What art thou dead, sweet sonne? speak to thy Mother.
O no, his soule is fled from out his breast,
And he nor heares, nor sees us what we doe:
My Lords, what resteth now for to be done?
But that we presently despatch Embassadours
To Poland, to call Henry back againe,
To weare his brothers crowne and dignity.
Epernoune, goe see it presently be done,
And bid him come without delay to us.
