Pembroke

King John
Here once again we sit, once again crowned
And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.
Pembroke
This “once again,” but that your Highness pleased,
Was once superfluous. You were crowned before,
And that high royalty was ne’er plucked off,
The faiths of men ne’er stainèd with revolt;
Fresh expectation troubled not the land
With any longed-for change or better state.
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Salisbury
The color of the King doth come and go
Between his purpose and his conscience,
Like heralds ‘twixt two dreadful battles set.
His passion is so ripe it needs must break.
Pembroke
And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence
The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.
King John,
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King John
Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?
Think you I bear the shears of destiny?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life?
Salisbury
It is apparent foul play, and ’tis shame
That greatness should so grossly offer it.
So thrive it in your game, and so farewell.
Pembroke
Stay yet,
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Pembroke
O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The Earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
Salisbury
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.
Bigot
Or when he doomed this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
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Prince Henry
It is too late. The life of all his blood
Is touched corruptibly, and his pure brain,
Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house,
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.
Enter Pembroke.
Pembroke
His Highness yet doth speak, and holds belief
That being brought into the open air
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
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