ePub 版

I will, upon all hazards, well believe
Thou art my friend, that know'st my

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 eyelefs night,

Have done me shame: Brave soldier, pardon


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


Black, fearful, comfortlefs, and horrible... any Bast. Shew me the very wound of this ill


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 speechlefs, 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 ta

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!
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.



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The Orchard of Swinstead - Abbey.


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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 dwellinghouse)

Doth, by the idle comments thats it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.


Pemb. 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.

Doth he still rage?

Pemb. He is more patient

[Exit Bigot.]

Than when you left him; even now he sung.
P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes,

In their continuance, will not feel themselves. T
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them invisible; and his siege is now
Against the mind, the which he pricks and

With many legions of strange fantasies;
Which, in their throng and prefs to that last hold,
Confound themselves. Tis strange, that, death
should sing.

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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 resti
Sala Be of good comfort, prince; for you are

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.

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

51 room;

It would not out at windows, nor at doors. A
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;
sook, cast off:

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dead, for

And none of you will bid the winter come,'
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Thiongh my burn'd bosom; nor intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kifs my parched Tips,
And comfort me with cold:
I do not ask you

coas 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.

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


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.

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

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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, -now



P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so


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,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.
Now, now, you stars, that move in your right

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Where be your powers? Shew now your mended faiths;

And instantly return with me again,

To push destruction, and perpetual shame,
Out of the weak door of our fainting land:
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be

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The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

Sal. It seems, you know not then so much

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as we;

The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,

Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin; And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bast. He will the rather do it, when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Sal.. Nay, it is in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath dispatch'd

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To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal:

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


Let it be so:

And you, my noble

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.

Bast. Thither shall it then.

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