Mr. VVilliam Shakespeares comedies, histories, & tragedies Published according to the true originall copies.

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^t death shold sing: I am the Symer 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.

Bast.

Oh, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleene of speede, to see your Maiesty.

Iohn.

Oh Cozen, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart, is crack'd and burnt, And all the shrowds wherewith my life should saile, Are turned to one thred, one little haire: My heart hath one poore string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy newes be vttered, And then all this thou seest, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty.

Bast.

The Dolphin is preparing hither-ward, Where heauen he knowes how we shall answer him. For in a night the best part of my powre, As I vpon aduantage did remoue, Were in the Washes all vnwarily, Deuoured by the vnexpected flood.

Sal.

You breath these dead newes in as dead an eare My Liege, my Lord: but now a King, now thus.

Hen.

Euen so must I run on, and euen so stop. 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 behinde, To do the office for thee, of reuenge, And then my soule shall waite on thee to heauen, As it on earth hath bene thy seruant still. Now, now you Starres, that moue in your right spheres, Where be your powres? Shew now your mended faiths, And instantly returne with me againe. To push destruction, and perpetuall shame Out of the weake doore of our fainting Land: Straight let vs seeke, or straight we shall be sought, The Dolphine rages at our verie heeles.

Sal.

It seemes you know not then so much as we, The Cardinall Pandulph is within at rest, Who halfe an houre since came from the Dolphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace, As we with honor and respect may take, With purpose presently to leaue this warre.

Bast.

He will the rather do it, when he sees Our selues well sinew'd to our defence.

Sal.

Nay, 'tis in a manner done already, For many carriages hee hath dispatch'd To the sea side, and put his cause and quarrell To the disposing of the Cardinall, With whom your selfe, my selfe, and other Lords, If you thinke meete, this afternoone will poast To consummate this businesse happily.

Bast.

Let it be so, and you my noble Prince, With other Princes that may best be spar'd, Shall waite vpon your Fathers Funerall.

Hen.

At Worster must his bodie be interr'd, For so he will'd it.

Bast.

Thither shall it then, And happily may your sweet selfe put on The lineall state, and glorie of the Land, To whom with all submission on my knee, I do bequeath my faithfull seruices And true subiection euerlastingly.

Sal.

And the like tender of our loue wee make To rest without a spot for euermore.

Hen.

I haue a kinde soule, that would giue thankes, And knowes not how to do it, but with teares.

Bast.

Oh let vs pay the time: but needfull woe, Since it hath beene before hand with our greefes. This England neuer did, nor neuer shall Lye at the proud foote of a Conqueror, But when it first did helpe to wound it selfe. Now, these her Princes are come home againe, Come the three corners of the world in Armes, And we shall shocke them: Naught shall make vs rue, If England to it selfe, do rest but true.

Exeunt.