K. John.
How goes the day with us? oh, tell me, Hubert.

Hub.
Badly, I fear; how fares your Majesty?

K. John.
This feaver, that hath troubled me so long,
Lyes heavy on me: oh, my heart is sick! Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,
Desires your Majesty to leave the field;
And send him word by me which way you go.

K. John.
Tell him, tow'rd Swinstead, to the Abbey there.

Mes.
Be of good Comfort: for the great Supply,
That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wrack'd three nights ago on Godwin-sands.
This news was brought to Richard but ev'n now;
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John.
Ah me! this tyrant feaver burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on tow'rd Swinstead; to my Litter strait;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt.

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