King of England John
Play by William Shakespeare dramatizing the life of King John of England.
For courage mounteth with occasion.
When Fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.
Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England
Add thus much more — That no Italian priest
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions.
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth.
Here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.
Saint George, that swindg'd the dragon, and e’er since
Sits on his horse back at mine hostess’ door.
Make haste, the better foot before.
Another lean unwash'd artificer.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such as she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
Lord of thy presence, and no land beside.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
There is no sure foundation set on blood;
No certain life achieved by others' death.
So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;
And, like a civil war, sett'st oath to oath,
Thy tongue against thy tongue.
’T is strange that death should sing!
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.
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.
O inglorious league!
Shall we, upon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play orders and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley and base truce
To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,
A cocker'd silken wanton, brave our fields,
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with colours idly spread.