SCENE, an open Place in the Neighbourhood of Enter Faulconbridge, and Hubert, feverally. Hub. WHO'S Faulc. A friend. What art thou? Faulc. Hubert, I think. Hub. Thou haft a perfect thought: Thou art my friend, that know'ft my tongue fo well: Faulc. Who thou wilt; and, if thou please, Thou may'ft be-friend me so much, as to think, Hub.Unkind remembrance! thou and eyelefs night (22) Faulc. Brief then: and what's the news? Hub. O my fweet Sir, news fitting to the night; Black, fearful, comfortlefs, and horrible. Faul. Shew me the very wound of this ill news, I am no woman, I'll not fwoon at it. (22) Unkind Remembrance ; thou and endless Night Have done me fhame : -] Why, endless Night? Hubert means no more, than that the Dulness of his Recollection, and the Darkness of the Night, had disgraced him in his not knowing Faulconbridge by the Tone of his Voice. Our Author certainly wrote, eye-less. Mr. Warburton likewife concurr'd in Starting this Emendation. Hub. Hub. The King, I fear, is poifon'd by a Monk: Faulc. How did he take it? who did tafte to him? And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whofe requeft the King hath pardon'd them, Faulc. With-hold thine indignation, mighty heav'n ! [Exeunt. SCENE changes to the Orchard in Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury and Bigot. "T is too late; the life of all his blood Henry. IT Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain, (Which, fome fuppofe, the foul's frail dwelling houfe,) 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 poifon, which affaileth him. Henry Let him be brought into the orchard here; Doth he still rage? Pemb Pemb. He is more patient, Than when you left him; even now he fung. Which, in their throng, and prefs to that laft hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should fing: I am the cygnet to this pale, faint swan, Who chaunts a doleful hymn to his own death; His foul and body to their lafting reft. Sal. Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born To fet a form upon that indigeft, Which he hath left so shapeless and fo rude. King John brought in. K. John. Ay, marry, now my foul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows, nor at doors. There is fo hot a fummer in my bofom, That all my bowels crumble up to duft: I am a fcribbled form drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I fhrink up. Henry. How fares your Majefty? K. John. Poifon'd, ill fare! dead, forfook, caft 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 courfe 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 On unreprievable, condemned blood. Faule. Oh! I am fcalded with my violent motion, K. John. Oh! coufin, thou art come to fet mine eye : The tackle of my heart is crackt and burnt ; And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should fail, 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, [The King dies. And then my foul fhall wait on thee to heav'n, Now, now, you stars, that move in your bright spheres, To push deftruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land: Strait let us feek, or ftrait we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels. Sal. It feems, you know not then so much as we : The Cardinal Pandulph is within at reft, Who half an hour fince came from the Dauphins And And brings from him fuch offers of our peace, Faule. He will the rather do it, when he fees Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already; With whom your felf, my self, and other lords, To confummate this business happily. Faulc. Let it be fo; and you, my noble Prince, Henry. At Worcester muft his body be interr'd. Faulc. Thither fhall it then. And happily may your sweet self put on Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, Henry. I have a kind foul, 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. And we shall shock them!-Nought shall make us rue, Exeunt omnes. The End of the Third Volume. |