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Lady. Very hardly,

And still the poor boy sighing, would say, mother,

You look very hungry: I did think straight how hard
Your heart was; then we both did fall a weeping,
Cling'd our lean armes about each other's neck,
And sat a pair of mourners.

Brand. Delicate pastime, toads love no other;
Look yee, here's bread.

Boy. Oh! if you be a good man, give me but a bit To give my mother, poor soul, look how she looks! Indeed, she's very hungry.

Brand. Yes, so is my dogge :

I must keep this for his breakfast.

Lady. Give but my boy one bit,

And the saints sure will look how good you are;

They will be glad to see you charitable,

And call it excellent compassion.

[Puts it up again.

Brand. No, coming from a toad 'twill poyson him.
Boy. It will not, sir: indeed I am so hungry,

I could eat rats or mice.

Brand. Your t'other hair braine,

Your wild mad sonne, retaines my lord a prisoner,
Uses him basely, and you must suffer for't.

Lady. Give me but paper, pen, and ink, I'll write,
And charge him' to fall down, and lick the dust
Thy lord shall set his foot on: I will conjure him,
And woe away his wildnesse by the groans
I suffer'd for him; I'll threaten his denyall
With a mother's family-confounding curse:
This I will do, or any thing that may

But purchase my poor boy one bit of bread.
Brand. No.

Lady. O harder than the rocks, more mercilesse

Than the wilde evening woolf.

Boy. Mother, do not die;

For heaven's sake, helpe my mother; mother, look up

And ye shall see me dance, and then the gentleman

Will sure bestow a piece of bread upon us.

Lady. Look here, thou iron-hearted man, upon

A paire of piercing miseries.

Brand. A scene of mirth;

I am all hard, the heat of lust withstood

[Falls.

To clip revenge, will stem a stream of blood.

[Exit.

Boy. How do ye, mother?

Lady. How doth my boy.

Boy. Very sick, indeed; but I warrant you are more hungry Than I a great deale, are you not?

Lady. Oh no,

Thou art weake, and famine playes the tyrant with thee;
Look here, my boy, bite on thy mother's arme,

The blood will nourish thee.

Boy. Will your blood nourish me?

Lady. Yes, yes, I prethee try.

Boy. Why should not mine then nourish you? 'tis the same; Good mother, eat my arme; bite but a bit :

Truly, I shall hurt you if I bite yours,

I warrant you'll be better presently.

Lady. I shall, my sonne, and so shalt thou; come neere me,

Let us go hand in hand to heaven.

And I shall die, my dear, dear mother.

Boy. Oh, mother, something pinch'd my very heart,

[Dyes.

*Lady. Art thou gone, my sonne?

My soul shall overtake thee: oh friendly death

That gav'st that gripe, sure when thou kill'st the guilty,

Frowns curle thy angry forehead; but when thou steal'st
Towards innocence, (their pale fears to beguile)
Thou deck'st thy lean face with a lovely smile."

[Dyes. Act IV.

There is no small discrimination shewn in supporting the numerous characters of the piece. The wilful, reckless, buoyant, revengeful, John; the fearless and ostentatiously honest, but good-natured, Fitzwater; the pure, meek, and resigned, yet firm, Matilda; are each conceived and executed with a masterly pen, though rather occasionally disclosing the power of writing forcibly, than actually using it. Some of the traits of John's character are hit off in this short dialogue between Fitzwater and Young Bruce, who is complaining of the king's tyranny.

"Y. Bruce. Yes, and like horses,

Be held by the nose by frivolous respect,

While he casts copperis into our sores, and searches
Past honour's patience.

Fitz. Nephew, nephew, hear me,

Let's bear a little; faith, he is the king,

And though at Rome he does stand interdicted,
Yet now and then takes a good start or two
Towards regularity, 'till the fit comes on him;
And for your neat horse simile, observe me,
Richmond and you are young men, we three old,

But not too old to tell truth; the horse that will not
Stand still and endure searching, howe're in summer,
With warmth and pasture, he may strike at flies,
And play the wanton in a wealthy meadow,
For all his summer pastime, yet 'tis said,
Winter will leave him but a lean scald jade;
Come, come, y'are fooles, y'are fooles.

Leister. Well, let us-bear then.

Y. Bruce. Let us? O my blood!

Besides our injuries in his breach of promise,
He made by stains and publique grievances,
How in the flames of his adulterate heart
Pursues he my chaste cousin, by slights gets her
Within his tallon, and but this afternoon,
(Had not her friendly knife enfranchis'd her)
Even in the face of heaven, in his own garden
He would have ravish'd her."

Act I. scene I.

