But thou art gloomy, as weighing still thy chance
Against the flocking French. Canst not be merry
If Henry bids thee, Hubert?
Hub. Ah, my lord,
I little thought to have escaped the foe.
Hen. Is that to grieve on, man? By Heaven, I'll think
It would have pleased you better to have sunk
My fleet and not the enemy's. Come, come!
What think you of the fortune we've assigned you?
Art satisfied?