Queen Isabella

York
The King is come. Deal mildly with his youth,
For young hot colts being reined do rage the more.
Queen, to Gaunt
How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?
King Richard, to Gaunt
What comfort, man? How is ’t with agèd Gaunt?

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
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Queen
This way the King will come. This is the way
To Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemnèd lord
Is doomed a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.

Thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard-favored grief be lodged in thee
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

Here let us rest,
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