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Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc. Once more to-day well met, diftemper'd

The King by me requests your prefence ftrait.
Sal. The King hath difpoffeft himself of us;
We will not line his thin, beftained cloak
With our pure honours: nor attend the foot,
That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks.
Return, and tell him fo; we know the worst.

Faulc. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reafon now " Faulc. But there is little reafon in your grief, Therefore 'twere reafon, you had manners now. Pemb. Sir, Sir, impatience hath it privilege. Faulc. 'Tis true, to hurt its mafter, no man elfe. Sal. This is the prison: what is he lies here? [Seeing Arthur. Pemb. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Bigot. Or when he doom'd this beauty to the grave, Found it too precious, princely, for a grave.

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld,
Or have you read, or heard, or could you think,
Or do you almost think, altho' you see,
What you do fee? could thought, without this object,
Form fuch another? 'tis the very top,

The height, the creft, or creft unto the creft,
Of murder's arms; this is the bloodieft fhame,
The wildeft favag'ry, the vileft ftroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or ftaring rage,

To reafon, in Shakespeare, is not fo often to argue, as to talk.


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Prefented to the tears of foft remorse.

Pemb. All murders past do stand excus'd in this ;
And this fo fole, and fo unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,
To the yet-unbegotten fins of time;
And prove a deadly blood-fhed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous fpectacle.

Faulc. It is a damned and a bloody work,
The gracele is action of a heavy hand:
If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal. If that it be the work of any hand?
We had a kind of light, what would enfue.
It is the fhametul work of Hubert's hand,
The practice and the purpose of the King:
From whofe obedience I forbid my foul,
Kneeling before this ruin of fweet life,
And breathing to this breathless excellence
The incenfe of a vow, a holy vows!
Never to tafte the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor converfant with ease and idleness,
Till I have fet a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge 9.

}Our fouls religiously confirm thy words.


Enter Hubert.

Hub. Lords, I am hot with hafte, in feeking you; Arthur doth live, the King hath fent for you.

Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blufhes not at death.

a vow,

'Never to taste the pleasures of the
world,] This is a copy of
the vows made in the ages of fu-
perftition and chivalry.


the worship of revenge.] The worship is the dignity, the honour. We ftill fay worshipful of magiflrates.



-Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hub. I am no villain.

Sal. Muft I rob the law? [Drawing bis Sword. Faulc. Your fword is bright, Sir, put it up again. Sal. Not till I fheath it in a murd'rer's fkin.

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury; stand back, I fay; By heav'n, I think, my fword's as sharp as yours. I would not have you, Lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence'; Left 1, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatnefs, and nobility.

Bigot. Out, dunghill! dar'ft thou brave a Nobleman? Hub. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an Emperor.

Sal. Thou art a murd'rer.

Hub. Do not prove me fo2;

Yet, I am none. Whose tongue foe'er speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who fpeaks not truly, lies.
Pemb. Cut him to pieces.

Faulc. Keep the peace, I fay.

Sal. Stand by, or I fhall gaul you, Faulconbridge. Faulc. Thou wert better gaul the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or ftir thy foot, Or teach thy hafty fpleen to do me shame, I'll ftrike thee dead. Put up thy fword betime, Or I'll fo maul you, and your tofting-iron, That you shall think, the devil is come from hell. Bigot. What will you do, renowned Falconbridge? Second a villain, and a murderer ? •Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.

Bigot. Who kill'd this Prince?

Hub. 'Tis not an hour fince I left him well: I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep..

true defence; Honeft defence; defence in a good caufe. 2 Do not prove me so; Yet, I am none. -] Do not

I am

make me a murderer by compelling me to kill you; hitherto not a murderer.


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My date of life out, for his fweet life's lofs.
Sal. Truft not thofe cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without fuch rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorfe and innocence.
Away with me all you, whofe fouls abhor
Th' uncleanly favour of a flaughter-house,
For I am ftifled with the smell of fin.

Bigot. Away tow'rd Bury, to the Dauphin there. Pemb. There, tell the King, he may enquire us out. [Exeunt Lords.




Faulc. Here's a good world. Knew you of this fair work?

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach
Of mercy, if thou did't this deed of death
Art thou damn'd, Hubert.

Hub. Do but hear me, Sir.

Faule. Ha! I'll tell thee what,

Thou'rt damn'd fo black nay, nothing is fo black;
Thou art more deep damn'd than prince Lucifer.
There is not yet fo ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.
Hub. Upon my foul

Faulc. If thou didst but confent

To this most cruel act, do but despair,

And if thou want'ft a cord, the fmalleft thread,
That ever spider twisted from her womb,
Will ftrangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or wouldst thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it fhall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle fuch a villain up.

I do fufpect thee very grievously.

Hub. If I in act, confent, or fin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that fweet breath,



Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.

Faulc. Go, bear him in thine arms. I am amaz'd, methinks, and lofe my way: Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How eafy doft thou take all England up! From forth this morfel of dead Royalty, The life, the right, and truth of all this Realm Is fled to heav'n; and England now is left. To tug and scramble, and to part by th' teeth The un-owed intereft of proud-fwelling State. Now for the bare-pickt bone of Majefty, Doth dogged war briftle his angry creft; And fnarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. Now Pow'rs from home and discontents at home Meet in one line and vaft confufion waits (As doth a Raven on a fick, fall'n beaft) The imminent Decay of wrefted Pomp 3. Now happy he, whofe cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempeft. Bear away that child, And follow me with fpeed; I'll to the King; A thousand bufineffes are brief at hand, And heav'n itself doth frown upon the Land. [Exeunt.

3 The imminent decay of wrefted pomp.] Wrefted pomp is greatness btained by violence.

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