A Tent in the French Camp.
 Enter, with DRUM and COLOURS, CORDELIA, DOCTOR, and SOLDIERS

Cordelia	Alack, 'tis he! Why, he was met even now
	As mad as the vexed sea, singing aloud,
	Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds,
	With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,
	Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
	In our sustaining corn. A century send forth;
	Search every acre in the high-grown field,
	And bring him to our eye.
												[Exit a SOLDIER.
								What can man's wisdom
	In the restoring his bereavd sense?
	He that helps him, take all my outward worth.

Doctor	There is means, madam.
	Our foster-nurse of nature is repose,
	The which he lacks; that to provoke in him
	Are many simples operative, whose power
	Will close the eye of anguish.

Cordelia										All blest secrets,
	All you unpublished virtues of the earth,
	Spring with my tears! Be aidant and remediate
	In the good man's distress. Seek, seek for him,
	Lest his ungoverned rage dissolve the life
	That wants the means to lead it.

                            Enter a MESSENGER.

Messenger										News, madam:
	The British powers are marching hitherward.

Cordelia	'Tis known before; our preparation stands
	In expectation of them. O dear father,
	It is thy business that I go about;
	Therefore great France
	My mourning and importuned tears hath pitied.
	No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
	But love, dear love, and our aged father's right.
	Soon may I hear and see him!
												[Exeunt.
