How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.

Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

This fever that hath troubled me so long

Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick!

My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,

Desires your majesty to leave the field

And send him word by me which way you go.

Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.

Be of good comfort; for the great supply

That was expected by the Dauphin here

Are wrack’d three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.

This news was brought to Richard but even now.

The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up

And will not let me welcome this good news.

Set on toward Swinstead. To my litter straight.

Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.