When living blood doth in these temples beat,
Which owe the crown that thou o'ermasterest?
From whom hast thou this great commission, France,
To draw my answer from thy articles?
From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
To look into the blots and stains of right:
That judge hath made me guardian to this boy:
Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong
And by whose help I mean to chastise it.
Alack, thou dost usurp authority.
Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.
Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?
Let me make answer; thy usurping son.
Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,
That thou mayst be a queen, and cheque the world!
My bed was ever to thy son as true
As thine was to thy husband; and this boy
Liker in feature to his father Geffrey
Than thou and John in manners; being as like
As rain to water, or devil to his dam.
My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think
His father never was so true begot:
It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.
There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.
There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.
Peace!
Hear the crier.
What the devil art thou?
One that will play the devil, sir, with you,
An a' may catch your hide and you alone:
You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard;
I'll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right;
Sirrah, look to't; i' faith, I will, i' faith.
O, well did he become that lion's robe
That did disrobe the lion of that robe!
It lies as sightly on the back of him
As great Alcides' shows upon an ass:
But, ass, I'll take that burthen from your back,
Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.
What craker is this same that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?
Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.
Women and fools, break off your conference.
King John, this is the very sum of all;
England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee:
Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?
My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.
Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;
And out of my dear love I'll give thee more
Than e'er the coward hand of France can win:
Submit thee, boy.
Come to thy grandam, child.
Do