O SLEEP, O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,

And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

A watch-case or a common 'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his
brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hang-
ing them

shrouds,

great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile,

In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch

Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and the stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then happy, lowly clown!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. SHAKSPEARE.

ALL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover;

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow: Then, a soldier;

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice;

In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws, and modern instances, And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon; With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

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.

Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake,

Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I'd do't.

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine

Const. 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....
If I were mad, I should forget my son:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
K. Phi. Bind up those tresses,
Sticking together in calamity:

Bind up your hairs. Const. Yes, that I will; And wherefore

will I do it?

I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud,

"O that these hands could so redeem my son,

As they have given these hairs their liberty!"
But now I envy at their liberty,
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.-
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in
heaven:

If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,

To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of
heaven

My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! [Exit.

K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit.

[Arthur, having been sent to England, is imprisoned in Northampton Castle. (Historically, this is not truc. Arthur was first sent to Falaise, then to Rouen; but Shakspeare's arrangement of the play requires the scene to be laid in England.)] SCENE. A Room in Northampton Castle. Enter HUBERT, and two Attendants.

Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand

Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,

Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

1st Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't. [Exeunt Attendants. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter ARTHUR. Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title

To be more prince) as may be. You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Mercy on me!

son.

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: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,
[Tearing off her head-dress
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

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.

Hub. [Aside.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate

He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look

pale to-day:

In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night and watch with

you.

I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. [Aside.] His words do take possession of my bosom.

Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper. [Aside.] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.

Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

Hub. Young boy, I must.

I would not have believed no tongue, but
Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth.
[Stamps.

Re-enter Attendants, with cords, irons, &c.
Do as I bid you
do.

Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! my

eyes are out,

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody

men.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous-rough?

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men

away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angrily:

head;

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?

Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

And call it cunning: Do, an if you will: If Heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,

Why, then you must.--Will you put out mine eyes?

These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you?

Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,

And quench his fiery indignation,

eyes,

Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes: 0, spare mine eyes;

Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,

And would not harm me!

Hub.
I can heat it, boy.
Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead
with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be used
In undeserved extremes: See else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit
out,

And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:

Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; And, like a dog that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things, that you should use to do me wrong,

Deny their office: only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron ex. tends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.
Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all
this while
You were disguised.
Hub.
Peace: no more.
Your uncle must not know but you are dead:
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and

secure,

Adieu.

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee.

Arth. O heaven!—I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence; no more: Go closely in with

me.

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.

Arthur, and accuses Hubert with tempting him to accede to the murder.]

SCENE. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter a Messenger.

tongue

I idly heard; if true, or false, I know not. K. John. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

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?

My mother dead!

Enter HUBERT.

Hub. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;

such a power

For any foreign preparation

Was levied in the body of a land!

The copy of your speed is learned by them; For when you should be told they do prepare,

The tidings come that they are all arrived. K. John. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?

The other four, in wondrous motion.

K. John. Five moons?

Hub. Old men and beldams, in the streets, Do prophesy upon it dangerously: Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:

And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,

wrist;

And she not hear of it?

Mess. My liege, her ear Is stopped with dust; the first of April died Your noble mother: And, as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died

rolling eyes.

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor's

news;