West.
Health to my soveraign, and new happiness
Added to that, which I am to deliver.
Prince John, your son, doth kiss your grace's hand:
Mowbray, the Bishop, Scroop, Hastings, and all,
Are brought to the correction of your law;
There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd,
But Peace puts forth her Olive ev'ry where.

The manner how this action hath been born,
Here at more leisure may your Highness read,
With every course, in his particular.

K. Henry.
O Westmorland, thou art a summer bird,
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings
The lifting up of day. Enter Harcourt.
Look, here's more news.

Har.
From enemies heav'n keep your Majesty:
And when they stand against you, may they fall
As those that I am come to tell you of.
The Earl Northumberland, and the lord Bardolf,
With a great pow'r of English and of Scots,
Are by the Sh'riff of Yorkshire overthrown:
The manner and true order of the fight,
This packet, please it you, contains at large.

K. Henry.
And wherefore should these good news make me sick?
Will fortune never come with both hands full,
But write her fair words still in foulest letters?
She either gives a stomach, and no food;
(Such are the poor in health) or else a feast,
And takes away the stomach; such the rich,
That have abundance and enjoy it not.
I should rejoice now at this happy news,
And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.
O me, come near me, now I am much ill!

Glou.
Comfort your Majesty!

Cla.
Oh, my royal father!

West.
My soveraign lord, chear up your self, look up.

War.
Be patient, Princes; you do know these fits
Are with his highness very ordinary.
Stand from him, give him air: he'll strait be well,

Cla.
No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs;
Th'incessant care and labour of his mind
Hath wrought the † ^notemure that should confine it in,
So thin, that life looks through, and will break out.

Glou.
The people fear me; for they do observe
Unfather'd heirs and loathly births of nature:
The seasons change their manners, as the year
Had found some months asleep, and leap'd them over.

Cla.
The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between;
And the old folk (time's doting chronicles)
Say it did so a little time before
That our great Grandsire Edward sick'd and dy'd.

War.
Speak lower, Princes, for the King recovers.

Glou.
This apoplex will, certain, be his end.

K. Henry.
I pray you take me up, and bear me hence
Into some other chamber: softly, 'pray.
Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends,
Unless some slow and favourable hand
Will whisper musick to my weary spirit.

War.
Call for the musick in the other room.

K. Henry.
Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

Cla.
His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

War.
Less noise, less noise.

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