Henry.
It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain,
(Which, some suppose, the soul's frail dwelling house,)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretel the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke.

Pemb.
His highness yet doth speak, and holds belief,
That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison, which assaileth him.

Henry.
Let him be brought into the orchard here;
Doth he still rage?

Pemb.
He is more patient,
Than when you left him; even now he sung.

Henry.
O vanity of sickness! fierce extreams
In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them (a) ^note insensible; his siege is now,
Against the mind; the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies;
Which, in their throng, and press to that last hold,
Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing:—
I am the cygnet to this pale, faint swan,
Who chaunts a doleful hymn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal.
Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born
To set a form upon that indigest,
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. King John brought in.

K. John.
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

Henry.
How fares your Majesty?

K. John.
Poison'd, ill fare! dead, forsook, cast off;
&wlquo;And none of you will bid the winter come
&wlquo;To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
&wlquo;Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
&wlquo;Through my burn'd bosom: nor intreat the north
&wlquo;To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
&wlquo;And comfort me with cold.&wrquo; I ask not much,

I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,
And so ungrateful, you deny me that.

Henry.
Oh, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!

K. John.
The salt of them is hot.
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable, condemned blood.

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