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.

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 Swinsted, to the Abby there.

Mess.
Be of good Comfort: For the great Supply,
That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wrack'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, this Tyrant Feaver burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good News.
Set on toward Swinsted; to my Litter streight,
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. [Exeunt.

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