world of wood-land beauty to accomplish faithfully this hopeless adventure."

The extracts which follow are taken from King John, the second in order of Shakspeare's historical Plays. The passages quoted relate to the tragical and cruel death of the young Prince Arthur, and the inconsolable grief of his mother the Lady Constance. The extracts are not continuous, although they have the appearance of being so. The portions of the dialogue omitted relate to other parts of the general plot. None are given here but those relating to this particular incident.

Pandulph. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Constance. 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,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
K. Philip. 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,
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me, that never had a son.
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent 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!

My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!

My widow comfort, and my sorrows' cure.

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

[Exit. [Exit.

Pand. 'T is strange, to think how much king John hath lost

In this, which he accounts so clearly won:

Are not you grieved, that Arthur is his prisoner?

Lew. As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak, with a prophetic spirit;
For even the breath of what I mean to speak

Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,

Out of the path, which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne; and, therefore, mark.
John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be,
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplaced John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:
A sceptre, snatched with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintained as gained:
And he, that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:

That John may stand, then, Arthur needs must fall;

So be it, for it cannot be but so.

A Room in the Castle.

Enter HUBERT and Two Attendants.

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

Within the arras: when I strike my foot

[Exeunt.

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.

1 Attend. I hope, your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to 't.—
[Exeunt Atterdants.

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.

Arth.

Mercy on me!

Methinks, nobody should be sad but 1,
Yet I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long:
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me;
He is afraid of me, and I of him:

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. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick:

(Aside.)

That I might sit all night, and watch with you.

I warrant, I love you more than you do me.

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.

Read here, young Arthur. (Showing a paper.) How now

foolish rheum!

Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

I inust 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.

Arth.

Hub.

(Aside.)

And will you?

And I will.

Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache.

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)

And I did never ask it you again:

And with my hand at midnight held your 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?