Pemb. He is more patient, Than when you left him; even now he fung. Henry. Oh vanity of fickness! fierce extreams In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them; invifible his fiege is now, Against the mind; the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantafies; Which, in their throng, and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should

fing

I am the cygnet to this pale, faint swan,

Who chaunts a doleful hymn mn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, fings

His foul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born

To fet 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-rooms 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 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 fome virtue in my tears,

That might relieve you!

K. John. The falt 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.

Enter Faulconbridge.

Faulc. Oh! I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to fee your Majesty.

K. John. Oh! cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart is crackt and burnt; And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should fail, Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty.

Faulc. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where, heav'n he knows, how we shall answer him. For, in a night, the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the washes, all unwarily, Devoured by the unexpected flood.

[The King dies.

Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear: My Liege! my Lord!-but now a King-now thus. Henry. Ev'n so must I run on, and ev'n so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a King, and now is clay ?

Faulc. Art thou gone fo? I do but stay behind, To do the office for thee of revenge : And then my foul shall wait on thee to heav'n, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars, that move in your bright spheres, Where be your pow'rs? shew now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again, To push deftruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land : Strait let us seek, or strait we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

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;

And

And brings from him such offers of our peace,
As we with honour and respect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.

Faulc. He will the rather do it, when he fees
Ourselves well finewed to our defence.

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already;
For many Carriages he hath dispatch'd
To the fea-fide, and put his Cause and Quarrel
To the disposing of the Cardinal :
With whom your self, my self, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will poft
To confummate this business happily.

Faulc. Let it be so; and you, my noble Prince,
With other Princes that may best be spar'd,
Shall wait upon your father's Funeral.

Henry. At Worcester must his body be interr'd.
For fo he will'd it.

Faulc. 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 bequeath my faithful services,
And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a Spot for evermore.

Henry. Thave a kind soul, that would give you thanks,

And knows not how to do it, but with tears.

Faulc. Oh, let us pay the time but needful woe,

Since it hath been before-hand with our griefs.
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lye at the proud foot of a Conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound it self.
Now these her Princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them!-Nought shall make us rue,
If England to it self do rest but true.

Exeunt omnes.

The End of the Third Volume.

A