O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye
O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye.
The tackle of my heart is cracked and burnt,
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail
Are turnèd to one thread, one little hair.
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be utterèd,
And then all this thou seest is but a clod
And module of confounded royalty.
The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where God 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
Devourèd by the unexpected flood.
King John dies.
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.—
My liege! My lord!—But now a king, now thus.
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?