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Enter a messenger Lewes. Fellow, what newes?

Mel. Pleaseth your grace, the earle of Salsbury, Pena brooke, Elex, Clare, and Arundell, with all the barons that did fight for thee, are on a sodaine fled with all their

pow. ers, to ioyne with lohn, to driue thee backe againe.

Enter another messenger.
Messen. Lewes my lord, why standst thou in a maze
Gather thy troupes, hope not of helpe from Fraunce,
For all thy forces being fiftie faile,
Containing twenty thousand souldiers,
With victuall and munition for the warre,
Putting them from Callis in vnluckie time,
Did crosse the seas, and on the Goodwin fands,
The men, munition, and the ships are loft,

Enter another messenger.
Lewes. More newes? say on,

Messen. Iohn (my lord) with all his scattered troups,
Flying the fury of your conquering sword,
As Pharaoh earst within the bloody sea,
So he and his enuironed with the tide,
On Lincolne washes all were ouerwhelmed,
The barons fled, our forces caft away.

Lewes. Was euer heard such vnexpected newes?

Messenger. Yet Lodowike reuiue thy dying heart,
King Iohn and all his forces are consumde.
The lesse thou needft the aid of English earles,
The lesse chou needst to grieue thy naujes wracke,
And follow times aduantage with successe.

Lewes. Braue Frenchmen arm'd with magnanimitie,
March after Lewes, who will leade you on


To chase the barons power that wants a head,
For lohn is drown'd, and I am Englands king.
Though our munition and our men be lost,
Philip of Fraunce will send vs fresh supplies.


Enter two friers laying a cloth. Frier. Dispatch, dispatch, the king desires to eate, Would a might eate his last for the loue he bears to church men.

1 Frier. I am of thy mind too, and so it should be and we

might be our owne caruers.
I maruell why they dine here in the orchard.

Frier. I know not, -nor I care not. The king comes.
Iohn. Come on lord. Abbot, shall we fit together?
Abbot. Pleaseth your grace fit downe.

lohn. Take your places firs, no pomp in penury, all beggers and friends may come, where necessitie keepes 'the house, curtefie is barr'd the table, fit downe Philip.

Baft. My lord, I am loth to allude so much to the prouerb, honors change maners : a king is king, though fortune do her worst, and we as dutifull in despite of her frown, as if your highnes were now in the highest tipe of dignitie.

lohn. Come, no more adoe, and you tell mee much of dignity, you'l marre my appetite in a surfet of sorrow. What cheere lord Abbct, me thinks ye frown like an host that knows his guest hath no money to pay the reckning

Abbot. No my liege, if I frowne at all, it is for I feare this chcere too homely to entertaine so mighty a guest as your maiestie.

Baft. I thinke rather, my lord Abbot, you remember my last being here, when I went in progresse for powches, and the rancor of his heart breakes out in his countenance, to thew he hath not forgot me.


Abb. Not so my lord, you, and the meanest follower of his maiefty, are heartily welcome to me.

Monke. Waffell my liege, and as a poore monke may say, welcome to Swinstead.

John. Begin monke, and report hereafter thou wast taster to a king Monke. As much health to your highnesse as to mine owne

heart. lohn. I pledge thee kind monke. Monke. The merriest draught that euer was drunke in Eng.

land. Am I not too bold with your highnesse ?

lohn. Nor a whit, all friends and fellowes for a time.

Monke. If the inwards of a toad be a compound of any proofe: why so it workcs.

lohn. Stay Pbilip, where's the monke?
Baftard. He is dead my lord.
Iohn. Then drinke not Philip for a world of wealth.
Ba. What cheere my liege? your collor gins to change.

John. So doth my life : 0 Philip, I am poison'd.
The monke, the diuell, the poyson gins to rage,
It will depose my selfe a king from raigne.

Baft. This abbot hath an interest in this act.
At all aduentures take thou that from me.
There lie the abbot, abbey, lubber, diuell.
March with the monke vnto the gates of hell.
How fares my lord ?

John. Philip, some drinke, oh for the frozen Alpes,
To tumble on and coole this inward heate,
That rageth as the fornace feuen-fold hote.
To burne the holy tree in Babylon,
Power after power forsake their proper power,
Onely the heart impugnes with faint refift


The fierce inuade of him that conquers kings,
Helpe God, O paine ! die lohn, O plague
Inflicted on thee for thy grieyous finnes.
Philip, a chaire, and by and by a graue,
My legges disdaine the carriage of a king,

Baft. A good my liege, with patience conquer griefe,
And beare this paine with kingly fortitude.

lohn. Me thinkes I see a catalogue of linge,
Wrote by a fiend in marble characters,
The least enough to loose my part in heaven.
Me thinkes the diuell whispers in mine eares,
And tells me, tis in vaine to hope for grace,
I must be damn'd for Artburs fodaine death,
I see I see a thousand thousand men
Come to accuse me for my wrong on earth,
And there is none so mercifull a God
That will forgiue the number of my finnes.
How haue I liu'd, but by anothers losse ?
What haue I lou'd, but wracke of others weale?
Where haue I yowd, and not infring'd mine oath :
Where haue I done a deede deferuing well ?
How, what, when, and where, haue I bestow'd a day,
That tended not to fome notorious ill.
My life repleate with rage and tyrannie,
Craues little pittie for so strange a death.
Or, who will say that Iohn deceafde too soone?
Who will not say, he rather liu'd too long.
Dishonour did attaint me in my life,
And shame attendeth lohn vnto his death.
Why did I scape the fury of the French,
And dide not by the temper of their sword?
Shamelesse my life, and shamefully it ends,
Scorn'd by my focs, disdained of my friends.


Baft. Forgiue the world and all your earthly foes,
And call on Christ, who is your latest friend.

Iohn. My tongue doth falter : Philip, I tell thee man,
Since Iohn did yeeld vnto the priest of Rome,
Nor he nor his haue prospred on the earth :
Curst are his blessings, and his curse is blisse.
But in the spirit I crie vnto my God,
As did the kingly prophet Dauid cry,
(Whose hands, as mine, with murder were attaint)
I am not he shall build the lord a house,
Or roote these locusts from the face of earth :
But if my dying heart deceiue me not,
From out these loynes shall spring a kingly braunch
Whose armes shall reach vnto the gates of Rome,
And with his feete treades downe the strumpets pride,
That fits vpon the chaire of Babylon.
Philip, my heart strings breake, the poysons fame
Hath ouercome in me weake natures power,
And in the faith of Jesu lohn doth die.

Bastard. See how he striues for life, vnhappy lord,
Whofe bowels are diuided in themselues.
This is the fruit of poperie, when true kings
Are Naine and shouldred out by monkes and friers.

Enter a messenger.
Mel. Please it your grace, the barons of the land,
Which all this while bare armes against the king,
Conducted by the legate of the Pope,
Together with the prince his highnesse fonne,
Do craue to be admitted to the presence of the king.

Baft. Your sonne, my lord, young Henry craues to see
Your maiestie, and brings with him beside
The barons that reuolted from your grace.

O piercing

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