HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison’d by a monk. I left him almost speechless, and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time, Than if you had at leisure known of this. BASTARD. How did he take it? Who did taste to him? HUBERT. A monk, I tell you, a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover. BASTARD. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty? HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back, And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the King hath pardon’d them, And they are all about his majesty. BASTARD. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide; These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap’d. Away, before. Conduct me to the King; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. The orchard of 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, 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. 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 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, 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 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. Enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in 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 Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up. PRINCE HENRY. How fares your majesty?