Part 19

Exeunt.

Scena Sexta.

Enter Bastard and Hubert, seuerally.

Hub. Whose there? Speake hoa, speake quickely, or I shoote

Bast. A Friend. What art thou? Hub. Of the part of England

Bast. Whether doest thou go? Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not I demand of thine affaires, As well as thou of mine? Bast. Hubert, I thinke

Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought: I will vpon all hazards well beleeue Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well: Who art thou? Bast. Who thou wilt: and if thou please Thou maist be-friend me so much, as to thinke I come one way of the Plantagenets

Hub. Vnkinde remembrance: thou, & endles night, Haue done me shame: Braue Soldier, pardon me, That any accent breaking from thy tongue, Should scape the true acquaintance of mine eare

Bast. Come, come: sans complement, What newes abroad? Hub. Why heere walke I in the black brow of night To finde you out

Bast. Breefe then: and what's the newes? Hub. O my sweet sir, newes fitting to the night, Blacke, fearefull, comfortlesse, and horrible

Bast. Shew me the very wound of this ill newes, I am no woman, Ile not swound at it

Hub. The King I feare is poyson'd by a Monke, I left him almost speechlesse, and broke out To acquaint you with this euill, that you might The better arme you to the sodaine time, Then if you had at leisure knowne of this

Bast. How did he take it? Who did taste to him? Hub. A Monke I tell you, a resolued villaine Whose Bowels sodainly burst out: The King Yet speakes, and peraduenture may recouer

Bast. Who didst thou leaue to tend his Maiesty? Hub. Why know you not? The Lords are all come backe, And brought Prince Henry in their companie, At whose request the king hath pardon'd them, And they are all about his Maiestie

Bast. With-hold thine indignation, mighty heauen, And tempt vs not to beare aboue our power. Ile tell thee Hubert, halfe my power this night Passing these Flats, are taken by the Tide, These Lincolne-Washes haue deuoured them, My selfe, well mounted, hardly haue escap'd. Away before: Conduct me to the king, I doubt he will be dead, or ere I come.

Exeunt.

Scena Septima.

Enter Prince Henry, Salisburie, and Bigot.

Hen. It is too late, the life of all his blood Is touch'd, corruptibly: and his pure braine (Which some suppose the soules fraile dwelling house) Doth by the idle Comments that it makes, Fore-tell the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke.

Pem. His Highnesse yet doth speak, & holds beleefe, That being brought into the open ayre, It would allay the burning qualitie Of that fell poison which assayleth him

Hen. Let him be brought into the Orchard heere: Doth he still rage? Pem. He is more patient Then when you left him; euen now he sung

Hen. Oh vanity of sicknesse: fierce extreames In their continuance, will not feele themselues. Death hauing praide vpon the outward parts Leaues them inuisible, and his seige is now Against the winde, the which he prickes and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which in their throng, and presse to that last hold, Counfound themselues. 'Tis strange y death shold sing: I am the Symet to this pale faint Swan, Who chaunts a dolefull hymne to his owne death, And from the organ-pipe of frailety sings His soule and body to their lasting rest

Sal. Be of good comfort (Prince) for you are borne To set a forme vpon that indigest Which he hath left so shapelesse, and so rude.

Iohn brought in.

Iohn. I marrie, now my soule hath elbow roome, It would not out at windowes, nor at doores, There is so hot a summer in my bosome, That all my bowels crumble vp to dust: I am a scribled forme drawne with a pen Vpon a Parchment, and against this fire Do I shrinke vp

Hen. How fares your Maiesty? Ioh. Poyson'd, ill fare: dead, forsooke, cast off, And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his ycie fingers in my maw; Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their course Through my burn'd bosome: nor intreat the North To make his bleake windes kisse my parched lips, And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much, I begge cold comfort: and you are so straight And so ingratefull, you deny me that

Hen. Oh that there were some vertue in my teares, That might releeue you

Iohn. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell, and there the poyson Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize, On vnrepreeuable condemned blood. Enter Bastard.