The Complete Historical Plays of William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare
Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmunds-Bury;
It is our safety, and we must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.
PEMBROKE.
Who brought that letter from the cardinal?
SALISBURY.
The Count Melun, a noble lord of France,
Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love
Is much more general than these lines import.
BIGOT.
Tomorrow morning let us meet him then.
SALISBURY.
Or rather then set forward; for ‘twill be
Two long days’ journey, lords, or e’er we meet.
[Enter the BASTARD.]
BASTARD.
Once more to-day well met, distemper’d lords!
The king by me requests your presence straight.
SALISBURY.
The King hath dispossess’d himself of us.
We will not line his thin bestained cloak
With our pure honours, nor attend the foot
That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks.
Return and tell him so: we know the worst.
BASTARD.
Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best.
SALISBURY.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
BASTARD.
But there is little reason in your grief;
Therefore ‘twere reason you had manners now.
PEMBROKE.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
BASTARD.
‘Tis true,—to hurt his master, no man else.
SALISBURY.
This is the prison:—what is he lies here?
[Seeing Arthur.]
PEMBROKE.
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
SALISBURY.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.
BIGOT.
Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
SALISBURY.
Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,
Or have you read or heard, or could you think?
Or do you almost think, although you see,
That you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another? This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-ey’d wrath or staring rage
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.
PEMBROKE.
All murders past do stand excus’d in this;
And this, so sole and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,
To the yet unbegotten sin of times;
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.
BASTARD.
It is a damned and a bloody work;
The graceless action of a heavy hand,—
If that it be the work of any hand.
SALISBURY.
If that it be the work of any hand?—
We had a kind of light what would ensue.
It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand;
The practice and the purpose of the king:—
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,
And breathing to his breathless excellence
The incense of a vow, a holy vow,
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
Till I have set a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.
PEMBROKE. and BIGOT.
Our souls religiously confirm thy words.
[Enter HUBERT.]
HUBERT.
Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:
Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.
SALISBURY.
O, he is bold, and blushes not at death:—
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!
HUBERT.
I am no villain.
SALISBURY.
Must I rob the law?
[Drawing his sword.]
BASTARD.
Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.
SALISBURY.
Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.
HUBERT.
Stand back, Lord Salisbury,—stand back, I say;
By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours:
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.
BIGOT.
Out, dunghill! dar’st thou brave a nobleman?
HUBERT.
Not for my life: but yet I dare defend
My innocent life against an emperor.
SALISBURY.
Thou art a murderer.
HUBERT.
Do not prove me so;
Yet I am none: whose tongue soe’er speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.
PEMBROKE.
Cut him to pieces.
BASTARD.
Keep the peace, I say.
SALISBURY.
Stand by, or I shall gall you, Falconbridge.
BASTARD.
Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
I’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime:
Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron