Enter Hubert and Executioner
Hubert. Heat me these irons
hot, and look you stand
Within the arras; when
I strike my foot
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.
Executioner. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hubert. Uncleanly scruples!
fear not you; look to’t.—
Young lad, come forth;
I have to say with you.
Enter Arthur
Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert.
Hubert. Morrow, little Prince.
Arthur. As little prince (having
so great a title
To be more prince) as
may be. You are sad.
Hubert. Indeed I have been merrier.
Arthur. Mercy on me!
Methinks no body should
be sad but I;
Yet I remember when
I was in France,
Young gentlemen would
be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness.
By my Christendom,
So were I out of prison,
and kept sheep,
I should be 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 Geoffery’s son?
Indeed it is not, and
I would to heav’n
I were your son, so
you would love me, Hubert.
Hubert. If I talk to him, with
his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy,
which lies dead;
Therefore I will be
sudden, and dispatch. [Aside.]
Arthur. Are you sick, Hubert?
you look pale to-day?
In sooth, I would you
were a little sick,
That I might sit all
night and watch with you.
Alas, I love you more
than you do me.
Hubert. His words do take possession
of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur—[Showing
a paper.]
How now, foolish rheum,
[Aside.]
Turning dis-piteous
torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest
resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in
tender womanish tears.—
Can you not read it?
Is it not fair writ?
Arthur. Too fairly, Hubert,
for so foul effect.
Must you with irons
burn out both mine eyes?
Hubert. Young boy, I must.
Arthur. And will you?
Hubert. And I will.
Arthur. 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 cheer’d
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