Bushy.
The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns; for us to levy Power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all impossible.

Green.
Besides, our Nearness to the King in Love
Is near the Hate of those, love not the King.

Bagot.
And that's the wav'ring Commons, for their love
Lies in their purses; and who empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.
Wherein the King stands generally condemn'd.

Bagot.
If judgment lye in them, then so do we;
Because we have been ever near the King.

Green.
Well; I'll for Refuge straight to Bristol Castle;
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.
Thither will I with you; for little office
The hateful Commons will perform for us;
Except, like curs, to tear us all in pieces:
Will you go with us?

Bagot.
No: I'll to Ireland to his Majesty.
Farewel: If heart's Presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne'er shall meet again.

Bushy.
That's as York thrives, to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green.
Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes
Is numb'ring sands, and drinking oceans dry;
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.

Bushy.
Farewel at once, for once, for all and ever.

Green.
Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.
I fear me, never. [Exeunt.

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