There’s nothing in this world can make me joy
There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;
And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste,
That it yields naught but shame and bitterness.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave
On their departure most of all show evil.
What have you lost by losing of this day?
All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
If you had won it, certainly you had.
No, no. When Fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threat'ning eye.
‘Tis 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?
As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
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 scepter snatched with an unruly hand
Must be as boisterously maintained as gained.
And he that stands upon a slipp'ry 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.