I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Do I shrink up. P. Hen. How fares your majesty? K. John. Poison'd,—ill-fare ;—dead, forsook, cast off: And none of you will bid the winter come, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,1 And so ingrateful, you deny me that. P. Hen. O, that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you! K. John. The salt in them is hot; Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is, as a fiend, confined to tyrannise Enter THE BASTARD. Bas. O, I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty. K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd; And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail, Are turned to one thread, one little hair. Bas. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward; Where, Heaven he knows, how we shall answer him : For, in a night, the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Devour'd by the unexpected flood. [the king dies. Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an (ar. My liege! my lord!-But now a king,-now thus, P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, Bas. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres, 1 Model. Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths; And instantly return with me again, To push destruction, and perpetual shame, Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought. Sal. It seems, you know not then so much as we. The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin ; Bas. He will the rather do it, when he sees Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already; With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, Bas. Let it be so. And you, my noble prince, P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr'd; For so he will'd it. Bas. Thither shall it then. And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee, I do bequeathe my faithful services, And true subjection everlastingly. Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. P. Hen. I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks, And knows not how to do it, but with tears. And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeunt. |