Lewis.
The Sun of Heav'n, methought, was loth to set;
But staid, and made the Western Welkin blush,
When English measure backward their own Ground
In faint retire: Oh bravely came we off,
When with a Volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody Toil, we bid good Night,
And woon'd our tott'ring Colours clearly up,
Last in the Field, and almost Lords of it. Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
Where is my Prince, the Dauphin?

Lewis.
Here, what News?

Mess.
The Count Melun is slain; the English Lords
By his Perswasion are at length fall'n off,
And your Supply, which you have wish'd so long,
Are cast away, and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

Lewis.
Ah foul shrew'd News. Beshrew thy very Heart:
I did not think to be so sad 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.
Who ever spoke it, it is true, my Lord.

Lewis.
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.

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