I shall observe him with all care and love. KING. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas? CLARENCE. He is not there to-day; he dines in London. KING. And how accompanied? Canst thou tell that? CLARENCE. With Poins, and other his continual followers. KING. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds; And he, the noble image of my youth, Is overspread with them; therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death. The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms imaginary, th'unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, When rage and hot blood are his counsellors When means and lavish manners meet together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril and oppos'd decay! WARWICK. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite. The Prince but studies his companions Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language, 'Tis needful that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learnt; which once attain'd, Your Highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The Prince will, in the perfectness of time, Cast off his followers; and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live By which his Grace must mete the lives of other, Turning past evils to advantages. KING. 'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb In the dead carrion. Enter WESTMORELAND Who's here? Westmoreland? WESTMORELAND. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness Added to that that 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 everywhere. The manner how this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your Highness read, With every course in his particular. KING. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Enter HARCOURT