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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,

Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire.--
Commend me to one Hubert, with your King:
The love of him,--and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an Englishman,-
Awakes my conscience to confess all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumour of the field:
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires.

Sal. We do believe thee,-And beshrew my soul,
But I do love the favour and the form

Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damned flight;
And, like a bated and retired flood,

Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd,
And calmly run on in obedience,

Even to our ocean, to our great King John.—
My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;
For I do see the cruel pangs of death

Right in thine eye.-Away, my friends!

[Drums and Trumpets, &c.-Exeunt, leading off CHATILLON.



A different Part of the French Camp.

A Retreat sounded.


Lewis. 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,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bade good night;
And wound our tatter'd colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it !—


F. Her. Where is my prince, the Dauphin?
Lew. Here:-What news?

F. Her. Chatillon 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,
King John did fly, an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?
F. Her. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lew. Well; keep good quarter, and good care tonight:

The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

[Drums, Trumpets, &c.-Exeunt.



The Entrance to Swinstead Abbey.

Enter FAULCONBRIDGE, meeting HUBERT. Hub. Who's there! speak, ho! speak quickly. Faul. A friend:-What are thou?

Hub. Of the part of England.

Faul. Hubert, I think.-What news abroad? Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night. Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

Faul. 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 exil.

Faul. 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.

Faul. Whom 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.

Faul. 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.



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
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretel the ending of mortality.

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That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
P. Hen. Doth he still rage?
Sal. He is more patient

Than when you left him; even now he sung.

Sal. His highness yet doth speak: and holds belief,


It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
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. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow

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K. John. Poison'd,-ill fare;-dead, forsook, cast off:

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
Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold.

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.


Faul. 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: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty.

Faul. 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. Pem. You breathe these dead news in as dead an


My liege! my lord!—But now a king,-now thus! Faul. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind, To do the office for thee of revenge;

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