That hand, which had the strength, even at your | SCENE IV.—The same.—Another part of the

door,

To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;
To crouch in litter of your stable planks;

To lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and
trunks;

To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake,
Even at the crying of your nation's crow, †
Thinking his voice an armed Englishman ;-
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No Know, the gallant monarch is in arms;
And like an eagle o'er his aeric towers,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.-
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neros, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame :
For your own ladies, and pale visag'd maids,
Like Amazons, come tripping after drums ;
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,
Their neeldst to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.
Lew. There end thy brave, § and turn thy
face in peace;
[well;
We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.

Pand. Give me leave to speak.
Bast. No, I will speak.

Lew. We will attend to neither :-
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war
Plead for our interest, and our being here.
Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will
cry out;

[hand

And so shall you, being beaten: Do but start
And echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;
Sound but another, and another shall
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder:
(Not trusting to this halting legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need,)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

for at

Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought and
Untbread the rude eye of rebellion, [sold;
And welcome home again discarded faith.
Seek out king John, and fall before his feet;
For, if the French be lords of this loud day,
He means to recompense the pains you take,
By cutting off your heads: Thus hath be sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at Saint Edmund's-Bury;
Even on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

Sal. May this be possible? may this be true?
Mel. Have I not hideous death within my
Retaining but a quantity of life;
[view,
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolved from his figure 'gainst the fire?
What in the world should make me now deceive,
Since I must lose the use of all deceit ?
Why should I then be false; since it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,
He is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of your's
[breath
Behold another day break in the east:
But even this night,-whose black contagious
Already smokes about the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,-
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire ;
Paying the fine of rated treachery,

Lew. Strike up our drums, to find this dan-Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,

ger out.

doubt.

Bast. And thou shalt and it, Dauphin, do not [Exeunt. SCENE III.-The same.-A Field of Battle. Alarums.-Enter King JOHN and HUBERT. K. John. How goes the day with us? O tell me, Hubert.

Hub. Badly, I fear: How fares your jesty ?

ma

K. John. This fever, that hath troubled me so long,

Lies heavy on me; O my heart is sick!

Enter a MESSENGER.

If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your king;
The love of him,-and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an Englishman,-
Awakes my conscience to confess all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumour of the field;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires.

[soul

Sal. We do believe thee,-Aud beshrew my
But I do love the favour and the form
Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damned flight;
And like a bated and retired flood,
Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faul- Stoop low within those bounds we have o'er

conbridge,

Desires your majesty to leave the field;
And send him word by me, which way you go.
K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the
abbey there.

Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great
supply,

That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wreck'd three nights ago on Godwin sands.
This news was brought to Richard but even now;
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John. Ah me! this tyrant fever burus me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.-
Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.

[Exeunt.

[look'd,

And calmly run on in obedience,
Even to our ocean, to our great king John.--
My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;
[flight;
For I do see the cruel pangs of death
Right in thine eye.-Away, my friends! New
And happy newness, that intends old right.
[Exeunt, leading of MELUN.
SCENE V.-The same.-The French Camp.
Enter LEWIS and his Train.
Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was
loath to set;

Pembroke was not amongst the revolters: He maintained his loyalty unshaken, during the lowest fortune of the king.---Hume. + Lewis.

An allusion to the images made by witches. § Immediate, Innovation.

But stay'd, and made the western welkin blush,
When the English measur'd backward their own
lu faint retire: O bravely came we off, [ground,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;
And wound our tatter'd colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Enter a MESSENGER.

Mess. Where is my prince the Dauphin?
Lew. Here:-What news ?

Bust. Withhold thine indignation, mighty
heaven,

And tempt us not to bear above our power!-
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide,
These Lincoln washes have devoured them;
Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd."
Away, before! conduct me to the king;
I doubt, he will he dead, or ere I come.

[Exeunt.

Mess. The count Melun is slain; the English SCENE VII.-The Orchard of Swinsteadlords,

By his persuasion, are again fallen off: [long,
And your supply, which you have wish'd so
Are cast away, and sunk, on Godwin sands.
Lew. Ah! foul shrewd news I-Beshrew thy
very heart!

