Desires your majesty to leave the field;

And send him word by me, which way you go.

K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great supply, That was expected by the dauphin here, Are wrecked three nights ago on Goodwin Sands. This news was brought to Richard but even now. The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John. Ah me! this tyrant fever burns me up, And will not let me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead. To my litter straight; Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. The same. Another part of the same.

Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and others. Sal. I did not think the king so stored with friends. Pem. Up once again; put spirit in the French; If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

Pem. They say, king John, sore sick, hath left the field.

Enter MELUN, wounded, and led by Soldiers. Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England here. Sal. When we were happy, we had other names. Pem. It is the count Melun.

Sal.

Wounded to death.

Mel. Fly, noble English; you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out king John, and fall before his feet For, if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take, By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn, And I with him, and many more with me, Upon the altar of Saint Edmund's-Bury; Even on that altar, where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love.

Sal. May this be possible? may this be true?
Mel. Have I not hideous death within my view,
Retaining but a quantity of life;

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?

What in the world should make me now deceive,

Since I must lose the use of all deceit ?

Why should I then be false, since it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,

He is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the east;

But even this night,-whose black, contagious breath
Already smokes about the burning crest

Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,-
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire;
Paying the fine of rated treachery,

Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your king;
The love of him-and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an Englishman-
Awakes my conscience to confess all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumor of the field;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my soul.
With contemplation and devout desires.

Sal. We do believe thee,- and beshrew my soul
But I do love the favor and the form

Of this most fair occasion, by the which

We will untread the steps of damned flight;
And, like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,
Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlooked,
And calmly run on in obedience,

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 hapyy newness, that intends old right.

[Exeunt, leading off MELUN.

SCENE V. The same. The French Camp.

Enter LEWIS and his Train.

Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set; But staid, and made the western welkin blush,

When the English measured backward their own ground In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,

When with a volley of our needless shot,

After such bloody toil, we bid good night;
And wound our tottering colors clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!
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 wished 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,

King John did fly, an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

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 Neighborhood 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.

Bast. Whither dost thou go?

Of the part of England.

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 thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much, as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

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. Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? 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 poisoned by a monk.
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
To acquaint you with this evil; that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time,

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?

Hub. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back,
And brought prince Henry in their company;
At whose request the king hath pardoned them,
And they are all about his majesty.

Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty Heaven,
And tempt us not to bear above our power!
I'll 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 escaped.
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 touched 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.

P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage?

Pem.

He is more patient

[Exit BIGOT.

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 preyed 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 organ-pipe of frailty, sings

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 elbow-room; 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. Poisoned,-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 burned bosom; nor entreat 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, confined to tyrannize

On unreprievable, condemned blood.

Enter the Bastard.

Bast. 0, I am scalded with my violent emotion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty.

VOL. II. 21