{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/kh41.htm","path":"sks/ff/kh41.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/kh41.htm","text":"with the Life and Death of Henry Sirnamed Hot-Spvrre\nActus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter the King, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of Westmerland,\nwith\nothers.\nKing. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,\nFinde we a time for frighted Peace to pant,\nAnd breath shortwinded accents of new broils\nTo be commenc'd in Stronds a-farre remote:\nNo more the thirsty entrance of this Soile,\nShall daube her lippes with her owne childrens blood:\nNo more shall trenching Warre channell her fields,\nNor bruise her Flowrets with the Armed hoofes\nOf hostile paces. Those opposed eyes,\nWhich like the Meteors of a troubled Heauen,\nAll of one Nature, of one Substance bred,\nDid lately meete in the intestine shocke,\nAnd furious cloze of ciuill Butchery,\nShall now in mutuall well-beseeming rankes\nMarch all one way, and be no more oppos'd\nAgainst Acquaintance, Kindred, and Allies.\nThe edge of Warre, like an ill-sheathed knife,\nNo more shall cut his Master. Therefore Friends,\nAs farre as to the Sepulcher of Christ,\nWhose Souldier now vnder whose blessed Crosse\nWe are impressed and ingag'd to fight,\nForthwith a power of English shall we leuie,\nWhose armes were moulded in their Mothers wombe,\nTo chace these Pagans in those holy Fields,\nOuer whose Acres walk'd those blessed feete\nWhich fourteene hundred yeares ago were nail'd\nFor our aduantage on the bitter Crosse.\nBut this our purpose is a tweluemonth old,\nAnd bootlesse 'tis to tell you we will go:\nTherefore we meete not now. Then let me heare\nOf you my gentle Cousin Westmerland,\nWhat yesternight our Councell did decree,\nIn forwarding this deere expedience\nWest. My Liege: This haste was hot in question,\nAnd many limits of the Charge set downe\nBut yesternight: when all athwart there came\nA Post from Wales, loaden with heauy Newes;\nWhose worst was, That the Noble Mortimer,\nLeading the men of Herefordshire to fight\nAgainst the irregular and wilde Glendower,\nWas by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,\nAnd a thousand of his people butchered:\nVpon whose dead corpes there was such misuse,\nSuch beastly, shamelesse transformation,\nBy those Welshwomen done, as may not be\n(Without much shame) re-told or spoken of\nKing. It seemes then, that the tidings of this broile,\nBrake off our businesse for the Holy land\nWest. This matcht with other like, my gracious Lord,\nFarre more vneuen and vnwelcome Newes\nCame from the North, and thus it did report:\nOn Holy-roode day, the gallant Hotspurre there,\nYoung Harry Percy, and braue Archibald,\nThat euer-valiant and approoued Scot,\nAt Holmeden met, where they did spend\nA sad and bloody houre:\nAs by discharge of their Artillerie,\nAnd shape of likely-hood the newes was told:\nFor he that brought them, in the very heate\nAnd pride of their contention, did take horse,\nVncertaine of the issue any way\nKing. Heere is a deere and true industrious friend,\nSir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his Horse,\nStrain'd with the variation of each soyle,\nBetwixt that Holmedon, and this Seat of ours:\nAnd he hath brought vs smooth and welcome newes.\nThe Earle of Dowglas is discomfited,\nTen thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights\nBalk'd in their owne blood did Sir Walter see\nOn Holmedons Plaines. Of Prisoners, Hotspurre tooke\nMordake Earle of Fife, and eldest sonne\nTo beaten Dowglas, and the Earle of Atholl,\nOf Murry, Angus, and Menteith.\nAnd is not this an honourable spoyle?\nA gallant prize? Ha Cosin, is it not? Infaith it is\nWest. A Conquest for a Prince to boast of\nKing. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, & mak'st me sin,\nIn enuy, that my Lord Northumberland\nShould be the Father of so blest a Sonne:\nA Sonne, who is the Theame of Honors tongue;\nAmong'st a Groue, the very straightest Plant,\nWho is sweet Fortunes Minion, and her Pride:\nWhil'st I by looking on the praise of him,\nSee Ryot and Dishonor staine the brow\nOf my yong Harry. O that it could be prou'd,\nThat some Night-tripping-Faiery, had exchang'd\nIn Cradle-clothes, our Children where they lay,\nAnd call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet:\nThen would I haue his Harry, and he mine:\nBut let him from my thoughts. What thinke you Coze\nOf this young Percies pride? The Prisoners\nWhich he in this aduenture hath surpriz'd,\nTo his owne vse he keepes, and sends me word\nI shall haue none but Mordake Earle of Fife\nWest. This is his Vnckles teaching. This is Worcester\nMaleuolent to you in all Aspects:\nWhich makes him prune himselfe, and bristle vp\nThe crest of Youth against your Dignity\nKing. But I haue sent for him to answer this:\nAnd for this cause a-while we must neglect\nOur holy purpose to Ierusalem.\nCosin, on Wednesday next, our Councell we will hold\nAt Windsor, and so informe the Lords:\nBut come your selfe with speed to vs againe,\nFor more is to be saide, and to be done,\nThen out of anger can be vttered\nWest. I will my Liege.\nExeunt.\nScaena Secunda.\nEnter Henry Prince of Wales, Sir Iohn Falstaffe, and Pointz.\nFal. Now Hal, what time of day is it Lad?\nPrince. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of olde\nSacke, and vnbuttoning thee after Supper, and sleeping\nvpon Benches in the afternoone, that thou hast forgotten\nto demand that truely, which thou wouldest truly know.\nWhat a diuell hast thou to do with the time of the day?\nvnlesse houres were cups of Sacke, and minutes Capons,\nand clockes the tongues of Bawdes, and dialls the signes\nof Leaping-houses, and the blessed Sunne himselfe a faire\nhot Wench in Flame-coloured Taffata; I see no reason,\nwhy thou shouldest bee so superfluous, to demaund the\ntime of the day\nFal. Indeed you come neere me now Hal, for we that\ntake Purses, go by the Moone and seuen Starres, and not\nby Phoebus hee, that wand'ring Knight so faire. And I\nprythee sweet Wagge, when thou art King, as God saue\nthy Grace, Maiesty I should say, for Grace thou wilte\nhaue none\nPrin. What, none?\nFal. No, not so much as will serue to be Prologue to\nan Egge and Butter\nPrin. Well, how then? Come roundly, roundly\nFal. Marry then, sweet Wagge, when thou art King,\nlet not vs that are Squires of the Nights bodie, bee call'd\nTheeues of the Dayes beautie. Let vs be Dianaes Forresters,\nGentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moone;\nand let men say, we be men of good Gouernment, being\ngouerned as the Sea, by our noble and chast mistris the\nMoone, vnder whose countenance we steale\nPrin. Thou say'st well, and it holds well too: for the\nfortune of vs that are the Moones men, doeth ebbe and\nflow like the Sea, beeing gouerned as the Sea is, by the\nMoone: as for proofe. Now a Purse of Gold most resolutely\nsnatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely\nspent on Tuesday Morning; got with swearing, Lay by:\nand spent with crying, Bring in: now, in as low an ebbe\nas the foot of the Ladder, and by and by in as high a flow\nas the ridge of the Gallowes\nFal. Thou say'st true Lad: and is not my Hostesse of\nthe Tauerne a most sweet Wench?\nPrin. As is the hony, my old Lad of the Castle: and is\nnot a Buffe Ierkin a most sweet robe of durance?\nFal. How now? how now mad Wagge? What in thy\nquips and thy quiddities? What a plague haue I to doe\nwith a Buffe-Ierkin?\nPrin. Why, what a poxe haue I to doe with my Hostesse\nof the Tauerne?\nFal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reck'ning many a\ntime and oft\nPrin. Did I euer call for thee to pay thy part?\nFal. No, Ile giue thee thy due, thou hast paid al there\nPrin. Yea and elsewhere, so farre as my Coine would\nstretch, and where it would not, I haue vs'd my credit\nFal. Yea, and so vs'd it, that were it heere apparant,\nthat thou art Heire apparant. But I prythee sweet Wag,\nshall there be Gallowes standing in England when thou\nart King? and resolution thus fobb'd as it is, with the rustie\ncurbe of old Father Anticke the Law? Doe not thou\nwhen thou art a King, hang a Theefe\nPrin. No, thou shalt\nFal. Shall I? O rare! Ile be a braue Iudge\nPrin. Thou iudgest false already. I meane, thou shalt\nhaue the hanging of the Theeues, and so become a rare\nHangman\nFal. Well Hal, well: and in some sort it iumpes with\nmy humour, as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell\nyou\nPrin. For obtaining of suites?