KING JOHN

Accursed indeed to kneel to such a drudge, And get no help with thy submission, Unsheath thy sword, and slay the misprowd priest That thus triumphs over thee a mighty King: No John, submit again, dissemble yet, For Priests and Women must be flattered. Yet holy Father thou thy self dost know, No time too late for sinners to repent, Absolve me then, and John does swear to do The uttermost what ever thou demandest. From bade to worse, or I must lose my realm, Or give my Crown for penance unto Room: A misery more piercing than the darts That break from burning exhalations power. What, shall I give my Crown with this right hand? No: with this hand defend thy Crown and thee. What news with thee? Please it your Majesty, there is descried on the coast of Kenned and hundred Sail of Ships, which of all men is thought to be the French fleet, under the conduct of the Dolphin, so that it puts the country in a mutiny, so they send to your Grace for succour. I hold the same as tenant to the Pope, And thank your Holiness for your kindness shown. Accursed John, the Devil owes thee shame, Resisting Room, or yielding to the Pope, all's one. The devil take the Pope, the Peers, and France: Shame be my share for yielding to the Priest. Philip I know not how to answer thee: But let us hence, to answer Lews pride. Set down, set down the load not Worth your pain, For done I am with deadly wounding grief: Sickly and succourless, hopeless of any good, The world hath wearied me, and I have wearied it: It loathes I live, I live and loathe my self. Who pities me? to whom have I been kind? But to a few; a few will pity me. Why die I not? Death scorns so vild a prey. Why live I not, life hates so sad a prize. I sue to both to be retained of either, But both are deaf, I can be herd of neither. Nor death nor life, yet life and near the near, Mixed with death, biding I wot not where. Grief upon grief, yet none so great a grief To end this life, and thereby rid my grief. Was ever any so infortunate, The right Idea of a cursed man, As I, poor I, a triumph for despite, My fever grows, what ague shakes me so? How far to Sminstead, tell me, do you know? Present unto the Abbot word of my repair. My sickness rages, to tyrannise upon me, I cannot live unless this fever leave me. Nor health nor happiness hath John at all. Say Abbot, am I welcome to thy house? Philip, thou never needest to doubt of cates, Nor King nor Lord is seated half so well, As are the Abbeys throughout all the land, If any plot of ground do pass another, The Friars fasten on it strait: But let us in to taste of their repast, It goes against my heart to feed with them, Or be beholding to such Abbey grooms: Take your places sirs, no pomp in penury, all beg gers and friends may come, where Necessity keeps the house, courtesy is barred the table, fit down Philip. Come, no more ado, and you tell me much of dignity, you'll mar my appetite in a surfeit of sorrow. What cheer Lord Abbot, me thinks you frown Like and host that knows his guest hath no money to pay the reckoning? Begin Monk, and report hereafter thou wast ta ster to a King. I pledge thee kind Monk. Not a whit, all friends and fellows for a time. Stay Philip, where's the Monk? Then drink not Philip for a world of wealth. So does my life: Oh Philip, I am poisoned. The Monk, the Devil, the poison begins to rage, It will depose my self a King from reign. Philip, some drink, o for the frozen Alps, To tumble on and cool this inward heat, That rages as the furnace seuenfolded hight. To burn the holy tree in Babylon, Power after power forsake their proper power, Only the heart impugnes with faint resist The fierce invade of him that conquers Kings, Help God, Oh pain! die John, Oh plague Inflicted on thee for thy grievous sins. Philip, a chair, and by and by a graven, My legs disdain the carriage of a King. Me thinks I see a catalogue of sin, Wrote by a fiend in marble characters, The least enough to lose my partly in heaven. Me thinks the Devil whispers in mine ears, And tells me, 'tis in vain to hope for grace, I must be damned for Arthurs sudden death, I see I see a thousand thousand men Come to accuse me for my wrong on earth, And there is none so merciful a God That will forgive the number of my sins. How have I lived, but by another's lose? What have I loved, but wrack of others weal? When have I vowed, and not infringed mine oath? Where have I done a deed deserving well? How, what, when, and where, have I bestowed a day, That tended not to some notorious ill. My life replete with rage and tyranny, Craves little pity for so strange a death. Or, who will say that John deceased too soon? Who will not say, he rather lived too long. Dishonour did attaint me in my life, And shame attends John unto his death. Why did I escape the fury of the French, And died not by the temper of their swords? Shameless my life, and shamefully it ends, Scorned by my foes, disdained of my friends. My tongue does falter: Philip, I tell thee man, Since John did yield unto the Priest of Room, Nor he nor his have prospered on the earth: Cursed are his blessings, and his curse is bliss. But in the spirit I cry unto my God, As did the kingly prophet David cry, (Whose hands, as mine, with murder were attaint) I am not he shall built the Lord a house, Or root these locusts from the face of earth: But if my dying heart deceive me not, From out these loins shall spring a kingly branch Whose arms shall reach unto the gates of Room, And with his feet treads down the Strumpets pride, That sits upon the chair of Babylon. Philip, my heart strings break, the poisons flame Hath overcome in me weak Nature's power, And in the faith of Jesu John does die. Disturbed thoughts, foredoomers of mine ill, Distracted passion, signs of growing harms, Strange prophecies of imminent mishaps, Confound my wits, and dull my senses so, That every object these mine eyes behold, Seem instruments to bring me to my end. Ascension day is come, John fear not then The prodigies this prattling Prophet threats. 