Sal. May this be possible? may this be true? Mel. Have I not hideous death within my Retaining but a quantity of life; [view, 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 Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, Sal. We do believe thee,-And beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form And calmly run on in obedience, Even to our ocean, to our great King John. Right in thine eye.-Away, my friends! New flight: And happy 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 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, Lew. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin? 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, The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. SCENE VI. [Exeunt. 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? Of the part of England. Hub. Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not E 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 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. 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!- [Exeunt. SCENE VII. The Orchard of Swinstead-Abbey. Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Enter PEMBROKE. Pem. His highness yet doth speak: and holds belief, That, being brought into the open air, Of that fell poison which assaileth him. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage? 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, 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 I beg cold comfort: and you are so strait, 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 On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter the Bastard. 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: |