K. John. Then God forgive the Sin of all thofe Souls, That to their everlafting Refidence,
Before the Dew of Evening fall, fhall fleet
In dreadful Trial of our Kingdom's King.
K. Philip. Amen, Amen. Mount Chevaliers to Arms.
Baft. Saint George that fwing'd the Dragon,
And e'er fince fits on's Horfeback at mine Hoftefs Door,
Teach us fome Fence. Sirrah, were I at home
At your Den, Sirah, with your Lioness,
I would fet an Ox-Head to your Lion's Hide,
And make a Monster of you.
Baft. O tremble; for you hear the Lion roar.
K. John. Up higher to the Plain, where we'll fet forth, In beft Appointment, all our Regiments.
Baft. Speed then to take Advantage of the Field.
K. Philip. It shall be fo; and at the other Hill
Command the rest to stand. God and our right. [Exeunt.
Here, after Excurfions, enter the Herald of France with
Trumpets to the Gates.
F. Her. You Men of Angiers, open wide your Gates,
And let young Arthur, Duke of Britain, in;
Who by the Hand of France, this Day hath made
Much Work for Tears in many an English Mother,
Whofe Sons lye fcatter'd on the bleeding Ground:
Many a Widow's Husband groveling lyes,
Coldly embracing the difcolour'd Earth,
And Victory with little Lofs doth play
Upon the dancing Banners of the French,
Who are at hand triumphantly difplay'd
To enter Conquerors; and to proclaim
Arthur of Britain, England's King, and yours.
Enter English Herald with Trumpet.
E. Her. Rejoyce, you Men of Angiers; ring your Bells; King John, your King, and England's, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious Day.
Their Armours, that march'd hence fo Silver bright,
Hither return all gilt in Frenchmens Blood.
There stuck no Plume in any English Crest,
That is removed by a Staff of France.
Our Colours do return in thofe fame Hands
That did display them when we first march'd orth;
And like a jolly Troop of Huntsmen come
Our lufty English, all with purpled Hands,
Dy'd in the dying Slaughter of their Foes.
Open your Gates, and give the Victors Way.
Citi. Heralds, from off our Towers we might beheld
From first to laft, the Onfet and Retire
Of both your Armies, whofe Equality
By our beft Eyes cannot be cenfured;
Blood hath bought Blood, and Blows have anfwer'd Blows;
Strength match'd with Strength, and Power confronted
Both are alike, and both alike we like;
[Power.
One must prove greateft. While they weigh fo even,
We hold our Town for neither; yet for both.
Enter the two Kings with their Powers at feveral Doors.
K. John. France, haft thou yet more Blood to caft away?
Say, fhall the Current of our Right run on;
Whofe Paffage, vext with thy Impediment,
Shall leave his native Channel, and o'er-fwell,
With Course disturb'd, even thy confining Shores;
Unless thou let his Silver Water keep
A peaceful Progrefs to the Ocean.
K. Philip. England, thou haft not fav'd one Drop of Blood In this hot Trial, more than we of France;
Rather loft more. And by this Hand I fwear,
That sways the Earth this Climate overlooks,
Before we will lay down our juft-born Arms,
We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these Arms we bear,
Ór add a Royal Number to the dead;
Gracing the Scroul that tells of this War's lofs,
With Slaughter coupled to the Name of Kings.
Baft. Ha! Majefty; how high thy Glory towers,
When the rich Blood of Kings is fet on Fire.
Oh now doth Death line his dead Chaps with Steel;
The Swords of Soldiers are his Teeth, his Phangs,
And now he feafts, moufing the Flesh of Men
In undetermin'd Differences of Kings.
Why ftand these Royal Fronts amazed thus?
Cry Havock, Kings, back to the stained Field
You equal Potents, fiery kindled Spirits:
C 2
Then let Confufion of one Part confirm
The other's Peace; 'till then, Blows, Blood, and Death
K. John. Whofe Party do the Townsmen
K. Philip. Speak Citizens, for England, who's your King?
Citi. The King of England, when we know the King.
K. Philip. Know him in us, that here hold up his Right.
K. John. In us, that are our own great Deputy,
And bear Poffeffion of our Perfon here,
Lord of our Prefence, Angiers, and of you.
Citi. A greater Power than we denies all this;
And 'till it be undoubted, we do lock
Our former Scruple in our ftrong barr'd Gates:
Kings of our Fear, until our Fears refolv'd
Be by fome certain King purg'd and depos'd.
Baft. By Heav'n, thefe Scroyles of Angiers flout you Kings, And ftand fecurely on their Battlements,
As in a Theatre, whence they gape and point
At your industrious Scenes, and Acts of Death.
