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An open Place in the Neighbourhood of Swinstead.
Abbey. Enter FAULCONBRIDGE, and HUBERT, severally.
Hub. Who's there i speak, ho I speak quickly, or
370 Hub. What's that to thee? Why may I not de
mand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine ?
Faulo. Hubert, I think.
Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought: I will, upon all hazards, well believe Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so
well : Who art thou ?
Faulc. Who thou wilt: an if thou please, Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets.
380 Hub. Unkind remembrance ! thou, and eyeless
night, Have done me shame :--Brave soldier, pardon me, That any accent, breaking from thy tongue, Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
Faulc. Come, come ; sans compliment, what news
Faulc. Brief, then; and what's the news?
Hub. O my sweet sir, news fitted to the night,
Hub. The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:
Faulc. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?
Faulc. Withhold thine indignation mighty heaven,
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide,
410 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.
The Orchard in Swinstead-Abbey. Enter Prince HENRY,
SALISBURY, and Bigot. 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) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality.
· Enter PEMBROKE.
Pemb. His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief,
440 That being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard
Pemb. He is more patient
Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes,
King John brought in.
450. K. John. Poison'd-ill fare ;-dead, forsook, cast
And none of you will bid the winter come,
459 Hen. Oh, that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you!
K. John. The salt of them is hot.
eye : The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt; 469 And all the shrowds, 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. Faulc. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward ;