Essex.
Henry.
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.
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.
Henry.
Let him be brought into the orchard here.
Doth he still rage?
Pemb.
He is more patient,
Than when you left him; even now he sung.
-- 63 --
King John brought in.
K. John.
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room* note;
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.
Henry.
How fares your Majesty?
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 intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold. I ask not much:
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ungrateful, you deny me that.
Henry.
Oh, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!
K. John.
The salt of them is hot.
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.
Enter Faulconbridge.
Faulc.
Oh! I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your Majesty.
K. John.
Oh! cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crackt and burnt;
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 utter'd;
And then all this thou seest, is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.
Faulc.
The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where, heav'n he knows, how we shall answer him.
-- 64 --
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.
Sal.
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear;
My Liege! my Lord!—but now a King—now thus!
Faulc.
Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind,
To do the office for thee of revenge:
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heav'n,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.
Henry.
At Worcester must his body be interr'd,
For so he will'd it.
Faulc.
Thither shall it then.
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land!
To whom, with all submission on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services,
And true subjection everlastingly.
Sal.
And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore.
Henry.
I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks,
And knows not how to do it, but with tears.
Faulc.
Oh, let us pay the time but needful woe.
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lye at the proud foot of a Conqueror.
Now these her Princes are come home again,* note
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them!—Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.
[Exeunt omnes.† note