\nFal. Yea, for obtaining of suites, whereof the Hangman\nhath no leane Wardrobe. I am as Melancholly as a\nGyb-Cat, or a lugg'd Beare\nPrin. Or an old Lyon, or a Louers Lute\nFal. Yea, or the Drone of a Lincolnshire Bagpipe\nPrin. What say'st thou to a Hare, or the Melancholly\nof Moore Ditch?\nFal. Thou hast the most vnsauoury smiles, and art indeed\nthe most comparatiue rascallest sweet yong Prince.\nBut Hal, I prythee trouble me no more with vanity, I wold\nthou and I knew, where a Commodity of good names\nwere to be bought: an olde Lord of the Councell rated\nme the other day in the street about you sir; but I mark'd\nhim not, and yet hee talk'd very wisely, but I regarded\nhim not, and yet he talkt wisely, and in the street too\nPrin. Thou didst well: for no man regards it\nFal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeede\nable to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harme vnto\nme Hall, God forgiue thee for it. Before I knew thee\nHal, I knew nothing: and now I am (if a man shold speake\ntruly) little better then one of the wicked. I must giue ouer\nthis life, and I will giue it ouer: and I do not, I am a\nVillaine. Ile be damn'd for neuer a Kings sonne in Christendome\nPrin. Where shall we take a purse to morrow, Iacke?\nFal. Where thou wilt Lad, Ile make one: and I doe\nnot, call me Villaine, and baffle me\nPrin. I see a good amendment of life in thee: From\nPraying, to Purse-taking\nFal. Why, Hal, 'tis my Vocation Hal: 'Tis no sin for a\nman to labour in his Vocation\nPointz. Now shall wee know if Gads hill haue set a\nWatch. O, if men were to be saued by merit, what hole\nin Hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent\nVillaine, that euer cryed, Stand, to a true man\nPrin. Good morrow Ned\nPoines. Good morrow sweet Hal. What saies Monsieur\nremorse? What sayes Sir Iohn Sacke and Sugar:\nIacke? How agrees the Diuell and thee about thy Soule,\nthat thou soldest him on Good-Friday last, for a Cup of\nMadera, and a cold Capons legge?\nPrin. Sir Iohn stands to his word, the diuel shall haue\nhis bargaine, for he was neuer yet a Breaker of Prouerbs:\nHe will giue the diuell his due\nPoin. Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with\nthe diuell\nPrin. Else he had damn'd cozening the diuell\nPoy. But my Lads, my Lads, to morrow morning, by\nfoure a clocke early at Gads hill, there are Pilgrimes going\nto Canterbury with rich Offerings, and Traders riding\nto London with fat Purses. I haue vizards for you\nall; you haue horses for your selues: Gads-hill lyes to\nnight in Rochester, I haue bespoke Supper to morrow in\nEastcheape; we may doe it as secure as sleepe: if you will\ngo, I will stuffe your Purses full of Crownes: if you will\nnot, tarry at home and be hang'd\nFal. Heare ye Yedward, if I tarry at home and go not,\nIle hang you for going\nPoy. You will chops\nFal. Hal, wilt thou make one?\nPrin. Who, I rob? I a Theefe? Not I\nFal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship\nin thee, nor thou cam'st not of the blood-royall,\nif thou dar'st not stand for ten shillings\nPrin. Well then, once in my dayes Ile be a mad-cap\nFal. Why, that's well said\nPrin. Well, come what will, Ile tarry at home\nFal. Ile be a Traitor then, when thou art King\nPrin. I care not\nPoyn. Sir Iohn, I prythee leaue the Prince & me alone,\nI will lay him downe such reasons for this aduenture, that\nhe shall go\nFal. Well, maist thou haue the Spirit of perswasion;\nand he the eares of profiting, that what thou speakest,\nmay moue; and what he heares may be beleeued, that the\ntrue Prince, may (for recreation sake) proue a false theefe;\nfor the poore abuses of the time, want countenance. Farwell,\nyou shall finde me in Eastcheape\nPrin. Farwell the latter Spring. Farewell Alhollown\nSummer\nPoy. Now, my good sweet Hony Lord, ride with vs\nto morrow. I haue a iest to execute, that I cannot mannage\nalone. Falstaffe, Haruey, Rossill, and Gads-hill, shall\nrobbe those men that wee haue already way-layde, your\nselfe and I, wil not be there: and when they haue the booty,\nif you and I do not rob them, cut this head from my\nshoulders\nPrin. But how shal we part with them in setting forth?\nPoyn. Why, we wil set forth before or after them, and\nappoint them a place of meeting, wherin it is at our pleasure\nto faile; and then will they aduenture vppon the exploit\nthemselues, which they shall haue no sooner atchieued,\nbut wee'l set vpon them\nPrin. I, but tis like that they will know vs by our\nhorses, by our habits, and by euery other appointment to\nbe our selues\nPoy. Tut our horses they shall not see, Ile tye them in\nthe wood, our vizards wee will change after wee leaue\nthem: and sirrah, I haue Cases of Buckram for the nonce,\nto immaske our noted outward garments\nPrin. But I doubt they will be too hard for vs\nPoin. Well, for two of them, I know them to bee as\ntrue bred Cowards as euer turn'd backe: and for the third\nif he fight longer then he sees reason, Ile forswear Armes.\nThe vertue of this Iest will be, the incomprehensible lyes\nthat this fat Rogue will tell vs, when we meete at Supper:\nhow thirty at least he fought with, what Wardes, what\nblowes, what extremities he endured; and in the reproofe\nof this, lyes the iest\nPrin. Well, Ile goe with thee, prouide vs all things\nnecessary, and meete me to morrow night in Eastcheape,\nthere Ile sup. Farewell\nPoyn. Farewell, my Lord.\nExit Pointz\nPrin. I know you all, and will a-while vphold\nThe vnyoak'd humor of your idlenesse:\nYet heerein will I imitate the Sunne,\nWho doth permit the base contagious cloudes\nTo smother vp his Beauty from the world,\nThat when he please againe to be himselfe,\nBeing wanted, he may be more wondred at,\nBy breaking through the foule and vgly mists\nOf vapours, that did seeme to strangle him.\nIf all the yeare were playing holidaies,\nTo sport, would be as tedious as to worke;\nBut when they seldome come, they wisht-for come,\nAnd nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.\nSo when this loose behauiour I throw off,\nAnd pay the debt I neuer promised;\nBy how much better then my word I am,\nBy so much shall I falsifie mens hopes,\nAnd like bright Mettall on a sullen ground:\nMy reformation glittering o're my fault,\nShall shew more goodly, and attract more eyes,\nThen that which hath no foyle to set it off.\nIle so offend, to make offence a skill,\nRedeeming time, when men thinke least I will.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspurre, Sir Walter\nBlunt,\nand others.\nKing. My blood hath beene too cold and temperate,\nVnapt to stirre at these indignities,\nAnd you haue found me; for accordingly,\nYou tread vpon my patience: But be sure,\nI will from henceforth rather be my Selfe,\nMighty, and to be fear'd, then my condition\nWhich hath beene smooth as Oyle, soft as yong Downe,\nAnd therefore lost that Title of respect,\nWhich the proud soule ne're payes, but to the proud\nWor. Our house (my Soueraigne Liege) little deserues\nThe scourge of greatnesse to be vsed on it,\nAnd that same greatnesse too, which our owne hands\nHaue holpe to make so portly\nNor. My Lord\nKing. Worcester get thee gone: for I do see\nDanger and disobedience in thine eye.\nO sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,\nAnd Maiestie might neuer yet endure\nThe moody Frontier of a seruant brow,\nYou haue good leaue to leaue vs. When we need\nYour vse and counsell, we shall send for you.\nYou were about to speake\nNorth. Yea, my good Lord.\nThose Prisoners in your Highnesse demanded,\nWhich Harry Percy heere at Holmedon tooke,\nWere (as he sayes) not with such strength denied\nAs was deliuered to your Maiesty:\nWho either through enuy, or misprision,\nWas guilty of this fault; and not my Sonne\nHot. My Liege, I did deny no Prisoners.