The Complete Historical Plays of William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare
Читать онлайн книгу.
In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;
And wound our tattrring colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!
[Enter a MESSENGER.]
MESSENGER.
Where is my prince, the Dauphin?
LOUIS.
Here:—what news?
MESSENGER.
The Count Melun is slain; the English lords
By his persuasion are again falln off:
And your supply, which you have wish’d so long,
Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.
LOUIS.
Ah, foul shrewd news!—beshrew thy very heart!—
I did not think to be so sad tonight
As this hath made me.—Who was he that said
King John did fly an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary powers?
MESSENGER.
Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.
LOUIS.
Keep good quarter and good care tonight;
The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 6. An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey.
[Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, meeting.]
HUBERT.
Who’s there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.
BASTARD.
A friend.—What art thou?
HUBERT.
Of the part of England.
BASTARD.
Whither dost thou go?
HUBERT.
What’s that to thee? Why may I not demand
Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?
BASTARD.
Hubert, I think.
HUBERT.
Thou hast a perfect thought:
I will, upon all hazards, well believe
Thou art my friend that know’st my tongue so well.
Who art thou?
BASTARD.
Who thou wilt: and if thou please,
Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think
I come one way of the Plantagenets.
HUBERT.
Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night
Have done me shame:—brave soldier, pardon me,
That any accent breaking from thy tongue
Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
BASTARD.
Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?
HUBERT.
Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,
To find you out.
BASTARD.
Brief, then; and what’s the news?
HUBERT.
O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,
Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.
BASTARD.
Show me the very wound of this ill news;
I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it.
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 7. 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;