In lieu* whereof, I pray you, bear me hence Sal. We do believe thee,-And beshrew t my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair occasion, by the which Even to our ocean, to our great king John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye.-Away, my friends! New flight; And happy newness §, that intends old right. [Exeunt, leading off Melua. SCENE V. The same. The French camp. Enter Lewis and his train. Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set; But stay'd, and made the western welkin || blush, When the English measur'd backward their own ground, In faint retire: O, bravely came we off, When with a volley of our needless shot, • Place. + Ill betide. Sky. Immediate. After such bloody toil, we bid good night; Enter a Messenger. Mess. Where is my prince, the dauphin? Lew. Here: What news? Mess. The count Melun is slain; the English lords, By his persuasion, are again fallen off: And your supply, which you have wish'd so long, Are cast away, and sunk, on Goodwin sands. Lew. Ah, foul shrewd news!-Beshrew thy very heart! I did not think to be so sad to-night, As this hath made me.-Who was he, that said, Lew. Well; keep good quarter, and good care to-night; The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. An open place in the neighbourhood of Swinstead abbey. Enter the Bastard and Hubert, meeting. Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot. Bast. A friend:-What art thou? Hub. Of the part of England. In your posts or stations. Bast, Whither dost thou go? Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not I demand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? Bast. 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? Bast. Who thou wilt: an if you please, Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think, 1 come one way of the Plantagenets. Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and eyeless night, Have done me shame:-Brave soldier, pardon me, Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night, To find you out. Bast. Brief, then; and what's the news? Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill news; I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. Hub. The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk: Than if you had at leisure known of this. 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? * Without. Hub. Why, know you not? the lords are all come back, And brought prince Henry in their company; Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, [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), Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke. Pem. 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. * Forces. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage? [Erit Bigot. Pem. 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 chaunts a doleful hymn to his own death; His soul and body to their lasting rest. Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born 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. 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, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course |