\nBut, I remember when the fight was done,\nWhen I was dry with Rage, and extreame Toyle,\nBreathlesse, and Faint, leaning vpon my Sword,\nCame there a certaine Lord, neat and trimly drest;\nFresh as a Bride-groome, and his Chin new reapt,\nShew'd like a stubble Land at Haruest home.\nHe was perfumed like a Milliner,\nAnd 'twixt his Finger and his Thumbe, he held\nA Pouncet-box: which euer and anon\nHe gaue his Nose, and took't away againe:\nWho therewith angry, when it next came there,\nTooke it in Snuffe. And still he smil'd and talk'd:\nAnd as the Souldiers bare dead bodies by,\nHe call'd them vntaught Knaues, Vnmannerly,\nTo bring a slouenly vnhandsome Coarse\nBetwixt the Winde, and his Nobility.\nWith many Holiday and Lady tearme\nHe question'd me: Among the rest, demanded\nMy Prisoners, in your Maiesties behalfe.\nI then, all-smarting, with my wounds being cold,\n(To be so pestered with a Popingay)\nOut of my Greefe, and my Impatience,\nAnswer'd (neglectingly) I know not what,\nHe should, or should not: For he made me mad,\nTo see him shine so briske, and smell so sweet,\nAnd talke so like a Waiting-Gentlewoman,\nOf Guns, & Drums, and Wounds: God saue the marke;\nAnd telling me, the Soueraign'st thing on earth\nWas Parmacity, for an inward bruise:\nAnd that it was great pitty, so it was,\nThat villanous Salt-peter should be digg'd\nOut of the Bowels of the harmlesse Earth,\nWhich many a good Tall Fellow had destroy'd\nSo Cowardly. And but for these vile Gunnes,\nHe would himselfe haue beene a Souldier.\nThis bald, vnioynted Chat of his (my Lord)\nMade me to answer indirectly (as I said.)\nAnd I beseech you, let not this report\nCome currant for an Accusation,\nBetwixt my Loue, and your high Maiesty\nBlunt. The circumstance considered, good my Lord,\nWhat euer Harry Percie then had said,\nTo such a person, and in such a place,\nAt such a time, with all the rest retold,\nMay reasonably dye, and neuer rise\nTo do him wrong, or any way impeach\nWhat then he said, so he vnsay it now\nKing. Why yet doth deny his Prisoners,\nBut with Prouiso and Exception,\nThat we at our owne charge, shall ransome straight\nHis Brother-in-Law, the foolish Mortimer,\nWho (in my soule) hath wilfully betraid\nThe liues of those, that he did leade to Fight,\nAgainst the great Magitian, damn'd Glendower:\nWhose daughter (as we heare) the Earle of March\nHath lately married. Shall our Coffers then,\nBe emptied, to redeeme a Traitor home?\nShall we buy Treason? and indent with Feares,\nWhen they haue lost and forfeyted themselues.\nNo: on the barren Mountaine let him sterue:\nFor I shall neuer hold that man my Friend,\nWhose tongue shall aske me for one peny cost\nTo ransome home reuolted Mortimer\nHot. Reuolted Mortimer?\nHe neuer did fall off, my Soueraigne Liege,\nBut by the chance of Warre: to proue that true,\nNeeds no more but one tongue. For all those Wounds,\nThose mouthed Wounds, which valiantly he tooke,\nWhen on the gentle Seuernes siedgie banke,\nIn single Opposition hand to hand,\nHe did confound the best part of an houre\nIn changing hardiment with great Glendower:\nThree times they breath'd, and three times did they drink\nVpon agreement, of swift Seuernes flood;\nWho then affrighted with their bloody lookes,\nRan fearefully among the trembling Reeds,\nAnd hid his crispe-head in the hollow banke,\nBlood-stained with these Valiant Combatants.\nNeuer did base and rotten Policy\nColour her working with such deadly wounds;\nNor neuer could the Noble Mortimer\nReceiue so many, and all willingly:\nThen let him not be sland'red with Reuolt\nKing. Thou do'st bely him Percy, thou dost bely him;\nHe neuer did encounter with Glendower:\nI tell thee, he durst as well haue met the diuell alone,\nAs Owen Glendower for an enemy.\nArt thou not asham'd? But Sirrah, henceforth\nLet me not heare you speake of Mortimer.\nSend me your Prisoners with the speediest meanes,\nOr you shall heare in such a kinde from me\nAs will displease ye. My Lord Northumberland,\nWe License your departure with your sonne,\nSend vs your Prisoners, or you'l heare of it.\nExit King.\nHot. And if the diuell come and roare for them\nI will not send them. I will after straight\nAnd tell him so: for I will ease my heart,\nAlthough it be with hazard of my head\nNor. What? drunke with choller? stay & pause awhile,\nHeere comes your Vnckle.\nEnter Worcester.\nHot. Speake of Mortimer?\nYes, I will speake of him, and let my soule\nWant mercy, if I do not ioyne with him.\nIn his behalfe, Ile empty all these Veines,\nAnd shed my deere blood drop by drop i'th dust,\nBut I will lift the downfall Mortimer\nAs high i'th Ayre, as this Vnthankfull King,\nAs this Ingrate and Cankred Bullingbrooke\nNor. Brother, the King hath made your Nephew mad\nWor. Who strooke this heate vp after I was gone?\nHot. He will (forsooth) haue all my Prisoners:\nAnd when I vrg'd the ransom once againe\nOf my Wiues Brother, then his cheeke look'd pale,\nAnd on my face he turn'd an eye of death,\nTrembling euen at the name of Mortimer\nWor. I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim'd\nBy Richard that dead is, the next of blood?\nNor. He was: I heard the Proclamation,\nAnd then it was, when the vnhappy King\n(Whose wrongs in vs God pardon) did set forth\nVpon his Irish Expedition:\nFrom whence he intercepted, did returne\nTo be depos'd, and shortly murthered\nWor. And for whose death, we in the worlds wide mouth\nLiue scandaliz'd, and fouly spoken of\nHot. But soft I pray you; did King Richard then\nProclaime my brother Mortimer,\nHeyre to the Crowne?\nNor. He did, my selfe did heare it\nHot. Nay then I cannot blame his Cousin King,\nThat wish'd him on the barren Mountaines staru'd.\nBut shall it be, that you that set the Crowne\nVpon the head of this forgetfull man,\nAnd for his sake, wore the detested blot\nOf murtherous subornation? Shall it be,\nThat you a world of curses vndergoe,\nBeing the Agents, or base second meanes,\nThe Cords, the Ladder, or the Hangman rather?\nO pardon, if that I descend so low,\nTo shew the Line, and the Predicament\nWherein you range vnder this subtill King.\nShall it for shame, be spoken in these dayes,\nOr fill vp Chronicles in time to come,\nThat men of your Nobility and Power,\nDid gage them both in an vniust behalfe\n(As Both of you, God pardon it, haue done)\nTo put downe Richard, that sweet louely Rose,\nAnd plant this Thorne, this Canker Bullingbrooke?\nAnd shall it in more shame be further spoken,\nThat you are fool'd, discarded, and shooke off\nBy him, for whom these shames ye vnderwent?\nNo: yet time serues, wherein you may redeeme\nYour banish'd Honors, and restore your selues\nInto the good Thoughts of the world againe.\nReuenge the geering and disdain'd contempt\nOf this proud King, who studies day and night\nTo answer all the Debt he owes vnto you,\nEuen with the bloody Payment of your deaths:\nTherefore I say-\nWor. Peace Cousin, say no more.\nAnd now I will vnclaspe a Secret booke,\nAnd to your quicke conceyuing Discontents,\nIle reade you Matter, deepe and dangerous,\nAs full of perill and aduenturous Spirit,\nAs to o're-walke a Current, roaring loud\nOn the vnstedfast footing of a Speare\nHot. If he fall in, good night, or sinke or swimme:\nSend danger from the East vnto the West,\nSo Honor crosse it from the North to South,\nAnd let them grapple: The blood more stirres\nTo rowze a Lyon, then to start a Hare\nNor. Imagination of some great exploit,\nDriues him beyond the bounds of Patience\nHot. By heauen, me thinkes it were an easie leap,\nTo plucke bright Honor from the pale-fac'd Moone,\nOr diue into the bottome of the deepe,\nWhere Fadome-line could neuer touch the ground,\nAnd plucke vp drowned Honor by the Lockes:\nSo he that doth redeeme her thence, might weare\nWithout Co-riuall, all her Dignities:\nBut out vpon this halfe-fac'd Fellowship\nWor. He apprehends a World of Figures here,\nBut not the forme of what he should attend:\nGood Cousin giue me audience for a-while,\nAnd list to me\nHot. I cry you mercy\nWor. Those same Noble Scottes\nThat are your Prisoners\nHot. Ile keepe them all.\nBy heauen, he shall not haue a Scot of them:\nNo, if a Scot would saue his Soule, he shall not.\nIle keepe them, by this Hand\nWor. You start away,\nAnd lend no eare vnto my purposes.