Lady. Very hardly, And still the poor boy sighing, would say, mother, You look very hungry: I did think straight how hard Brand. Delicate pastime, toads love no other; 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. I could eat rats or mice. Brand. Your t'other hair braine, Your wild mad sonne, retaines my lord a prisoner, Lady. Give me but paper, pen, and ink, I'll write, But purchase my poor boy one bit of bread. 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; 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 [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 Fitz. Nephew, nephew, hear me, Let's bear a little; faith, he is the king, And though at Rome he does stand interdicted, But not too old to tell truth; the horse that will not Leister. Well, let us-bear then. Y. Bruce. Let us? O my blood! Besides our injuries in his breach of promise, 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, Your fathers wore a kind of comely habite, Comely, because it well became the reverend name of citizens; (And I commend you for't, ye keep the fashion) We know not which is which. How my tongue ranges, Queen. Believe me, you have done well. Y. Bruce. Pox a' these cats' guts, how they squeak. [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, K. John. For love. Fitz. But if you and your company Put on forgetfull rudenesse, pray take your Cupid yonder, 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) But a copper conscience whil'st the head wears gold, 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? K. John. Then we will fall to deeds. Take them to th' Tower; we can now talk and do. That durst leap at the face of majestie, And strike their killing fangs into honour's heart; 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? With this pair of lyons; ha, ha, ha. I do laugh now, John, and I'll tell thee why; He dyes a happy old man, whose sweet youth 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 VOL. IV. PART I. H |