The king's impetuosity of temper, which he was unable to restrain, even to preserve the disguise he had himself assumed, is displayed in the following scene. John, with some of his courtiers, attired in the habits of masquers, enter Fitzwater's house, apparently to hold a revel, but really with the intention of carrying off his daughter Matilda. On their being announced, Old Fitzwater cries,

"Fitz. Now by my troth they are gallants,

Citizens, said you; now I remember too,
Ye do go gallant in your shops; no wonder then,
If in masques you cut it. I remember, gentlemen,

Your fathers wore a kind of comely habite,

Comely, because it well became the reverend name of citizens;
But now let a knight walk with you in your shops,

(And I commend you for't, ye keep the fashion)

We know not which is which. How my tongue ranges,
And night grows old, mad times must have mad changes;
Come, come, a hall, a hall.

Queen. Believe me, you have done well.

Y. Bruce. Pox a' these cats' guts, how they squeak.
Methinks a rattling sheep-skin lustily boxt,

[One of the torch bearers takes Matilda.

Would thunder brave amongst them.

Mat. I can dance no more, indeed, sir.

Fitz. I am deceiv'd if that fellow did not carry

A torch e'en now;

Will you shame the gentleman?

Dance when I bid you.

Mat. Oh me, that graspe was like the king's.

0. Bruce. Dance, cuz.

Fitz. In good deed, dance,

Or you will make me angry.

[The king pulls her violently.

Body of me, that's too much for a torch bearer,

You, sir Jack, sir Jack, she is no whit-leather,

She will not stretch, I assure you, if you come hither,
For love so 'tis.

K. John. For love.

Fitz. But if you and your company

Put on forgetfull rudenesse, pray take your Cupid yonder,
Your thing of feathers, and your barge stands ready

To bear ye all aboard the ship of fools,

I am plain Robin-passion of me!

Look if he do not threaten me; I will see thee,

Wert thou King John himselfe.

Om. The king!

Mat. Oh which way shall I flie ?"

[Pulls off his vizard.

The characters of the King and Fitzwater are strikingly exhibited in the following scene, which possesses great poetical as well as dramatic excellence.

"Oxford. O but my lord.

Fitz. Tut, tut, lord me no lords,

He broke, we powted, I tell plain truth, I,

Yet fell into no relapse of hostility.

But wot we what, he casts a covetous eye

Upon my daughter, passionately pursues her,

There had been other pledges but our oathes else,

(For heaven knows them he had) and (amongst the rest)
Matilda must be my pledge, for well he deem'd
They yielding theirs, shame would brand my denyall.
But catch craft, when we put truth to triall,
Kings should have shining souls, and white desires
Enflam'd with zeale, not parch'd by Paphian fires;
So shines the soul in which virtue doth shrowd,
As a serene skie bespotted with no cloud,

But a copper conscience whil'st the head wears gold,
Is but a plain down-right untruth well told.

Come, come, I cannot fawn.

K. John. But in the passion.

Of a dog, sir, you can snarl; have you talk'd all your words?
Fitz. I have told truth, I.

K. John. Then we will fall to deeds.
Oxford, command a guard, and presently

Take them to th' Tower; we can now talk and do.
Away with them, and muzzle those fierce mastiffes,

That durst leap at the face of majestie,

And strike their killing fangs into honour's heart;
Are they not gone? we shall be passionate
In your delay.

O. Bruce. Come, Leister, let us wear

Our sufferings like garlands.

Leister. Tempest nor death

Could never outdo Leister, who dares dye

Laughing at time's poyson'd integrity.

Fitz. Now by my troth 'twas very nobly spoken.

Shall I turne tale; no, no, no, let's go.

But how things will be carried; ha! are these teares?
Body of me, they are; shall I go like a sheep

With this pair of lyons; ha, ha, ha.

I do laugh now, John, and I'll tell thee why;
Th' art yet in thy green May, twenty-seven summers
Set in our kalends; but when forty winters more
Shall round thy forehead with a field of snow,
And when thy comely veins shall cease to flow,
When those majestick eyes shall float in rhumes,
When giant Nature her own selfe consumes,
When thy swift pulses shall but slowly pant,
When thou art all a volum of my want,
(That like a tale-spent fire thou shalt sink,)
Then John upon this lesson thou wilt think;

He dyes a happy old man, whose sweet youth
Was a continued sacrifice to truth;

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Besides some other whole scenes which are well worthy of being selected if our limits would allow, there are many short pieces of eloquent writing, which occur among less interesting matter. This is an instance: King John is railing at the queen, who has just confessed to have treated Matilda with personal violence.

"K. John. Oh ye cruell one,

Crueller than the flame that turn'd to cinders
The fair Ephesian temple; wilde as a woolf,
The bear is not so bloody: teare her hairs!

VOL. IV. PART I.

H

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