\nThose Prisoners you shall keepe\nHot. Nay, I will: that's flat:\nHe said, he would not ransome Mortimer:\nForbad my tongue to speake of Mortimer.\nBut I will finde him when he lyes asleepe,\nAnd in his eare, Ile holla Mortimer.\nNay, Ile haue a Starling shall be taught to speake\nNothing but Mortimer, and giue it him,\nTo keepe his anger still in motion\nWor. Heare you Cousin: a word\nHot. All studies heere I solemnly defie,\nSaue how to gall and pinch this Bullingbrooke,\nAnd that same Sword and Buckler Prince of Wales.\nBut that I thinke his Father loues him not,\nAnd would be glad he met with some mischance,\nI would haue poyson'd him with a pot of Ale\nWor. Farewell Kinsman: Ile talke to you\nWhen you are better temper'd to attend\nNor. Why what a Waspe-tongu'd & impatient foole\nArt thou, to breake into this Womans mood,\nTying thine eare to no tongue but thine owne?\nHot. Why look you, I am whipt & scourg'd with rods,\nNetled, and stung with Pismires, when I heare\nOf this vile Politician Bullingbrooke.\nIn Richards time: What de'ye call the place?\nA plague vpon't, it is in Gloustershire:\n'Twas, where the madcap Duke his Vncle kept,\nHis Vncle Yorke, where I first bow'd my knee\nVnto this King of Smiles, this Bullingbrooke:\nWhen you and he came backe from Rauenspurgh\nNor. At Barkley Castle\nHot. You say true:\nWhy what a caudie deale of curtesie,\nThis fawning Grey-hound then did proffer me,\nLooke when his infant Fortune came to age,\nAnd gentle Harry Percy, and kinde Cousin:\nO, the Diuell take such Couzeners, God forgiue me,\nGood Vncle tell your tale, for I haue done\nWor. Nay, if you haue not, too't againe,\nWee'l stay your leysure\nHot. I haue done insooth\nWor. Then once more to your Scottish Prisoners.\nDeliuer them vp without their ransome straight,\nAnd make the Dowglas sonne your onely meane\nFor powres in Scotland: which for diuers reasons\nWhich I shall send you written, be assur'd\nWill easily be granted you, my Lord.\nYour Sonne in Scotland being thus imploy'd,\nShall secretly into the bosome creepe\nOf that same noble Prelate, well belou'd,\nThe Archbishop\nHot. Of Yorke, is't not?\nWor. True, who beares hard\nHis Brothers death at Bristow, the Lord Scroope.\nI speake not this in estimation,\nAs what I thinke might be, but what I know\nIs ruminated, plotted, and set downe,\nAnd onely stayes but to behold the face\nOf that occasion that shall bring it on\nHot. I smell it:\nVpon my life, it will do wond'rous well\nNor. Before the game's a-foot, thou still let'st slip\nHot. Why, it cannot choose but be a Noble plot,\nAnd then the power of Scotland, and of Yorke\nTo ioyne with Mortimer, Ha\nWor. And so they shall\nHot. Infaith it is exceedingly well aym'd\nWor. And 'tis no little reason bids vs speed,\nTo saue our heads, by raising of a Head:\nFor, beare our selues as euen as we can,\nThe King will alwayes thinke him in our debt,\nAnd thinke, we thinke our selues vnsatisfied,\nTill he hath found a time to pay vs home.\nAnd see already, how he doth beginne\nTo make vs strangers to his lookes of loue\nHot. He does, he does; wee'l be reueng'd on him\nWor. Cousin, farewell. No further go in this,\nThen I by Letters shall direct your course\nWhen time is ripe, which will be sodainly:\nIle steale to Glendower, and loe, Mortimer,\nWhere you, and Dowglas, and our powres at once,\nAs I will fashion it, shall happily meete,\nTo beare our fortunes in our owne strong armes,\nWhich now we hold at much vncertainty\nNor. Farewell good Brother, we shall thriue, I trust\nHot. Vncle, adieu: O let the houres be short,\nTill fields, and blowes, and grones, applaud our sport.\nExit\nActus Secundus. Scena Prima.\nEnter a Carrier with a Lanterne in his hand.\n1.Car. Heigh-ho, an't be not foure by the day, Ile be\nhang'd. Charles waine is ouer the new Chimney, and yet\nour horse not packt. What Ostler?\nOst. Anon, anon\n1.Car. I prethee Tom, beate Cuts Saddle, put a few\nFlockes in the point: the poore Iade is wrung in the withers,\nout of all cesse.\nEnter another Carrier.\n2.Car. Pease and Beanes are as danke here as a Dog,\nand this is the next way to giue poore Iades the Bottes:\nThis house is turned vpside downe since Robin the Ostler\ndyed\n1.Car. Poore fellow neuer ioy'd since the price of oats\nrose, it was the death of him\n2.Car. I thinke this is the most villanous house in al\nLondon rode for Fleas: I am stung like a Tench\n1.Car. Like a Tench? There is ne're a King in Christendome,\ncould be better bit, then I haue beene since the\nfirst Cocke\n2.Car. Why, you will allow vs ne're a Iourden, and\nthen we leake in your Chimney: and your Chamber-lye\nbreeds Fleas like a Loach\n1.Car. What Ostler, come away, and be hangd: come\naway\n2.Car. I haue a Gammon of Bacon, and two razes of\nGinger, to be deliuered as farre as Charing-crosse\n1.Car. The Turkies in my Pannier are quite starued.\nWhat Ostler? A plague on thee, hast thou neuer an eye in\nthy head? Can'st not heare? And t'were not as good a\ndeed as drinke, to break the pate of thee, I am a very Villaine.\nCome and be hang'd, hast no faith in thee?\nEnter Gads-hill.\nGad. Good-morrow Carriers. What's a clocke?\nCar. I thinke it be two a clocke\nGad. I prethee lend me thy Lanthorne to see my Gelding\nin the stable\n1.Car. Nay soft I pray ye, I know a trick worth two\nof that\nGad. I prethee lend me thine\n2.Car. I, when, canst tell? Lend mee thy Lanthorne\n(quoth-a) marry Ile see thee hang'd first\nGad. Sirra Carrier: What time do you mean to come\nto London?\n2.Car. Time enough to goe to bed with a Candle, I\nwarrant thee. Come neighbour Mugges, wee'll call vp\nthe Gentlemen, they will along with company, for they\nhaue great charge.\nExeunt.\nEnter Chamberlaine.\nGad. What ho, Chamberlaine?\nCham. At hand quoth Pick-purse\nGad. That's euen as faire, as at hand quoth the Chamberlaine:\nFor thou variest no more from picking of Purses,\nthen giuing direction, doth from labouring. Thou\nlay'st the plot, how\nCham. Good morrow Master Gads-Hill, it holds currant\nthat I told you yesternight. There's a Franklin in the\nwilde of Kent, hath brought three hundred Markes with\nhim in Gold: I heard him tell it to one of his company last\nnight at Supper; a kinde of Auditor, one that hath abundance\nof charge too (God knowes what) they are vp already,\nand call for Egges and Butter. They will away\npresently\nGad. Sirra, if they meete not with S[aint]. Nicholas Clarks,\nIle giue thee this necke\nCham. No, Ile none of it: I prythee keep that for the\nHangman, for I know thou worshipst S[aint]. Nicholas as truly\nas a man of falshood may\nGad. What talkest thou to me of the Hangman? If I\nhang, Ile make a fat payre of Gallowes. For, if I hang,\nold Sir Iohn hangs with mee, and thou know'st hee's no\nStarueling. Tut, there are other Troians that y dream'st\nnot of, the which (for sport sake) are content to doe the\nProfession some grace; that would (if matters should bee\nlook'd into) for their owne Credit sake, make all Whole.\nI am ioyned with no Foot-land-Rakers, No Long-staffe\nsix-penny strikers, none of these mad\nMustachio-purple-hu'd-Maltwormes,\nbut with Nobility, and Tranquilitie;\nBourgomasters, and great Oneyers, such as can holde in,\nsuch as will strike sooner then speake; and speake sooner\nthen drinke, and drinke sooner then pray: and yet I lye,\nfor they pray continually vnto their Saint the Commonwealth;\nor rather, not to pray to her, but prey on her: for\nthey ride vp & downe on her, and make hir their Boots\nCham. What, the Commonwealth their Bootes? Will\nshe hold out water in foule way?\nGad. She will, she will; Iustice hath liquor'd her. We\nsteale as in a Castle, cocksure: we haue the receit of Fernseede,\nwe walke inuisible\nCham. Nay, I thinke rather, you are more beholding\nto the Night, then to the Fernseed, for your walking inuisible\nGad. Giue me thy hand.\nThou shalt haue a share in our purpose,\nAs I am a true man\nCham. Nay, rather let mee haue it, as you are a false\nTheefe\nGad. Goe too: Homo is a common name to all men.\nBid the Ostler bring the Gelding out of the stable. Farewell,\nye muddy Knaue.\nExeunt.\nScaena Secunda.\nEnter Prince, Poynes, and Peto.