As which shall joy the most in it, that thus
The hours shall fleet unhinder’d o’er our heads
As o’er the shepherd’s gazing on his flock
From out the hawthorn shade. Or what say you,
Were it not fitter pastime to bewail
Our loss of crown and kingdom morn by morn,
Evening by evening, till at last we died
Of grief?
King Henry. Wiser it were to strive to find
What comfort’s left to us.