King John quotes

The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

Here have we war for war and blood for blood, Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth, The farthest limit of my embassy.

Our strong possession and our right for us.

Your strong possession much more than your right, Or else it must go wrong with you and me:

So much my conscience whispers in your ear, Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear.

Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else o’er the hatch: Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, And have is have, however men do catch: Near or far off, well won is still well shot,

And I am I, howe’er I was begot.

Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy desire; A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed For France, for France, for it is more than need.

Now, by this light, were I to get again, Madam, I would not wish a better father.

Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:

Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force The aweless lion could not wage the fight, Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand.

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

Now shame upon you, whether 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 bribed To do him justice and revenge on you.

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.

Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; Give with our niece a dowry large enough:

Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, To this unlook’d for, unprepared pomp. Exeunt all but the 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 …

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.

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 stoop.

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.

France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,

Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.

Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

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:

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 canonized, cardinal;

You are as fond of grief as of your child.

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:

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.

and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins, The misplaced John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand Must be as 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.

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 born 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;

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.

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.

They burn in indignation. I repent:

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others’ death.

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?

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

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 advised respect.

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:

Show me the very wound of this ill news:

I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it.

The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk: I left him almost speechless; and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time, Than if you had at leisure known of this.

Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust:

I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up.

Poison’d—ill fare—dead, forsook, cast off:

… of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold.

I do not ask you much, I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

O that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you!