARD.
How I have sped among the clergymen,
The sums I have collected shall express.
But as I travell'd hither through the land,
I find the people strangely fantasied;
Possess'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 sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,
That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,
Your highness should deliver up your crown.

KING JOHN.
Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

PETER.
Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

KING JOHN.
Hubert, away with him; imprison him;
And on that day at noon, whereon he says
I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang'd.
Deliver him to safety; and return,
For I must use thee.

[Exit HUBERT with PETER.]

O my gentle cousin,
Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arriv'd?

BASTARD.
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-enkindled fire,
And others more, going to seek the grave
Of Arthur, whom they say is kill'd to-night
On your suggestion.

KING JOHN.
Gentle kinsman, go
And thrust thyself into their companies:
I have a way to will their loves again:
Bring them before me.

BASTARD.
I will seek them out.

KING JOHN.
Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.
O, let me have no subject enemies
When adverse foreigners affright my towns
With dreadful pomp of stout invasion!
Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,
And fly like thought from them to me again.

BASTARD.
The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.

KING JOHN.
Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman!

[Exit BASTARD.]

Go after him; for he perhaps shall need
Some messenger betwixt me and the peers;
And be thou he.

MESSENGER.
With all my heart, my liege.

[Exit.]

KING JOHN.
My mother dead!

[Re-enter HUBERT.]

HUBERT.
My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;
Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about
The other four in wondrous motion.

KING JOHN.
Five moons!

HUBERT.
Old men and beldams in the streets
Do prophesy 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 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,
The 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 embattailed and rank'd in Kent.
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.

KING JOHN.
Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?
Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had a mighty cause
To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

HUBERT.
No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?

KING JOHN.
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 advis'd respect.

HUBERT.
Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

KING JOHN.
O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, 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 mark'd,
Quoted and sign'd to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind:
But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,
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 conscience to destroy a prince.

HUBERT.
My lord,--

KING JOHN.
Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause,
When I spake darkly what I purpos'd,
Or turn'd 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 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 brav'd,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers;
Nay, in the body of the fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns
Between my conscience and my cousin's death.

HUBERT.
Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a 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 enter'd yet
The dreadful motion of a murderous thought;
And you have slander'd nature in my form,--
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

KING JOHN.
Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee 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.

[Exeunt.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Hubert enters with executioners, and he tells them to hide themselves and be ready. Hubert calls in Arthur, who speaks of his woe at being a young gentleman and wishes he were a simple shepherd. Hubert becomes upset, touched by Arthur's innocence, and begins to feel merciful toward the boy. He presents Arthur with a paper that says that Hubert has been instructed to put out Arthur's eyes. Arthur asks him if he must do it, considering what friends they have become. Hubert says he has sworn to do it and must. Hubert calls out the executioners, and Arthur is frightened, but he tells Hubert he needn't employ such scary men, for he will submit to the punishment without struggle. Hubert sends away the executioners and tells Arthur to prepare himself. Arthur begs Hubert to spare him, pointing out that even the fire refuses to help Hubert by not growing hot enough to heat the iron. Finally Hubert relents and says he won't hurt Arthur, but he reminds Arthur that he had promised he would, so John must not find out that Arthur is still alive. John enters his court with Pembroke and Salisbury, and he ascends the throne. He speaks of his second coronation, which he has just ordered for the apparent purpose of making his lords swear allegiance again. Pembroke and Salisbury think it was a wasteful and ridiculous ceremony. John says he still thinks it was a worthwhile action, and promises them he'll do what they advise hereafter. They ask that Arthur be released, as it would please the people and because Arthur poses little threat to his rule. John agrees, and as Hubert enters, he takes him aside. Pembroke and Salisbury confer about how they heard Hubert had been hired to assassinate Arthur, and they fear the worst. John returns and explains that Arthur has just died. Salisbury and Pembroke are displeased, and suggest foul play contributed to Arthur's death. The lords announce their intention to attend to Arthur's burial, and they depart. John comments that he now sees his reign will not become more solid through the death of others; his nobles are now furious, and that weakens his power. A messenger enters and reports the approach of a huge French army. John wonders why his mother didn't report that the French were mobilizing. The messenger explains that Eleanor has recently died, as has Arthur's mother Constance. John is extremely upset to hear the news. The Bastard, accompanied by a citizen, enters to report the results of his expedition to the monasteries. He collected money, but as he traveled among the people, he heard all kinds of rumors. The citizen with him had predicted that John would give up his crown by the time of the next national holiday. John orders the citizen hung on that same day, and sends him away with Hubert. John asks the Bastard if he had heard the news; the Bastard says he knows about the approach of French army and the angry lords. John asks him to seek out the lords and try to win them back, and the Bastard gladly departs on that errand. Hubert reenters and tells of a sign the people have seen, four moons fixed in the sky with one circling around them. It bodes ill, he says, and the people make dreadful prophecies. They all mourn Arthur's death, he reports. John asks Hubert why he convinced him to murder Arthur, whom he didn't want dead. Despite Hubert's denials, John accuses him of having tricked him into it. Hubert shows him the paper ordering Arthur's death, written by John. John insists that it's Hubert's fault, because Hubert is so ugly, so marked by nature, that the murder wouldn't have even occurred to him if he had not been in Hubert's presence at the time. John accuses Hubert repeatedly, then bemoans the departure of his lords and the arrival of foreign powers. Hubert interrupts him to report that Arthur is still living. He accuses the king of slandering him by picking on his physical nature, for he has a purer heart than those who would think to kill an innocent child. John is delighted and urges Hubert to report the news to the other lords. He asks him to forgive his harshness, saying he spoke in a passion before.