[50] Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,
And none but women left to wail the dead.
Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:
Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils,
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens!
55 A far more glorious star thy soul will make
[♦] Than Julius Cæsar or bright ——
Enter a Messenger.
[♦] Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all!
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,