SCENE VII. The Orchard of Swinstead-Abbey Enter Prince HENRY,' SALISBURY, and Bigot. Hen. It is too late: the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his poor brain (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter PEMBROKE. belief, Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage ? [Erit Bigor Pem. He is more patient Than when you left him: even now he sung. Hen. O, vanity of sickness ! fierce extremes sing. – Prince Henry was only nine years old when bis father died. ? The old copy reads invisible. Si: T. Hanmer proposed the reading admitted into the text. 3 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. Re-enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John in a Chair. bosom, How fares your majesty ? 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 entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips, And comfort me with cold. – I do not ask you much: I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait, And so ingrateful, you deny me that. Hen. O, that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you ! John. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is, as a fiend, confiu'd to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter the Bastard. Bast. O! I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty. 3 A description of Chaos almost in the very words of Ovid • Quem dixere Chaos rudis indigestæque moles.” — Met. 1. 4 John. O cusin! thou art come to set nine eye: The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burr'd; And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sni!, 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. Bast. The Dauphin is preparing bitherward, 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, 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. now thus. My liege! my lord ! But now a king, Hen. 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 ! Bast. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind, To do the office for thee of revenge ; And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth bath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers ? Show now your mended faiths ; And instantly return with me again, 4 Module and model were only different modes of spelling the şame word. Model signified not an archetype, after which some. thing was to be formed, but the thing formed after an archetype, a copy or representation. In the London Prodigal a woman, kiss. ing the picture of her dead husband, says, -« How like him is this model !” 5 This untoward accident really happened to King John hin. self. As he passed from Lynn to Lincolusbire he lost by an inandation all his treasure, carriages, baggage, and regalia. H. To push destruction and perpetual shame Sal. It seems you know not, then, so much as we Bast. He will the rather do it, when he sees Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already ; you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. Bast. 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. Hen. At Worcester must bis body be interr’d;' Thither shall it, then. Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. Hen. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, And knows not how to do it, but with tears. а 6 A stone coffin, containing the body of King Jolir, was dis. covered in the cathedral church of Worcester, July 17, 1797. Bast. O! let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefr.?. This England never did, nor never shall, . Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in armis, And we shall shock them: Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. (Ereunt. ? As previously we have found sufficient cause for lamentation, let us uut waste the time in superfluous sorrow. 30 |