You Royal Prefences be rul'd by me;
Do like the Mutines of Jerufalem,
Be Friends a while, and both conjointly bend
Your sharpeft Deeds of Malice on this Town,
By East and Weft let France and England mount
Their battering Cannon charged to the Mouths,
'Till their Soul-fearing Clamours have braul'd down
The flinty Ribs of this contemptuous City.
I'd play inceffantly upon these Jades;
Even 'till unfenced Defolation
Leave them as naked as the vulgar Air:
That done, diffever your united Strengths,
And part your mingled Colours once again.
Turn Face to Face,and bloody Point to Point;
Then in a Moment Fortune fhall cull forth,
Out of one side, her happy Minion.
To whom in favour the fhall give the Day,
And kifs him with a glorious Victory.
How like you this wild Counfel, mighty States;
Smacks it not fomething of the Policy?
K. John. Now by the Sky that hangs above our Heads, I like it well. France, fhall we knit our Powers,
And lay this Angiers even with the Ground,
Then after fight who fhall be King of it?
Baft. And if thou haft the Mettle of a King,
Being wrong'd as we are by this peevish Town,
Turn thou the Mouth of thy Artillery,
As we will ours, against these faucy Walls;
And when that we have dafh'd them to the Ground,
Why then defie each other, and pell-mell
Make work upon our felves for Heav'n or Hell.
K. Philip. Let it be fo; fay, where will you affault? K. John. We from the Weft will fend Deftruction Into this City's Bofom.
K. Philip. Our Thunder from the South,
Shall rain their Drift of Bullets on this Town.
Baft. O prudent Difcipline! From North to South;
Auftria and France fhoot in each others Mouth,
I'll ftir them to it; come away, away.
Citi. Hear us great Kings, vouchfafe a while to ftay,
And I fhall fhew you Peace, and fair-fac'd League,
Win you this City without Stroak or Wound;
Rescue those breathing Lives to die in Beds,
That here come Sacrifices for the Field;
Persevere not, but hear me, mighty Kings.
K. John. Speak on; with Favour we are bent to hear. Citi. That Daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch, Is near to England, look upon the Years
Of Lewis the Dauphin, and that lovely Maid.
If lufty Love should go in queft of Beauty,
Where could he find it fairer, than in Blanch?
If zealous Love should go in fearch of Virtue,
Where could he find it purer than in Blanch?
If Love ambitious, fought a Match of Birth,
Whofe Veins bound richer Blood than Lady Blanch?
Such as he is, in Beauty, Virtue, Birth,
Is the young Dauphin every way compleat;
If not compleat of, fay he is not fhe;
And the again wants nothing, to name want,
If Want it be not, that fhe is not he.
He is the half Part of a bleffed Man,
Left to be finished by fuch as fhe;
And the a fair divided Excellence,
Whofe fulness of Perfection lyes in him.
O two fuch Silver Currents, when they join,
Do glorifie the Banks that bound them in:
And two fuch Shores, to two fuch Streams made one,
Two fuch controlling Bounds fhall you be, Kings,
To these two Princes, if you marry them:
This Union fhall do more than Battery can,
To our faft clofed Gates: For at this Match,
With fwifter Spleen than Powder can enforce,
The Mouth of Paffage fhall we fling wide ope,
And give you entrance; but without this Match,
The Sea enraged is not half fo deaf,
Lions more confident, Mountains and Rocks
More free from Motion, no not Death himself
In mortal Fury half fo peremptory,
As we to keep this City.
Baft. Here's a Stay,
That fhakes the rotten Carkafs of old Death
Out of his Rags. Here's a large Mouth indeed,
That fpits forth Death, and Mountains, Rocks, and Seas, Talks as familiarly of roaring Lions,
As Maids of thirteen do of Puppy-dogs.
What Cannoneer begot this lufty Blood,
He fpeaks plain Cannon fire, and fmoak, and bounce,
He gives the Baftinado with his Tongue:
Our Ears are cudgel'd, not a Word of his
But buffets better than a Fift of France;
Zounds I was never fo bethumpt with Words,
Since I first call'd my Brother's Father Dad.
Eli. Son, lift to this Conjunction, make this Match,
Give with our Neice a Dowry large enough;
For by this Knot, thou fhalt fo furely tie
Thy now unfur'd Affurance to the Crown,
That yon green Boy fhall have no Sun to ripe
The Bloom that promifeth a mighty Fruit:
I fee a yielding in the Looks of France;
Mark how they whisper, urge them while their Souls
Are capable of this Ambition,
Left Zeal now melted by the windy breath
Of foft Petitions, Pity and Remorse,
Cool and congeal again to what it was,
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