O, good my lord, you have lost a friend indeed;
And I dare swear you borrow not that face
Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your own.

Good morrow, cousin.

He came not through the chamber where we stay'd.

He alter'd much upon the hearing it.

Exceeding ill.

This apoplexy will certain be his end.

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.

Comfort, your majesty!

No, my good lord; he is in presence here.

I do not know, my lord.

I think he's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.