Of this most fair occasion, by the which Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd, Even to our ocean, to our great king John. Right in thine eye.-Away, my friends! New flight; Enter LEWIS and his Train. Lew. 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, Enter a Messenger. Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin? Lew. Here: What news? 2- happy newness, &c.] Happy innovation, that purposed the restoration of the ancient rightful government. Mess. The count Melun 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, The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. An open Place in the Neighbourhood of SwinsteadAbbey. Enter the Bastard and HUBERT, meeting. Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot. Bast. A friend:-What art thou? Hub. Of the part of England. Bast. Whither dost thou go? Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not I de mand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? Bast. Hubert, I think. Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought: I will, upon all hazards, well believe keep good quarter,] i. e. keep in your allotted posts. Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well: Who thou wilt: an if thou please, Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and eyeless night, Have done me shame:-Brave soldier, pardon me, 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 night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. Bast. 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 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 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. The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:] Not one of the historians who wrote within sixty years after th death of King John, mentions this very improbable story. The tale is, that a monk, to revenge himself on the king for a saying at which he took offence, poisoned a cup of ale, and having brought it to his majesty, drank some of it himself, to induce the king to taste it, and soon afterwards expired. Thomas Wykes is the first, who relates it in his Chronicle, as a report. According to the best accounts, John died at Newark, of a fever. 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, heaven, mighty And tempt us not to bear above our power! 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, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. [Exit BIGOT. Doth he still rage? Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death; 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. P. Hen. How fares your majesty? K. John. Poison'd,-ill fare;-dead, forsook, cast off: And none of you will bid the winter come, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course |