That want their leader, scatter up and down
[♦] And care not who they sting in his revenge.
Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny,
Until they hear the order of his death.
130 King. That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis too true;
But how he died God knows, not Henry:
Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,
And comment then upon his sudden death.
[♦] War. That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury,
[135] With the rude multitude till I return. [Exit.