For ’tis a sign of love; and love to Richard

Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

King John

[II, i, 561–98] The bastard son of Richard I, Philip Falconbridge stands close to the centre of power yet is forever excluded – a unique vantage-point from which to observe the workings of a world in which ‘commodity’ (personal advantage) is the only law:

Mad world! Mad kings! Mad composition!

John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole,

Hath willingly departed with a part;

And France, whose armour conscience buckled on,

Whom zeal and charity brought to the field

As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,

That broker that still breaks the pate of faith,

That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids –

Who, having no external thing to lose

But the word ‘maid’, cheats the poor maid of that –

That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity;

Commodity, the bias of the world –

The world, who of itself is peisèd well,

Made to run even upon even ground,

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,

This sway of motion, this commodity,

Makes it take head from all indifferency,

From all direction, purpose, course, intent –

And this same bias, this commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,

Clapped on the outward eye of fickle France,

Hath drawn him from his own determined aid,

From a resolved and honourable war,

To a most base and vile-concluded peace.

And why rail I on this commodity?

But for because he hath not wooed me yet;

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand

When his fair angels would salute my palm,

But for my hand, as unattempted yet,

Like a poor beggar raileth on the rich.

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail

And say there is no sin but to be rich;

And being rich, my virtue then shall be

To say there is no vice but beggary.

Since kings break faith upon commodity,

Gain, be my lord – for I will worship thee.

Henry IV Part 1

[I, ii, 193–215] The scapegrace son of King Henry IV, Prince Harry is playing a much longer game than it may appear. The life of debauchery he leads, he says, as his drinking companions take their leave one night, is only the cover from which he will one day spring to glory:

I know you all, and will awhile uphold

The unyoked humour of your idleness.

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world,

That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wondered at

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work;

But when they seldom come, they wished-for come,