[Exeunt.]

ACT II.

SCENE 1. Paris. A room in the King's palace.

[Flourish. Enter the King, with young LORDS taking leave for the
Florentine war; BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.]

KING.
Farewell, young lord; these war-like principles
Do not throw from you:—and you, my lord, farewell;—
Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,
And is enough for both.

FIRST LORD.
It is our hope, sir,
After well-enter'd soldiers, to return
And find your grace in health.

KING.
No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart
Will not confess he owes the malady
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;
Whether I live or die, be you the sons
Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy,—
Those bated that inherit but the fall
Of the last monarchy,—see that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when
The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,
That fame may cry you aloud: I say farewell.

SECOND LORD.
Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

KING.
Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;
They say our French lack language to deny,
If they demand: beware of being captives
Before you serve.

BOTH.
Our hearts receive your warnings.

KING.
Farewell.—Come hither to me.

[The king retires to a couch.]

FIRST LORD.
O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

PAROLLES.
'Tis not his fault; the spark—