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; 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, Of that fell poison which assaileth him. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage? Pem. [Exit BIGOT. 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, 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. How fares your majesty? P. Hen. cast off: you ill-fare;-dead, forsook, And none of will bid the winter come, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course much, 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 Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize 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; Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward; Where, heaven he knows, how we shall answer him: For, in a night, the best 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!-But now a king, thus. P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. 2 Narrow, avaricious. 3 Model. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay! Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind, To do the office for thee of revenge; And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths; And instantly return with me again, To push destruction, and perpetual shame, Sal. It seems, you know not then so much as we: Bast. He will the rather do it, when he sees Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already; With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, Bast. Let it be so: And you, my noble prince, With other princes that may best be spar'd, Shall wait upon your father's funeral. P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr'd; For so he will'd it. Thither shall it then. Bast. I do bequeath my faithful services Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, P. Hen. I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks, And knows not how to do it, but with tears. Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did (nor never shall) Lie 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 rest but true. [Exeunt. END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME. Printed by A. Strahan, Printers Street, London. |