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,
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 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.

Bast. Whither dost thou go?

Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not I de

mand

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

3 keep good quarter,] i. e. keep in your allotted posts.

Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well:

Who art thou?

Bast.

Who thou wilt: an if thou please,

Thou may'st 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 poison'd 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.

The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:] Not one of the historians who wrote within sixty years after th death of King John, mentions this very improbable story. The tale is, that a monk, to revenge himself on the king for a saying at which he took offence, poisoned a cup of ale, and having brought it to his majesty, drank some of it himself, to induce the king to taste it, and soon afterwards expired. Thomas Wykes is the first, who relates it in his Chronicle, as a report. According to the best accounts, John died

at Newark, of a fever.

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'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 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,) 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.

[Exit BIGOT.

Doth he still rage?
Pem.
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 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. Poison'd,-ill fare;-dead, forsook, cast

off:

And none of will bid the winter come,

you

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course

Through my burn'd 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, confin'd to tyrannize

On unreprievable condemned blood.

Bast. 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 see'st, is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty."

Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward; Where, heaven he knows, how we shall answer

him:

my power,

For, in a night, the best
part of
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood."

5

the word.

[The King dies.

so strait,] i. e. narrow, avaricious; an unusual sense of

6 And module of confounded royalty.] i. e. model.

7 Were in the washes, all unwarily, &c.] This untoward accident really happened to King John himself. As he passed from Lynn to Lincolnshire, he lost by an inundation all his treasure, carriages, baggage, and regalia.