The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man Prophetically do forethink thy fall.

Back in the cathedral, Irons-as-Henry’s bitter words to Hal chill the air better than the icy breeze from outside: “The hope and expectation of thy time/ Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man/ Prophetically doth forethink thy fall.”

Which by thy younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the court and princes of my blood: The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man Prophetically doth forethink thy fall.