King John

King John

What art thou?

Robert

The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

King John

Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems.

Bastard

Most certain of one mother, mighty king; That is well known; and, as I think, one father: But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother: Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may.

Elinor

Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother And wound her honour with this diffidence.

Bastard

I, madam? no, I have no reason for it; That is my brother’s plea and none of mine; The which if he can prove, a’ pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year: Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land!

King John

A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

Bastard

I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander’d me with bastardy: But whether I be as true begot or no, That still I lay upon my mother’s head, But that I am as well begot, my liege⁠— Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!⁠— Compare our faces and be judge yourself. If old sir Robert did beget us both And were our father and this son like him, O old sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!

Bastard

Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty. Exeunt all but Bastard. A foot of honour better than I was; But many a many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. “Good den, sir Richard!”⁠—“God-a-mercy, fellow!”⁠— And if his name be George, I’ll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men’s names; ’Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, And when my knightly stomach is sufficed, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: “My dear sir,” Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin, “I shall beseech you”⁠—that is question now; And then comes answer like an Absey book: “O sir,” says answer, “at your best command; At your employment; at your service, sir;” “No, sir,” says question, “I, sweet sir, at yours:” And so, ere answer knows what question would, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po, It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society And fits the mounting spirit like myself, For he is but a bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation; And so am I, whether I smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth: Which, though I will not practise to deceive, Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. But who comes in such haste in riding-robes? What woman-post is this? hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her?

Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney.

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 burthen from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

The French King’s pavilion.

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 Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advised, 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.

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 Executioner

I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hubert

Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to’t. Exeunt Executioners. 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 title 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 dispatch.

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.