\nPoines. Come shelter, shelter, I haue remoued Falstafs\nHorse, and he frets like a gum'd Veluet\nPrin. Stand close.\nEnter Falstaffe.\nFal. Poines, Poines, and be hang'd Poines\nPrin. Peace ye fat-kidney'd Rascall, what a brawling\ndost thou keepe\nFal. What Poines. Hal?\nPrin. He is walk'd vp to the top of the hill, Ile go seek\nhim\nFal. I am accurst to rob in that Theefe company: that\nRascall hath remoued my Horse, and tied him I know not\nwhere. If I trauell but foure foot by the squire further a\nfoote, I shall breake my winde. Well, I doubt not but\nto dye a faire death for all this, if I scape hanging for killing\nthat Rogue, I haue forsworne his company hourely\nany time this two and twenty yeare, & yet I am bewitcht\nwith the Rogues company. If the Rascall haue not giuen\nme medicines to make me loue him, Ile be hang'd; it could\nnot be else: I haue drunke Medicines. Poines, Hal, a\nPlague vpon you both. Bardolph, Peto: Ile starue ere I\nrob a foote further. And 'twere not as good a deede as to\ndrinke, to turne True-man, and to leaue these Rogues, I\nam the veriest Varlet that euer chewed with a Tooth.\nEight yards of vneuen ground, is threescore & ten miles\nafoot with me: and the stony-hearted Villaines knowe it\nwell enough. A plague vpon't, when Theeues cannot be\ntrue one to another.\nThey Whistle.\nWhew: a plague light vpon you all. Giue my Horse you\nRogues: giue me my Horse, and be hang'd\nPrin. Peace ye fat guttes, lye downe, lay thine eare\nclose to the ground, and list if thou can heare the tread of\nTrauellers\nFal. Haue you any Leauers to lift me vp again being\ndowne? Ile not beare mine owne flesh so far afoot again,\nfor all the coine in thy Fathers Exchequer. What a plague\nmeane ye to colt me thus?\nPrin. Thou ly'st, thou art not colted, thou art vncolted\nFal. I prethee good Prince Hal, help me to my horse,\ngood Kings sonne\nPrin. Out you Rogue, shall I be your Ostler?\nFal. Go hang thy selfe in thine owne heire-apparant-Garters:\nIf I be tane, Ile peach for this: and I haue not\nBallads made on all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a Cup of\nSacke be my poyson: when a iest is so forward, & a foote\ntoo, I hate it.\nEnter Gads-hill.\nGad. Stand\nFal. So I do against my will\nPoin. O 'tis our Setter, I know his voyce:\nBardolfe, what newes?\nBar. Case ye, case ye; on with your Vizards, there's\nmony of the Kings comming downe the hill, 'tis going\nto the Kings Exchequer\nFal. You lie you rogue, 'tis going to the Kings Tauern\nGad. There's enough to make vs all\nFal. To be hang'd\nPrin. You foure shall front them in the narrow Lane:\nNed and I, will walke lower; if they scape from your encounter,\nthen they light on vs\nPeto. But how many be of them?\nGad. Some eight or ten\nFal. Will they not rob vs?\nPrin. What, a Coward Sir Iohn Paunch?\nFal. Indeed I am not Iohn of Gaunt your Grandfather;\nbut yet no Coward, Hal\nPrin. Wee'l leaue that to the proofe\nPoin. Sirra Iacke, thy horse stands behinde the hedg,\nwhen thou need'st him, there thou shalt finde him. Farewell,\nand stand fast\nFal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd\nPrin. Ned, where are our disguises?\nPoin. Heere hard by: Stand close\nFal. Now my Masters, happy man be his dole, say I:\neuery man to his businesse.\nEnter Trauellers\nTra. Come Neighbor: the boy shall leade our Horses\ndowne the hill: Wee'l walke a-foot a while, and ease our\nLegges\nTheeues. Stay\nTra. Iesu blesse vs\nFal. Strike down with them, cut the villains throats;\na whorson Caterpillars: Bacon-fed Knaues, they hate vs\nyouth; downe with them, fleece them\nTra. O, we are vndone, both we and ours for euer\nFal. Hang ye gorbellied knaues, are you vndone? No\nye Fat Chuffes, I would your store were heere. On Bacons,\non, what ye knaues? Yong men must liue, you are\nGrand Iurers, are ye? Wee'l iure ye ifaith.\nHeere they rob them, and binde them. Enter the Prince and Poines.\nPrin. The Theeues haue bound the True-men: Now\ncould thou and I rob the Theeues, and go merily to London,\nit would be argument for a Weeke, Laughter for a\nMoneth, and a good iest for euer\nPoynes. Stand close, I heare them comming.\nEnter Theeues againe.\nFal. Come my Masters, let vs share, and then to horsse\nbefore day: and the Prince and Poynes bee not two arrand\nCowards, there's no equity stirring. There's no moe\nvalour in that Poynes, than in a wilde Ducke\nPrin. Your money\nPoin. Villaines.\nAs they are sharing, the Prince and Poynes set vpon them. They all\nrun\naway, leauing the booty behind them.\nPrince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to Horse:\nThe Theeues are scattred, and possest with fear so strongly,\nthat they dare not meet each other: each takes his fellow\nfor an Officer. Away good Ned, Falstaffe sweates to\ndeath, and Lards the leane earth as he walkes along: wer't\nnot for laughing, I should pitty him\nPoin. How the Rogue roar'd.\nExeunt.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter Hotspurre solus, reading a Letter.\nBut for mine owne part, my Lord. I could bee well contented to\nbe there, in respect of the loue I beare your house.\nHe could be contented: Why is he not then? in respect of\nthe loue he beares our house. He shewes in this, he loues\nhis owne Barne better then he loues our house. Let me\nsee some more. The purpose you vndertake is dangerous.\nWhy that's certaine: 'Tis dangerous to take a Colde, to\nsleepe, to drinke: but I tell you (my Lord foole) out of\nthis Nettle, Danger; we plucke this Flower, Safety. The\npurpose you vndertake is dangerous, the Friends you haue named\nvncertaine, the Time it selfe vnsorted, and your whole\nPlot too light, for the counterpoize of so great an Opposition.\nSay you so, say you so: I say vnto you againe, you are a\nshallow cowardly Hinde, and you Lye. What a lackebraine\nis this? I protest, our plot is as good a plot as euer\nwas laid; our Friend true and constant: A good Plotte,\ngood Friends, and full of expectation: An excellent plot,\nvery good Friends. What a Frosty-spirited rogue is this?\nWhy, my Lord of Yorke commends the plot, and the\ngenerall course of the action. By this hand, if I were now\nby this Rascall, I could braine him with his Ladies Fan.\nIs there not my Father, my Vncle, and my Selfe, Lord\nEdmund Mortimer, my Lord of Yorke, and Owen Glendour?\nIs there not besides, the Dowglas? Haue I not all their letters,\nto meete me in Armes by the ninth of the next Moneth?\nand are they not some of them set forward already?\nWhat a Pagan Rascall is this? An Infidell. Ha, you shall\nsee now in very sincerity of Feare and Cold heart, will he\nto the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could\ndiuide my selfe, and go to buffets, for mouing such a dish\nof skim'd Milk with so honourable an Action. Hang him,\nlet him tell the King we are prepared. I will set forwards\nto night.\nEnter his Lady.\nHow now Kate, I must leaue you within these two hours\nLa. O my good Lord, why are you thus alone?\nFor what offence haue I this fortnight bin\nA banish'd woman from my Harries bed?\nTell me (sweet Lord) what is't that takes from thee\nThy stomacke, pleasure, and thy golden sleepe?\nWhy dost thou bend thine eyes vpon the earth?\nAnd start so often when thou sitt'st alone?\nWhy hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheekes?\nAnd giuen my Treasures and my rights of thee,\nTo thicke-ey'd musing, and curst melancholly?\nIn my faint-slumbers, I by thee haue watcht,\nAnd heard thee murmore tales of Iron Warres:\nSpeake tearmes of manage to thy bounding Steed,\nCry courage to the field. And thou hast talk'd\nOf Sallies, and Retires; Trenches, Tents,\nOf Palizadoes, Frontiers, Parapets,\nOf Basiliskes, of Canon, Culuerin,\nOf Prisoners ransome, and of Souldiers slaine,\nAnd all the current of a headdy fight.\nThy spirit within thee hath beene so at Warre,\nAnd thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleepe,\nThat beds of sweate hath stood vpon thy Brow,\nLike bubbles in a late-disturbed Streame;\nAnd in thy face strange motions haue appear'd,\nSuch as we see when men restraine their breath\nOn some great sodaine hast. O what portents are these?