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

Hub.
Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

K. John.
This fever, that hath troubled me so long,
Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick! Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
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, toward Swinstead ^note, to the abbey there.

Mess.
Be of good comfort; for the great supply
That was expected by the Dauphin here,

Are ^note wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.
This news was brought to Richard but even now:
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

K. John.
Ay me ^note! this tyrant fever burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on toward Swinstead ^note: to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt. ^note

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