| ACT V SCENE VII | The orchard in Swinstead Abbey. | |
| | Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT. | |
| PRINCE 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 | 5 |
| | Foretell the ending of mortality. | |
| | Enter PEMBROKE. | |
| PEMBROKE | 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. | 10 |
| PRINCE HENRY | Let him be brought into the orchard here. | |
| | Doth he still rage? | |
| | Exit BIGOT. | |
| PEMBROKE | He is more patient | |
| | Than when you left him; even now he sung. | |
| PRINCE HENRY | O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes | 15 |
| | In their continuance will not feel themselves. | |
| | Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, | |
| | Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now | |
| | Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds | |
| | With many legions of strange fantasies, | 20 |
| | 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 chants a doleful hymn to his own death, | 25 |
| | And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings | |
| | His soul and body to their lasting rest. | |
| SALISBURY | 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. | 30 |
| | Enter Attendants, and BIGOT, carrying KING JOHN in a chair. | |
| KING 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 | 35 |
| | Upon a parchment, and against this fire | |
| | Do I shrink up. | |
| PRINCE HENRY | How fares your majesty? | |
| KING JOHN | Poison'd,--ill fare--dead, forsook, cast off: | |
| | And none of you will bid the winter come | 40 |
| | To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, | |
| | Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course | |
| | Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north | |
| | To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips | |
| | And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much, | 45 |
| | I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait | |
| | And so ingrateful, you deny me that. | |
| PRINCE HENRY | O that there were some virtue in my tears, | |
| | That might relieve you! | |
| KING JOHN | The salt in them is hot. | 50 |
| | Within me is a hell; and there the poison | |
| | Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize | |
| | On unreprievable condemned blood. | |
| | Enter the BASTARD. | |
| BASTARD | O, I am scalded with my violent motion, | |
| | And spleen of speed to see your majesty! | 55 |
| KING JOHN | O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: | |
| | 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: | |
| | My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, | 60 |
| | Which holds but till thy news be uttered; | |
| | And then all this thou seest is but a clod | |
| | And module of confounded royalty. | |
| BASTARD | The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, | |
| | Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him; | 65 |
| | 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. | |
| | KING JOHN dies. | |
| SALISBURY | You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. | 70 |
| | My liege! my lord! but now a king, now thus. | |
| PRINCE HENRY | Even so must I run on, and even so stop. | |
| | What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, | |
| | When this was now a king, and now is clay? | |
| BASTARD | Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind | 75 |
| | To do the office for thee of revenge, | |
| | And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, | |
| | As it on earth hath been thy servant still. | |
| | Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, | |
| | Where be your powers? show now your mended faiths, | 80 |
| | And instantly return with me again, | |
| | To push destruction and perpetual shame | |
| | Out of the weak door of our fainting land. | |
| | Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; | |
| | The Dauphin rages at our very heels. | 85 |
| SALISBURY | 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 brings from him such offers of our peace | |
| | As we with honour and respect may take, | 90 |
| | With purpose presently to leave this war. | |
| BASTARD | He will the rather do it when he sees | |
| | Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. | |
| SALISBURY | Nay, it is in a manner done already; | |
| | For many carriages he hath dispatch'd | 95 |
| | To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel | |
| | To the disposing of the cardinal: | |
| | With whom yourself, myself and other lords, | |
| | If you think meet, this afternoon will post | |
| | To consummate this business happily. | 100 |
| BASTARD | Let it be so: and you, my noble prince, | |
| | With other princes that may best be spared, | |
| | Shall wait upon your father's funeral. | |
| PRINCE HENRY | At Worcester must his body be interr'd; | |
| | For so he will'd it. | 105 |
| BASTARD | 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 | 110 |
| | And true subjection everlastingly. | |
| SALISBURY | And the like tender of our love we make, | |
| | To rest without a spot for evermore. | |
| PRINCE HENRY | I have a kind soul that would give you thanks | |
| | And knows not how to do it but with tears. | 115 |
| BASTARD | O, let us pay the time but needful woe, | |
| | Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. | |
| | This England never did, nor never shall, | |
| | Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, | |
| | But when it first did help to wound itself. | 120 |
| | 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 itself do rest but true. | |
| | Exeunt | |
