Welcome, my lord, how far off lies your Power?

Salis.
Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: Discomfort guides my tongue,
And bids me speak of nothing but Despair:
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men.
To day, to day,—unhappy day, too late
O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state.
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, disperst and fled.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege, why looks your Grace so pale?

K. Rich.
But now the blood of twenty thousand men
  Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.
And till so much blood thither come again,
  Have I not reason to look pale, and dead?
All souls, that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.
Comfort, my Liege; remember, who you are.

K. Rich.
I had forgot my self. Am I not King?
Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou sleepest;
Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my Name; a puny Subject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye fav'rites of a King, are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, my uncle York
Hath pow'r to serve our turn. But who comes here?

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