I did not think to be so sad to-night,
As this hath made me.-Who was he, that said
King John did fly, an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary powers?
Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.
Lew. Well; keep good quarter and good care
The day shall not be up so soon as I, [to-night;
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

Abbey.

Enter Prince HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.
P. Hen. It is too late; the life of all his
blood

Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-
bouse,)

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.

Enter PEMBROKE.

Pem. His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief,

That, being brought into the open air, SCENE VI.-An open Place in the Neigh-It would allay the burning quality

bourhood of Swinstead-Abbey.

Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, meeting.
Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly,

or I shoot.

Bast. A friend :-What art thou?
Hub. Of the part of England.
Bast. Whither dost thou go?

Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not

demand

Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?
Bast. Hubert, I think.

Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought:

I will upon all hazards, well believe
Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so
[well:

Who art thou?

Bast. Who thou wilt: an if thou please,
Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think
I come one way of the Plantagenets.
Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and eye-
less night,

[me,
Have done me shame :-Brave soldier, pardon
That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,
Should 'scape the true acquaintance of mine

Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
P. Hen. Let him he brought into the orchard
here.-

Pem. He is more patient,
Than when you left him; even now he sung.
P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce ex-
tremes,

I In their continuance, will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them insensible; and his siege is now
Against the mind, the which he pricks and
wounds

Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,

With many legions of strange fantasies;
Which, in their throng and press to that last
hold,

Confound themselves. 'Tis strange, that death
should sing.--

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, siugs
His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are
born

To set a form upon that indigest
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.
Re-enter BIGOT and Attendants, who bring
in King JOHN in a Chair.

K. John. Aye, marry, now my soul hath el-
bow-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:

Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen

news;

I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.

Hub. 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.
Bast. How did he take it? who did taste to
him?

Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,
Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king
Yet speaks, and peradventure, may recover.
Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his
'majesty ?

Hub. Why, know you not? the lords are all
come back,

And brought prince Henry in their company;
At whose request the king hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his majesty.

THE

LIFE AND DEATH

OP

KING RICHARD II.

LITERARY AND HISTORICAL NOTICE.

THE action of this drama comprises little more than the two last years of King Richard's reign. It commences with Bolinbroke's accusation of treason against Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, in 1398, and terminates with the murder of Richard at Pomfret Castle, about the year 1400. Shakspeare wrote the play in 1597, deriving his materials chiefly from Hollinshed's Chronicle, many passages of which, he has almost literally embodied with his own. The speech of the Bishop of Carlisle, in defence of King Richard's unalienable right, and immunity from human jurisdiction, is particularly copied from that old writer. The historical points of the tragedy are consequently accurate; for notwithstanding the Lancasterian prejudices of those who have recorded his reign, Richard was a weak prince, and unfit for government. He had capacity enough, but no solid judgment, nor good education: he was violeat in temper, profuse in expence, fond of idle show, devoted to favourites, and addicted to low society. Yet his punishment outbalanced his offence. Dr. Johnson has remarked of this play, that it cannot be said " much to affect the passions, or enlarge the understanding ;" but it is impossible to contemplate the abject degradation of the unfortunate monarch, as drawn by the poet, without questioning the truth and judgment of this critical rescript. In dignity of thought and fertility of expression, it is certainly superior to many of Shakspeare's productions, however it may yield to them in attractive incident or highly-wrought catastrophe. Yet where can we find a combination of circumstances more truly pathetic, than those with which Shakspeare has surrounded the short career of Richard, from his landing in Wales, to his murder at Pomfret. If the bitterness of his sorrow when deserted by his friends, and bearded by his barons--if the lowliness and patience of his carriage, whilst exposed to the insults of the rabble, and greeted with the mockery of homage by his aspiring rival---if the majesty of his sentiments, soaring above conscious helplessness or constitutional imbecility--and if his heroic resistance when despatched by his savage assailants--are not calculated to "affect the passions, or enlarge the understanding," there is no dramatic portraiture that is capable of doing so.