\nSome heauie businesse hath my Lord in hand,\nAnd I must know it: else he loues me not\nHot. What ho; Is Gilliams with the Packet gone?\nSer. He is my Lord, an houre agone\nHot. Hath Butler brought those horses fro[m] the Sheriffe?\nSer. One horse, my Lord, he brought euen now\nHot. What Horse? A Roane, a crop eare, is it not\nSer. It is my Lord\nHot. That Roane shall be my Throne. Well, I will\nbacke him straight. Esperance, bid Butler lead him forth\ninto the Parke\nLa. But heare you, my lord\nHot. What say'st thou my Lady?\nLa. What is it carries you away?\nHot. Why, my horse (my Loue) my horse\nLa. Out you mad-headed Ape, a Weazell hath not\nsuch a deale of Spleene, as you are tost with. In sooth Ile\nknow your businesse Harry, that I will. I feare my Brother\nMortimer doth stirre about his Title, and hath sent\nfor you to line his enterprize. But if you go-\nHot. So farre a foot, I shall be weary, Loue\nLa. Come, come, you Paraquito, answer me directly\nvnto this question, that I shall aske. Indeede Ile breake\nthy little finger Harry, if thou wilt not tel me true\nHot. Away, away you trifler: Loue, I loue thee not,\nI care not for thee Kate: this is no world\nTo play with Mammets, and to tilt with lips.\nWe must haue bloodie Noses, and crack'd Crownes,\nAnd passe them currant too. Gods me, my horse.\nWhat say'st thou Kate? what wold'st thou haue with me?\nLa. Do ye not loue me? Do ye not indeed?\nWell, do not then. For since you loue me not,\nI will not loue my selfe. Do you not loue me?\nNay, tell me if thou speak'st in iest, or no\nHot. Come, wilt thou see me ride?\nAnd when I am a horsebacke, I will sweare\nI loue thee infinitely. But hearke you Kate,\nI must not haue you henceforth, question me,\nWhether I go: nor reason whereabout.\nWhether I must, I must: and to conclude,\nThis Euening must I leaue thee, gentle Kate.\nI know you wise, but yet no further wise\nThen Harry Percies wife. Constant you are,\nBut yet a woman: and for secrecie,\nNo Lady closer. For I will beleeue\nThou wilt not vtter what thou do'st not know,\nAnd so farre wilt I trust thee, gentle Kate\nLa. How so farre?\nHot. Not an inch further. But harke you Kate,\nWhither I go, thither shall you go too:\nTo day will I set forth, to morrow you.\nWill this content you Kate?\nLa. It must of force.\nExeunt.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Prince and Poines.\nPrin. Ned, prethee come out of that fat roome, & lend\nme thy hand to laugh a little\nPoines. Where hast bene Hall?\nPrin. With three or foure Logger-heads, amongst 3.\nor fourescore Hogsheads. I haue sounded the verie base\nstring of humility. Sirra, I am sworn brother to a leash of\nDrawers, and can call them by their names, as Tom, Dicke,\nand Francis. They take it already vpon their confidence,\nthat though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King\nof Curtesie: telling me flatly I am no proud Iack like Falstaffe,\nbut a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy, and\nwhen I am King of England, I shall command al the good\nLaddes in East-cheape. They call drinking deepe, dying\nScarlet; and when you breath in your watering, then\nthey cry hem, and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am\nso good a proficient in one quarter of an houre, that I can\ndrinke with any Tinker in his owne Language during my\nlife. I tell thee Ned, thou hast lost much honor, that thou\nwer't not with me in this action: but sweet Ned, to sweeten\nwhich name of Ned, I giue thee this peniworth of Sugar,\nclapt euen now into my hand by an vnder Skinker,\none that neuer spake other English in his life, then Eight\nshillings and six pence, and, You are welcome: with this shril\naddition, Anon, Anon sir, Score a Pint of Bastard in the\nHalfe Moone, or so. But Ned, to driue away time till Falstaffe\ncome, I prythee doe thou stand in some by-roome,\nwhile I question my puny Drawer, to what end hee gaue\nme the Sugar, and do neuer leaue calling Francis, that his\nTale to me may be nothing but, Anon: step aside, and Ile\nshew thee a President\nPoines. Francis\nPrin. Thou art perfect\nPoin. Francis.\nEnter Drawer.\nFran. Anon, anon sir; looke downe into the Pomgarnet,\nRalfe\nPrince. Come hither Francis\nFran. My Lord\nPrin. How long hast thou to serue, Francis?\nFran. Forsooth fiue yeares, and as much as to-\nPoin. Francis\nFran. Anon, anon sir\nPrin. Fiue yeares: Berlady a long Lease for the clinking\nof Pewter. But Francis, darest thou be so valiant, as\nto play the coward with thy Indenture, & show it a faire\npaire of heeles, and run from it?\nFran. O Lord sir, Ile be sworne vpon all the Books in\nEngland, I could finde in my heart\nPoin. Francis\nFran. Anon, anon sir\nPrin. How old art thou, Francis?\nFran. Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shalbe-\nPoin. Francis\nFran. Anon sir, pray you stay a little, my Lord\nPrin. Nay but harke you Francis, for the Sugar thou\ngauest me, 'twas a penyworth, was't not?\nFran. O Lord sir, I would it had bene two\nPrin. I will giue thee for it a thousand pound: Aske\nme when thou wilt, and thou shalt haue it\nPoin. Francis\nFran. Anon, anon\nPrin. Anon Francis? No Francis, but to morrow Francis:\nor Francis, on thursday: or indeed Francis when thou\nwilt. But Francis\nFran. My Lord\nPrin. Wilt thou rob this Leatherne Ierkin, Christall\nbutton, Not-pated, Agat ring, Puke stocking, Caddice\ngarter, Smooth tongue, Spanish pouch\nFran. O Lord sir, who do you meane?\nPrin. Why then your browne Bastard is your onely\ndrinke: for looke you Francis, your white Canuas doublet\nwill sulley. In Barbary sir, it cannot come to so much\nFran. What sir?\nPoin. Francis\nPrin. Away you Rogue, dost thou heare them call?\nHeere they both call him, the Drawer stands amazed, not knowing\nwhich way\nto go.\nEnter Vintner.\nVint. What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling?\nLooke to the Guests within: My Lord, olde Sir\nIohn with halfe a dozen more, are at the doore: shall I let\nthem in?\nPrin. Let them alone awhile, and then open the doore.\nPoines.\nEnter Poines.\nPoin. Anon, anon sir\nPrin. Sirra, Falstaffe and the rest of the Theeues, are at\nthe doore, shall we be merry?\nPoin. As merrie as Crickets my Lad. But harke yee,\nWhat cunning match haue you made this iest of the\nDrawer? Come, what's the issue?\nPrin. I am now of all humors, that haue shewed themselues\nhumors, since the old dayes of goodman Adam, to\nthe pupill age of this present twelue a clock at midnight.\nWhat's a clocke Francis?\nFran. Anon, anon sir\nPrin. That euer this Fellow should haue fewer words\nthen a Parret, and yet the sonne of a Woman. His industry\nis vp-staires and down-staires, his eloquence the parcell\nof a reckoning. I am not yet of Percies mind, the Hotspurre\nof the North, he that killes me some sixe or seauen\ndozen of Scots at a Breakfast, washes his hands, and saies\nto his wife; Fie vpon this quiet life, I want worke. O my\nsweet Harry sayes she, how many hast thou kill'd to day?\nGiue my Roane horse a drench (sayes hee) and answeres,\nsome fourteene, an houre after: a trifle, a trifle. I prethee\ncall in Falstaffe, Ile play Percy, and that damn'd Brawne\nshall play Dame Mortimer his wife. Riuo, sayes the drunkard.\nCall in Ribs, call in Tallow.\nEnter Falstaffe.\nPoin. Welcome Iacke, where hast thou beene?\nFal. A plague of all Cowards I say, and a Vengeance\ntoo, marry and Amen. Giue me a cup of Sacke Boy. Ere\nI leade this life long, Ile sowe nether stockes, and mend\nthem too. A plague of all cowards. Giue me a Cup of\nSacke, Rogue. Is there no Vertue extant?\nPrin. Didst thou neuer see Titan kisse a dish of Butter,\npittifull hearted Titan that melted at the sweete Tale of\nthe Sunne? If thou didst, then behold that compound\nFal. You Rogue, heere's Lime in this Sacke too: there\nis nothing but Roguery to be found in Villanous man; yet\na Coward is worse then a Cup of Sack with lime. A villanous\nCoward, go thy wayes old Iacke, die when thou\nwilt, if manhood, good manhood be not forgot vpon the\nface of the earth, then am I a shotten Herring: there liues\nnot three good men vnhang'd in England, & one of them\nis fat, and growes old, God helpe the while, a bad world I\nsay. I would I were a Weauer, I could sing all manner of\nsongs. A plague of all Cowards, I say still\nPrin. How now Woolsacke, what mutter you?