Of this most fair occasion, by the which

We will untread the steps of damned flight;

And, like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

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! New flight; And happy newness, that intends old right.

[Exeunt, lead in off Melun.

SCENE V.

The Same. The French Camp.

Enter LEWIS, and his Train.

Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was loth 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 bid good night;
And wound our tatter'd colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!-

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Lew.

Here:-What news?

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,
King John did fly, an hour or two before

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

lord.

Lew. Well; keep good quarter, and good care to

night:

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

SCENE VI.

[Exeunt.

An open Place in the Neighbourhood of Swinstead-Abbey. Enter the Bastard, and HUBERT, meeiing.

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 demand 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

Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue 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 eyeless

night,

Have done me shame :-Brave soldier, pardon me, 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 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

VOL. VI.

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.

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.

SCENE VII.

The Orchard of Swinstead-Abbey.

[Exeunt.

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, Fortell the ending of mortality.

Enter PEMBROKE.

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?

[Exit Bigot.

Pemb. 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,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;

And, from the organpipe of frailty, sings

His soul and body to their lasting rest.

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.