Heat me these irons hot; and look thou 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.

I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to’t.

Good morrow, Hubert.

Good morrow, little prince.

As little prince, having so great a title

To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.

Indeed, I have been merrier.

Mercy on me!

Methinks nobody 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 I were out of prison, and kept sheep,

I should be as 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 Geoffrey’s son?

No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

He will awake my mercy, which lies dead.

Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today.

In sooth, I would you were a little sick,

That I might sit all night and watch with you.

I warrant I love you more than you do me.

Read here, young Arthur.

Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

Young boy, I must.

And will you?

And I will.

Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkercher 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 lien still

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;

But you at your sick service had a prince.

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

And call it cunning. Do, an if you will.

If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill,

Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?

These eyes that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

I have sworn to do it.

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears

And quench his fiery indignation

Even in the matter of mine innocence;

Nay, after that, consume away in rust,

But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron?

An if an angel should have come to me

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believ’d him. No tongue but Hubert’s.

Do as I bid you do.

O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Alas, what need you be so boist’rous-rough?

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,

Nor look upon the iron angerly.

Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you,

Whatever torment you do put me to.

Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.

Alas, I then have chid away my friend!

He hath a stern look but a gentle heart.

Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Is there no remedy?

None, but to lose your eyes.

O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.

Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues

Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes.

Let me not hold my tongue. Let me not, Hubert,

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,

So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes,

Though to no use but still to look on you!

Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold

And would not harm me.

I can heat it, boy.

No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be us’d

In undeserv’d extremes. See else yourself.

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out

And strew’d repentant ashes on his head.

But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

An if you do, you will but make it blush

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert.

Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes;

And, like a dog that is compell’d to fight,

Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.

All things that you should use to do me wrong

Deny their office. Only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes.

Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

O, now you look like Hubert! All this while

You were disguised.

Peace; no more. Adieu.

Your uncle must not know but you are dead.

I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports.

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,

Will not offend thee.

O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

Silence; no more. Go closely in with me.

Much danger do I undergo for thee.