\nFal. A Kings Sonne? If I do not beate thee out of thy\nKingdome with a dagger of Lath, and driue all thy Subiects\nafore thee like a flocke of Wilde-geese, Ile neuer\nweare haire on my face more. You Prince of Wales?\nPrin. Why you horson round man? what's the matter?\nFal. Are you not a Coward? Answer me to that, and\nPoines there?\nPrin. Ye fat paunch, and yee call mee Coward, Ile\nstab thee\nFal. I call thee Coward? Ile see thee damn'd ere I call\nthe Coward: but I would giue a thousand pound I could\nrun as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the\nshoulders, you care not who sees your backe: Call you\nthat backing of your friends? a plague vpon such backing:\ngiue me them that will face me. Giue me a Cup\nof Sack, I am a Rogue if I drunke to day\nPrin. O Villaine, thy Lippes are scarce wip'd, since\nthou drunk'st last\nFalst. All's one for that.\nHe drinkes.\nA plague of all Cowards still, say I\nPrince. What's the matter?\nFalst. What's the matter? here be foure of vs, haue\nta'ne a thousand pound this Morning\nPrince. Where is it, Iack? where is it?\nFalst. Where is it? taken from vs, it is: a hundred\nvpon poore foure of vs\nPrince. What, a hundred, man?\nFalst. I am a Rogue, if I were not at halfe Sword with\na dozen of them two houres together. I haue scaped by\nmiracle. I am eight times thrust through the Doublet,\nfoure through the Hose, my Buckler cut through and\nthrough, my Sword hackt like a Hand-saw, ecce signum.\nI neuer dealt better since I was a man: all would not doe.\nA plague of all Cowards: let them speake; if they speake\nmore or lesse then truth, they are villaines, and the sonnes\nof darknesse\nPrince. Speake sirs, how was it?\nGad. We foure set vpon some dozen\nFalst. Sixteene, at least, my Lord\nGad. And bound them\nPeto. No, no, they were not bound\nFalst. You Rogue, they were bound, euery man of\nthem, or I am a Iew else, an Ebrew Iew\nGad. As we were sharing, some sixe or seuen fresh men\nset vpon vs\nFalst. And vnbound the rest, and then come in the\nother\nPrince. What, fought yee with them all?\nFalst. All? I know not what yee call all: but if I\nfought not with fiftie of them, I am a bunch of Radish:\nif there were not two or three and fiftie vpon poore olde\nIack, then am I no two-legg'd Creature\nPoin. Pray Heauen, you haue not murthered some of\nthem\nFalst. Nay, that's past praying for, I haue pepper'd\ntwo of them: Two I am sure I haue payed, two Rogues\nin Buckrom Sutes. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a\nLye, spit in my face, call me Horse: thou knowest my olde\nword: here I lay, and thus I bore my point; foure Rogues\nin Buckrom let driue at me\nPrince. What, foure? thou sayd'st but two, euen now\nFalst. Foure Hal, I told thee foure\nPoin. I, I, he said foure\nFalst. These foure came all a-front, and mainely thrust\nat me; I made no more adoe, but tooke all their seuen\npoints in my Targuet, thus\nPrince. Seuen? why there were but foure, euen now\nFalst. In buckrom\nPoin. I, foure, in Buckrom Sutes\nFalst. Seuen, by these Hilts, or I am a Villaine else\nPrin. Prethee let him alone, we shall haue more anon\nFalst. Doest thou heare me, Hal?\nPrin. I, and marke thee too, Iack\nFalst. Doe so, for it is worth the listning too: these\nnine in Buckrom, that I told thee of\nPrin. So, two more alreadie\nFalst. Their Points being broken\nPoin. Downe fell his Hose\nFalst. Began to giue me ground: but I followed me\nclose, came in foot and hand; and with a thought, seuen of\nthe eleuen I pay'd\nPrin. O monstrous! eleuen Buckrom men growne\nout of two?\nFalst. But as the Deuill would haue it, three mis-begotten\nKnaues, in Kendall Greene, came at my Back, and\nlet driue at me; for it was so darke, Hal, that thou could'st\nnot see thy Hand\nPrin. These Lyes are like the Father that begets them,\ngrosse as a Mountaine, open, palpable. Why thou Claybrayn'd\nGuts, thou Knotty-pated Foole, thou Horson obscene\ngreasie Tallow Catch\nFalst. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the\ntruth, the truth?\nPrin. Why, how could'st thou know these men in\nKendall Greene, when it was so darke, thou could'st not\nsee thy Hand? Come, tell vs your reason: what say'st thou\nto this?\nPoin. Come, your reason Iack, your reason\nFalst. What, vpon compulsion? No: were I at the\nStrappado, or all the Racks in the World, I would not\ntell you on compulsion. Giue you a reason on compulsion?\nIf Reasons were as plentie as Black-berries, I would\ngiue no man a Reason vpon compulsion, I\nPrin. Ile be no longer guiltie of this sinne. This sanguine\nCoward, this Bed-presser, this Hors-back-breaker,\nthis huge Hill of Flesh\nFalst. Away you Starueling, you Elfe-skin, you dried\nNeats tongue, Bulles-pissell, you stocke-fish: O for breth\nto vtter. What is like thee? You Tailors yard, you sheath\nyou Bow-case, you vile standing tucke\nPrin. Well, breath a-while, and then to't againe: and\nwhen thou hast tyr'd thy selfe in base comparisons, heare\nme speake but thus\nPoin. Marke Iacke\nPrin. We two, saw you foure set on foure and bound\nthem, and were Masters of their Wealth: mark now how\na plaine Tale shall put you downe. Then did we two, set\non you foure, and with a word, outfac'd you from your\nprize, and haue it: yea, and can shew it you in the House.\nAnd Falstaffe, you caried your Guts away as nimbly, with\nas quicke dexteritie, and roared for mercy, and still ranne\nand roar'd, as euer I heard Bull-Calfe. What a Slaue art\nthou, to hacke thy sword as thou hast done, and then say\nit was in fight. What trick? what deuice? what starting\nhole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open\nand apparant shame?\nPoines. Come, let's heare Iacke: What tricke hast\nthou now?\nFal. I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why heare\nye my Masters, was it for me to kill the Heire apparant?\nShould I turne vpon the true Prince? Why, thou knowest\nI am as valiant as Hercules: but beware Instinct, the Lion\nwill not touch the true Prince: Instinct is a great matter.\nI was a Coward on Instinct: I shall thinke the better of\nmy selfe, and thee, during my life: I, for a valiant Lion,\nand thou for a true Prince. But Lads, I am glad you haue\nthe Mony. Hostesse, clap to the doores: watch to night,\npray to morrow. Gallants, Lads, Boyes, Harts of Gold,\nall the good Titles of Fellowship come to you. What,\nshall we be merry? shall we haue a Play extempory\nPrin. Content, and the argument shall be, thy runing\naway\nFal. A, no more of that Hall, and thou louest me.\nEnter Hostesse\nHost. My Lord, the Prince?\nPrin. How now my Lady the Hostesse, what say'st\nthou to me?\nHostesse. Marry, my Lord, there is a Noble man of the\nCourt at doore would speake with you: hee sayes, hee\ncomes from your Father\nPrin. Giue him as much as will make him a Royall\nman, and send him backe againe to my Mother\nFalst. What manner of man is hee?\nHostesse. An old man\nFalst. What doth Grauitie out of his Bed at Midnight?\nShall I giue him his answere?\nPrin. Prethee doe Iacke\nFalst. 'Faith, and Ile send him packing.\nEnter.\nPrince. Now Sirs: you fought faire; so did you\nPeto, so did you Bardol: you are Lyons too, you ranne\naway vpon instinct: you will not touch the true Prince;\nno, fie\nBard. 'Faith, I ranne when I saw others runne\nPrin. Tell mee now in earnest, how came Falstaffes\nSword so hackt?\nPeto. Why, he hackt it with his Dagger, and said, hee\nwould sweare truth out of England, but hee would make\nyou beleeue it was done in fight, and perswaded vs to doe\nthe like\nBard. Yea, and to tickle our Noses with Spear-grasse,\nto make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments\nwith it, and sweare it was the blood of true men. I did\nthat I did not this seuen yeeres before, I blusht to heare\nhis monstrous deuices\nPrin. O Villaine, thou stolest a Cup of Sacke eighteene\nyeeres agoe, and wert taken with the manner, and\neuer since thou hast blusht extempore: thou hadst fire\nand sword on thy side, and yet thou ranst away; what\ninstinct hadst thou for it?