Have done me shame. Brave foldier, pardon me,
That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,
Should 'fcape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
Faulc. Come, come; Sans compliment, what news
abroad?

Hub. Why here walk I, in the black brow of night, To find you out.

Faulc. Brief then: and what's the news?

Hub. O my fweet Sir, news fitted to the night; Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

Faulc. Shew me the very wound of this ill news, I am no woman, I'll not fwoon at it.

Hub. The King, I fear, is poifon'd by a Monk.
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
T'acquaint you with this evil; that you might
The better arm you to the fudden time,
Than if you had at leifure known of this.

Faulc. How did he take it? Who did tafte to him?
Hub. A monk, I tell you; a refolved villain,
Whofe bowels fuddenly burft out; the King
Yet fpeaks; and, peradventure, may recover.
Faulc. Who didft 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 whofe request the King hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his Majefty.

Faulc. With-hold thine indignation, mighty heav'n!
And tempt us not to bear above our power.
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my pow'rs this night,
Paffing these flats, are taken by the tide ;
Thefe Lincoln-wafhes have devoured them;
Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped.
Away, before. Conduct me to the King;
I doubt, he will be dead, or e'er I come.

Kk 2

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE IX.

Changes to the Orchard in Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury and Bigot. Henry. T is too late; the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure Which some suppose the foul's frail dwelling-house, Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,

Fortel the ending of mortality.

Enter Pembroke.

brain,

Pemb. His highnefs yet doth fpeak, and holds belief,

That, being brought into the open air,

It would allay the burning quality

Of that fell poison, which affaileth him.

Henry. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he ftill rage?

Pemb. He is more patient,

Than when you left him; even now he fung.
Henry. O vanity of fickness! fierce extreams
In their continuance will not feel themfelves.
Death having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them infenfible; his fiege is now,
Against the mind; the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of ftrange fantafies;

Which in their throng and prefs to that laft hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis ftrange that death fhould fing.

I am the cygnet to this pale, faint fwain,

Who chaunts a doleful hymn to his own death,
And, from the organ pipe of frailty, fings

His foul and body to their lafting reft.

Sal. Be of good comfort, Prince, for you are born

To fet a form upon that indigeft,

Which he hath left fo fhapeless and fo rude.

4in their throng and prefs-] In their tumult and hurry of

reforting to the last tenable part.

King

K. John. Ay, marry, now my foul hath elbow.

room;

It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is fo hot a fummer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust,
I am a fcribled form drawn with a pen'
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I fhrink up.

Henry. How fares your Majefty?

K. John. Poifon'd. Ill fare! dead, forsook, cast off,
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thruft his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their courfe
Through my burn'd bofom: nor intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kifs my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And fo ungrateful, you deny me that.

Henry. Oh, that there were fome virtue in my tears, That might relieve you!

K. John. The falt of them is hot.

Within me is a hell; and there the poifon

Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize

On unreprievable, condemned blood.

Faulc. Oh! I am fcalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to fee your Majefty.

K. John. Oh! coufin, thou art come to fet mine

eye.

The tackle of my heart is crackt and burnt;

And all the fhrowds, wherewith my life should fail,

Are

Are turn'd to one thread, one little hair;
My heart hath one poor ftring to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou feeft, is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.

Faulc. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where, heav'n he knows, how we fhall anfwer him,
For, in a night, the beft part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood.

[The King dies.

Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear:

My Liege! my Lord!

now thus.

but now a King

Henry. Ev'n fo must I run on, and ev'n so flop. What furety of the world, what hope, what ftay, When this was now a King, and now is clay?

Faulc. Art thou gone fo? I do but stay behind,
To do the office for thee of revenge,

And then my foul fhall wait on thee to heav'n,
As it on earth hath been thy fervant still.

Now, now, you ftars, that move in your bright spheres,

Where be your pow'rs? fhew now your mended faiths, And inftantly return with me again,

To pufh deftruction and perpetual fhame

Out of the weak door of our fainting land:
Strait let us feek, or ftrait we fhall be fought;
The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

Sal. It feems you know not then fo much as we
The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,
Who half an hour fince came from the Dauphin;
And brings from him fuch offers of our peace,
As we with honour and refpect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.

Faule. He will the rather do it, when he fees.
Curfelves well finewed to our defence.

Sal.

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already;
For many Carriages he hath dispatch'd.
To the fea-fide, and put his Caufe and Quarrel
To the difpofing of the Cardinal,

With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To confummate this bufinefs happily.

Fault. Let it be fo; and you, my noble Prince,
With other Princes that may best be fpar'd,
Shall wait upon your father's Funeral.

Henry. At Worcester muft his body be inter❜d.
For fo he will'd it.

Faulc. Thither fhall it then.

And happily may your fweet felf put on
The lineal State and Glory of the Land!
To whom, with all Submiffion on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful fervices,

And true fubjection everlastingly.

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, To reft without a Spot for evermore.

Henry. I have a kind foul, that would give you thanks,

And knows not how to do it, but with tears.

Faulc. Oh, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been before-hand with our griefs.
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lye at the proud foot of a Conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her Princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them!-Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do reft but true. [Exeunt omnes.

THE tragedy of King John, though not written with the ut moft power of Shakespeare, is varied with a very pleafing interchange of incidents and charac

1

ters. The Lady's grief is very affecting, and the character of the Baftard contains that mixture of greatnefs and lenity which this authour delighted to exhibit.

There