_Hub._ Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,[653] And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the king hath pardon'd them, 35 And they are all about his majesty. _Bast._ Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,[654] Passing these flats, are taken by the tide; 40 These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped.[655] Away before: conduct me to the king; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.[656] [_Exeunt._ SCENE VII. _The orchard in Swinstead Abbey._[657] _Enter Prince_ HENRY, SALISBURY, _and_ BIGOT. _P. Hen._ It is too late: the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain,[658] Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it makes Foretell the ending of mortality. 5 _Enter_ PEMBROKE. _Pem._ 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. _P. Hen._ Let him be brought into the orchard here.[659] 10 Doth he still rage? [_Exit Bigot._ _Pem._ He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. _P. Hen._ O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves.[660] Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,[661] 15 Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now[662] Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds[663] With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing. 20 I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,[664] 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.[665] _Sal._ Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born 25 To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. _Enter_ Attendants, _and_ BIGOT, _carrying_ KING JOHN _in a chair_.[666] _K. 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, 30 That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire[667] Do I shrink up.[667] _P. Hen._ How fares your majesty?