'Tis come indeed: ah were it fully passed, Then were I careless of a thousand fears. The Dial tells me, it is twelve at noon. Were twelve at midnight passed, then might I vaunt, False seers prophecies of no import. Could I as well with this right hand of mine Remove the Sun from our Meridian, Unto the moonested circle of antipodes, As turn this steel from twelve to twelve again, Then John, the date of fatal prophecies, Should with the Prophets life together end. But multam cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra. Peter, unsay thy foolish doting dream, And by the crown of England here I swear, To make thee great, and greatest of thy kin. Is Arthur dead? then Hubert without more words hang the Prophet. Away with Peter, villain out of my sighed, I am deaf, be gone, let him not speak a word. Now John, thy fears are vanished into smoke, Arthur is dead, thou guiltless of his death. Sweet youth, but that I strived for a crown, I could have well afforded to thine age, Long life, and happiness to thy content. Philip what news with thee? There let him hang, and be the Ravens food, While John triumphs in spite of prophecies. But whats the tidings from the Popelings now? What say the Monks and Priests to our proceedings? Or where's the Barons that so suddenly Did leave the king upon a false surmise? More frights and fears what ere thy tidings be, I am prepared: then Philip, quickly say, Mean they to murder, or imprison me, To give my Crown away to Room or France; Or will they each of them become a King? Worse than I think it is, it cannot be. Why so it must be: one hour of content, Matched with a month of passionate effects. Why shines the Sun to favour this consort? Why do the winds not break their brazen gates, And scatter all these perjured accomplices, With all their counsels, and their damned drifts? But see the welkin rolleth gently on, There's not a lowering cloud to frown on them; The heaven, the earth, the sun, the moon and all, Conspire with those confederates my decay. Then hell for me, if any power be there, Forsake that place, and guide me step by step, To poison, strangle, murder in their steps These traitors: o that name is too good for them, And death is easy: is there nothing worse, To wreak me on this proud peacebreaking crew? What sayest thou Philip? why assists thou not? Nay thou wilt prove a traitor with the rest, Go get thee to them, shame come to you all. Ah Philip, whither goest thou? come again. A mad man Philip, I am mad indeed, My heart is mazed, my senses all foredone. And John of England now is quite undone. Was ever King as I oppressed with cares? Dame Elianor my noble mother Queen, My only hope and comfort in distress, Is dead, and England excommunicate, And I am interdicted by the Pope, All Churches cursed, their doors are sealed up, And for the pleasure of the Romish Priest, The service of the Highest is neglected, The multitude (a beast of many heads) Do wish confusion to their sovereign; The Nobles blinded with ambitions fumes, Assemble powers to beat mine Empire down, And more than this, elect a foreign king. Oh England, Wertenberg thou ever miserable, King John of England sees thee miserable: John, 'tis thy sins that makes it miserable, Quicquid delirunt Reges, plectuntur Achivi. Philip, as thou hast ever loved thy King, So show it now: post to S. Edmunds Bury, Dissemble with the Nobles, know their drifts, Confound their devilish plots, and damned devises. Though John be faulty, yet let subjects bear, He will amend, and right the peoples wrongs. A mother though she were unnatural, Is better than the kindest stepdame is: Let never Englishman trust foreign rule. Then Philip show thy fealty to thy King, And amongst the Nobles plead thou for the King. And art thou gone? success may follow thee: Thus hast thou showed thy kindness to thy King. Sirrah, in haste go greet the Cardinal, Pandulph I mean, the Legate from the Pope. Say that the King desires to speak with him. Now John bethink thee how thou mayest resolve: And if thou wilt continue England's King, Then cast about to keep thy Diadem; For life and land, and all is leveled at. The Pope of Room, 'tis he that is the cause, He curseth thee, he sets thy subjects free From endue obedience to their Sovereign: He animates the Nobles in their wars, He gives away the Crown to Philips son, And pardons all that seek to murder thee: And thus blind zeal is still predominant. Then John there is no way to keep thy crown, But finely to dissemble with the Pope: That hand that gave the wound must give the salve To cure the hurt, else quite incurable. Thy sins are far too great to be the man T'abolish Pope, and Popery from thy Realm: But in thy Seat, if I may guess at all, A King shall reign that shall suppress them all. Peace John, here comes the Legate of the Pope, Dissemble thou, and whatsoever thou sayest, Yet with thy heart wish their confusion. On Pandulph, be it as thou hast decreed, John will not spurn against thy found advise, Come lets away, and with thy help I trow, My Realm shall flourish, and my Crown in peace. What news with thee? if bade, report it straight If good, be mute, it does but flatter me. Vain buzzard, what mischance can chance so soon, To set a king beside his regal seat? My heart is good, my body passing strong, My Land in peace, my enemies subdued, Only my barons storm at Arthurs death, But Arthur lives, I there the challenge grows, Were he dispatched unto his longest home, Then were the King secure of thousand foes. Hubert, what news with thee, where are my Lords? Thou man of God, Vicegerent for the Pope, The holy Vicar of S. Peters Church, Upon my knees, I pardon crave of thee, And do submit me to the sea of Room, And vow for penance of my high offence, To take on me the holy Cross of Christ, And carry Arms in holy Christian wars. Come on Lord Abbot, shall we fit together? How now Lord Cardinal, what's your best and vise? These mutinies must be allayed in time, By policy or headstrong rage at least. Oh John, these troubles Tyre thy wearied soul, And Like to Luna in a sad Eclipse, So are thy thoughts and passion for this news. Well may it be, when Kings are grieved so, The vulgar sort work Princes overthrown. Sweet uncle, if thou love thy Sovereign, Let not a stone of Swinstead Abbey stand, But pull the house about the Friars ears: For they have killed my Father and my King.