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 vnder-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 Geoffrey's face, These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his; This little abstract does contain that large, Which died in G ffrey : and the hand of time, Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume: That Geoffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son, England was Geffreys right, And this is Geoffrey's in the name of God: How comes it then that thou art called a King, When living blood does in these temples Beatrice Which owe the crown, that thou ore-masterest? Excuse it is to Beatrice usurping down. As many and as wellborn bloods as those. Stand in his face to contradict his claim. Amen, Amen, mount Chevaliers to Arms. Our Thunder from the South, Shall rain their drift of bullets on this Town. It's 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 meager cloddy earth to glittering gold: The yearly course that brings this day about, Shall never see it, but a holy day. From ̄ that supernal Judge that stirs good thoughts France, In any beast 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. 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, Arthurs or Johns. It's France, for England. You loving men of Angiers, Arthurs subjects, Our Trumpet called you to this gentle parley. It shall be so, and at the other hill Command the rest to stand God and our right. England thou hast not saved one drop of blood In this hight trial more then 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-born Arms, We'll put thee down, against whom these Arms we bear, Or add a royal number to the dead: Gracing the scroule that tells of this wars lose, With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. Speak Citizens for England, whose your king. Know him in us, that here hold up his right. A greater pour then We denies all this, And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong barred gates: Kings of our fear, until our fears resolved Be by some certain king, purged and deposed. Let it be so: say, where will you assault? Speak England first, that hath been forward first To speak unto this City: what say you? What sayest thou boy? look in the Ladies face. It likes us well young Princes: close your hands Now Citizens of Angires open your gates, Let in that amity which you have made, For at Saint Mary's Chapel presently, The rights of marriage shall solemnized. 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? 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 worser another way, To our own vantage. By heaven Lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day: Have I not pawned to you my Majesty? Here comes the holy Legate of the Pope. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this. I am perplexed, and know not what to say. Good reverend father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow your self? This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled, and linked together With all religious strength of sacred vows, The latest breath that gave the found of words Was deepe-sworne faith, peace, amity, true love Between our kingdoms and our royal selves, And even before this truce, but new before, No longer then we well could wash our hands, To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows they were besmeared and ouer-staind With slaughters pencil; where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings: And shall these hands so lately purged of blood? So newly joined in love? so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure, and this kind regreet? Play fast and lose with faith? so jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of our selves 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? Oh 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 blessed To do your pleasure, and continue friends. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith. Thou shalt not needs. England, I will fallen from ̄ thee. Thy rage shall burn thee up, & thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire: Look to thy self, thou art in jeopardy. So by a roaring Tempest on the flood, A whole Armado of convicted sail Is scattered and disjoined from fellowship. What can go well, when we have run so ill? Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur taken prisoner? diverse deer friends slain? And bloody England into England gone, Ore-bearing interruption spite of France ? Well could I bear that England had this praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame: Look who comes here? a graven unto a soul, Holding the eternal spirit against her will, In the vild prison of afflicted breath: I prithee Lady go away with me. Patience good Lady, comfort gentle Constance. Oh fair affliction, peace. Bind up those tresses: Oh what love I note In the fair multitude of hose her hairs; Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry fiends Do glew themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity. Bind up your hairs. You are as found of grief, as of your child. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. When I have said, make answer to us both. Lo in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vowed upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Pl tagen S, Son to the elder brother of this man, And King over him, and all that he enjoys: For this down-trodden equity, we tread In warlike march, these greens before your Town, Being no further enemy to you Then 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 sealed up: Our Cannons malice vainly shall be spent Against the involuerable clouds of heaven, And with a blessed and vn-vext retire, With unhacked swords, and Helmets all unbruised, 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 proffered offer, It's not the rounder of your old-fac'd walls, Can hide you from our messengers of War, Though all these English, and their discipline Were harboured in their rude circumference: Then tell us, Shall your City call us Lord, In that behalf which we have challenged it? Or shall we give the signal to our rage, And stalk in blood to our possession? 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: Wee'll lay before this town our Royal bones, Wade to the marketplace in French -men's blood, But we will make it subject to this boy. A wonder Lady: lo upon thy wish Our Messenger Chattilion is arrived, What England says, say briefly gentle Lord, We coldly pause for thee, Chatilion speak, How much unlooked for, is this expedition.