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Bast. How did he take it? who did taste to him.?

Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king Yet speaks, and, peradventure, may recover.

Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?

Hub. Why, know you not? the lords are all come

back,

And brought prince Henry in their company;
At whose request the king hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his majesty.

Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,

And tempt us not to bear above our power!

I'U tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night.

Passing these flats, are taken by the tide,

These Lincoln washes have devoured them;

Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd.

Away, before! conduct me to the king;

I doubt, he will be dead, or ere I come. [Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

The Orchard of Swinstead-Abbey.
Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot.

P. Hen. It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,1!
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Fortell the ending of mortality.

Enter Pembroke.

Pemb. His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief,

That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard

here.— Doth he still rage? {Exit Bigot.

Pemb. He is more patient

Than when you left him; even now he sung.

P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes, In their continuance, will not feel themselves. Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them insensible: and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies; Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis 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 organpipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are bor n
To set a form upon that indigest
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

Re-enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John in a Chair.

K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbowroom;

It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment; and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

P. Hen. How fares your majesty?

K. John. Poison'd,—ill-fare;—dead, forsook, cast

off:

And none of you will bid the winter come,
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom; nor intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold:—I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

P. Hen. O, that there were some virtue in my

tears, That might relieve you!

K. John. The salt in them is hot.—

Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.

Enter the Bastard.

East. O, I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty.

K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd; And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail, Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty.

Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward; Where, heaven he knows, how we shall answer him: For, in a night, the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the washes, all unwarily, Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The King dies.

Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an

ear.— My liege! my lord !—But now a king,—now thus.

P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When tiiis was now a king, and now is clay!

Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind,
To do the office for thee of revenge;
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,

As it on earth hath been thy servant still.

Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? Show now your mended

faiths;

And instantly return with me again,
To push destruction, and perpetual shame,
Out of the weak door of our fainting land:
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;
The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

Sal. It seems, you know not then so much as we:
The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,
Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin;
And brings from him such offers of our peace
As we with honour and respect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bast. He will the rather do it, when he sees
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already;
For many carriages he hath despatch'd
To the seaside, and put his cause and quarrel
To the disposing of the cardinal:
With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To consummate this business happily.

Bast. Let it be so:—And you, my noble prince,
With other princes that may best be spar'd,
Shall wait upon your father's funeral.

P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr'd; For so he will'd it.

Bast. Thither shall it then.

And happily may your sweet self put on

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