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The same.

Alarums, excursions, retreat.


K. John.
[to Elinor]
So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind

So strongly guarded. [To Arthur]
look not sad:

Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will

As dear be to thee as thy father was.

O, this will make my mother die with grief!

K. John.
[To the Bastard]
Cousin, away

for England! haste before:

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels

Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace (10)

Must by the hungry now be fed upon:

Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,

When gold and silver becks me to come on.

I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray,

If ever I remember to be holy,

For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.

Farewell, gentle cousin.

K. John.
Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard.

Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

K. John.
Come hither, Hubert, O my gentle Hubert.

We owe thee much! within this wall of flesh

There is a soul counts thee her creditor

And with advantage means to pay thy love:

And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath

Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.

Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,

But I will fit it with some better t'me.

By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed

To say what good respect I have of thee.

I am much bounden to your majesty, (30)

K. John.
Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,

But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,

Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.

I had a thing to say, but let it jo:

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,

Attended with the pleasures of the world,

Is all too wanton and too full of gawds

To give me audience: if the midnight bell

Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,

Sound on into the drowsy race of night:

If this same were a churchyard where we stand,

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs,

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick,

Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment

A passion hateful to my purposes,

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,

Hear me without thine ears, and make reply (50)

Without a tongue, using conceit alone,

Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words;

Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,

I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:

But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well;

And, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well.

So well, that what you bid me undertake,

Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

By heaven, I would do it.

K. John.
Do not I know thou wouldst?

Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,

He is a very serpent in my way;

And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,

He lies before me: dost thou understand me?

Thou art his keeper.

And I'll keep him so,

That he shall not offend your majesty.

K. John.

My lord?

K. John.
A grave.

He shall not live.

K. John.

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;

Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:

Remember. Madam, fare you well: (70)

I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.

My blessing go with thee!

K. John.
For England, cousin, go:

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho! [Exeunt.

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