Where is the crown?

King
Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?
Warwick 
When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.
King
The Prince hath ta’en it hence. Go seek him out.
Is he so hasty that he doth suppose my sleep my death?
Find him, my Lord of Warwick. Chide him hither.
 Warwick exits.
This part of his conjoins with my disease
And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are,
How quickly nature falls into revolt
When gold becomes her object!

See, sons, what things you are,
How quickly nature falls into revolt
When gold becomes her object!

For this the foolish overcareful fathers
Have broke their sleep with thoughts,
Their brains with care, their bones with industry.
For this they have engrossèd and piled up
The cankered heaps of strange-achievèd gold.
For this they have been thoughtful to invest
Their sons with arts and martial exercises—
When, like the bee, tolling from every flower
The virtuous sweets,
Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey,
We bring it to the hive and, like the bees,
Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste
Yields his engrossments to the ending father.
 Enter Warwick.
Now where is he that will not stay so long
Till his friend sickness hath determined me?