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.
Oh vanity of sickness! fierce extreams
In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death having prey'd upon the outward parts
^{d note}Leaves them; invisible 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 ^{e note}fate! dead, forsook, cast off,
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom: nor intreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold. 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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