Lew.
The sun of heaven methought was loath to set,
But stay'd, and made the western welkin blush,
When English measure ^note backward their own ground
In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;

And wound our tattering ^note colours clearly ^note up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it! Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
Where is my prince ^note, the Dauphin?

Lew.
Here: what news?

Mess.
The Count Melun is slain; the English lords
By his persuasion are again ^note fall'n off,
And your supply ^note, which you have wish'd so long,
Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

Lew.
Ah, foul shrewd news! beshrew thy very heart!
I did not think to be so sad ^note to-night
As this hath made me. Who was he that said
King John did fly an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mess.
Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lew.
Well; keep good quarter and good care to-night:
The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Exeunt. ^note

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