More welcome is the stroke of death to me
Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell.

Well, we may meet again.

That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

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

Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd.

The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns. For us to levy power
Proportionable to the enemy
Is all unpossible.

Despair not, madam.

Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland
And all the rest revolted faction traitors?

'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which shows like grief itself, but is not so;
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon
Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry
Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty ...

Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promised, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness
And entertain a cheerful disposition.

At Ely House.

Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,
Suddenly taken; and hath sent post haste
To entreat your majesty to visit him.