\nBard. My Lord, doe you see these Meteors? doe you\nbehold these Exhalations?\nPrin. I doe\nBard. What thinke you they portend?\nPrin. Hot Liuers, and cold Purses\nBard. Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken\nPrin. No, if rightly taken, Halter.\nEnter Falstaffe.\nHeere comes leane Iacke, heere comes bare-bone. How\nnow my sweet Creature of Bombast, how long is't agoe,\nIacke, since thou saw'st thine owne Knee?\nFalst. My owne Knee? When I was about thy yeeres\n(Hal) I was not an Eagles Talent in the Waste, I could\nhaue crept into any Aldermans Thumbe-Ring: a plague\nof sighing and griefe, it blowes a man vp like a Bladder.\nThere's villanous Newes abroad; heere was Sir Iohn\nBraby from your Father; you must goe to the Court in\nthe Morning. The same mad fellow of the North, Percy;\nand hee of Wales, that gaue Amamon the Bastinado,\nand made Lucifer Cuckold, and swore the Deuill his true\nLiege-man vpon the Crosse of a Welch-hooke; what a\nplague call you him?\nPoin. O, Glendower\nFalst. Owen, Owen; the same, and his Sonne in Law\nMortimer, and old Northumberland, and the sprightly\nScot of Scots, Dowglas, that runnes a Horse-backe vp a\nHill perpendicular\nPrin. Hee that rides at high speede, and with a Pistoll\nkills a Sparrow flying\nFalst. You haue hit it\nPrin. So did he neuer the Sparrow\nFalst. Well, that Rascall hath good mettall in him,\nhee will not runne\nPrin. Why, what a Rascall art thou then, to prayse him\nso for running?\nFalst. A Horse-backe (ye Cuckoe) but a foot hee will\nnot budge a foot\nPrin. Yes Iacke, vpon instinct\nFalst. I grant ye, vpon instinct: Well, hee is there too,\nand one Mordake, and a thousand blew-Cappes more.\nWorcester is stolne away by Night: thy Fathers Beard is\nturn'd white with the Newes; you may buy Land now\nas cheape as stinking Mackrell\nPrin. Then 'tis like, if there come a hot Sunne, and this\nciuill buffetting hold, wee shall buy Maiden-heads as\nthey buy Hob-nayles, by the Hundreds\nFalst. By the Masse Lad, thou say'st true, it is like wee\nshall haue good trading that way. But tell me Hal, art\nnot thou horrible afear'd? thou being Heire apparant,\ncould the World picke thee out three such Enemyes againe,\nas that Fiend Dowglas, that Spirit Percy, and that\nDeuill Glendower? Art not thou horrible afraid? Doth\nnot thy blood thrill at it?\nPrin. Not a whit: I lacke some of thy instinct\nFalst. Well, thou wilt be horrible chidde to morrow,\nwhen thou commest to thy Father: if thou doe loue me,\npractise an answere\nPrin. Doe thou stand for my Father, and examine mee\nvpon the particulars of my Life\nFalst. Shall I? content: This Chayre shall bee my\nState, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my\nCrowne\nPrin. Thy State is taken for a Ioyn'd-Stoole, thy Golden\nScepter for a Leaden Dagger, and thy precious rich\nCrowne, for a pittifull bald Crowne\nFalst. Well, and the fire of Grace be not quite out of\nthee now shalt thou be moued. Giue me a Cup of Sacke\nto make mine eyes looke redde, that it may be thought I\nhaue wept, for I must speake in passion, and I will doe it\nin King Cambyses vaine\nPrin. Well, heere is my Legge\nFalst. And heere is my speech: stand aside Nobilitie\nHostesse. This is excellent sport, yfaith\nFalst. Weepe not, sweet Queene, for trickling teares\nare vaine\nHostesse. O the Father, how hee holdes his countenance?\nFalst. For Gods sake Lords, conuey my trustfull Queen,\nFor teares doe stop the floud-gates of her eyes\nHostesse. O rare, he doth it as like one of these harlotry\nPlayers, as euer I see\nFalst. Peace good Pint-pot, peace good Tickle-braine.\nHarry, I doe not onely maruell where thou spendest thy\ntime; but also, how thou art accompanied: For though\nthe Camomile, the more it is troden, the faster it growes;\nyet Youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it weares.\nThou art my Sonne: I haue partly thy Mothers Word,\npartly my Opinion; but chiefely, a villanous tricke of\nthine Eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether Lippe, that\ndoth warrant me. If then thou be Sonne to mee, heere\nlyeth the point: why, being Sonne to me, art thou so\npoynted at? Shall the blessed Sonne of Heauen proue a\nMicher, and eate Black-berryes? a question not to bee\naskt. Shall the Sonne of England proue a Theefe, and\ntake Purses? a question to be askt. There is a thing,\nHarry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is knowne to\nmany in our Land, by the Name of Pitch: this Pitch (as\nancient Writers doe report) doth defile; so doth the companie\nthou keepest: for Harry, now I doe not speake to\nthee in Drinke, but in Teares; not in Pleasure, but in Passion;\nnot in Words onely, but in Woes also: and yet\nthere is a vertuous man, whom I haue often noted in thy\ncompanie, but I know not his Name\nPrin. What manner of man, and it like your Maiestie?\nFalst. A goodly portly man yfaith, and a corpulent,\nof a chearefull Looke, a pleasing Eye, and a most noble\nCarriage, and as I thinke, his age some fiftie, or (byrlady)\ninclining to threescore; and now I remember mee, his\nName is Falstaffe: if that man should be lewdly giuen,\nhee deceiues mee; for Harry, I see Vertue in his Lookes.\nIf then the Tree may be knowne by the Fruit, as the Fruit\nby the Tree, then peremptorily I speake it, there is Vertue\nin that Falstaffe: him keepe with, the rest banish. And\ntell mee now, thou naughtie Varlet, tell mee, where hast\nthou beene this moneth?\nPrin. Do'st thou speake like a King? doe thou stand\nfor mee, and Ile play my Father\nFalst. Depose me: if thou do'st it halfe so grauely, so\nmaiestically, both in word and matter, hang me vp by the\nheeles for a Rabbet-sucker, or a Poulters Hare\nPrin. Well, heere I am set\nFalst. And heere I stand: iudge my Masters\nPrin. Now Harry, whence come you?\nFalst. My Noble Lord, from East-cheape\nPrin. The complaints I heare of thee, are grieuous\nFalst. Yfaith, my Lord, they are false: Nay, Ile tickle\nye for a young Prince\nPrin. Swearest thou, vngracious Boy? henceforth\nne're looke on me: thou art violently carryed away from\nGrace: there is a Deuill haunts thee, in the likenesse of a\nfat old Man; a Tunne of Man is thy Companion: Why\ndo'st thou conuerse with that Trunke of Humors, that\nBoulting-Hutch of Beastlinesse, that swolne Parcell of\nDropsies, that huge Bombard of Sacke, that stuft Cloakebagge\nof Guts, that rosted Manning Tree Oxe with the\nPudding in his Belly, that reuerend Vice, that grey iniquitie,\nthat Father Ruffian, that Vanitie in yeeres? wherein\nis he good, but to taste Sacke, and drinke it? wherein\nneat and cleanly, but to carue a Capon, and eat it? wherein\nCunning, but in Craft? wherein Craftie, but in Villanie?\nwherein Villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy,\nbut in nothing?\nFalst. I would your Grace would take me with you:\nwhom meanes your Grace?\nPrince. That villanous abhominable mis-leader of\nYouth, Falstaffe, that old white-bearded Sathan\nFalst. My Lord, the man I know\nPrince. I know thou do'st\nFalst. But to say, I know more harme in him then in\nmy selfe, were to say more then I know. That hee is olde\n(the more the pittie) his white hayres doe witnesse it:\nbut that hee is (sauing your reuerence) a Whore-master,\nthat I vtterly deny. If Sacke and Sugar bee a fault,\nHeauen helpe the Wicked: if to be olde and merry, be a\nsinne, then many an olde Hoste that I know, is damn'd:\nif to be fat, be to be hated, then Pharaohs leane Kine are\nto be loued. No, my good Lord, banish Peto, banish\nBardolph, banish Poines: but for sweete Iacke Falstaffe,\nkinde Iacke Falstaffe, true Iacke Falstaffe, valiant Iacke Falstaffe,\nand therefore more valiant, being as hee is olde Iack\nFalstaffe, banish not him thy Harryes companie, banish\nnot him thy Harryes companie; banish plumpe Iacke, and\nbanish all the World\nPrince. I doe, I will.\nEnter Bardolph running.\nBard. O, my Lord, my Lord, the Sherife, with a most\nmonstrous Watch, is at the doore\nFalst. Out you Rogue, play out the Play: I haue much\nto say in the behalfe of that Falstaffe.\nEnter the Hostesse.\nHostesse. O, my Lord, my Lord\nFalst. Heigh, heigh, the Deuill rides vpon a Fiddlesticke:\nwhat's the matter?\nHostesse. The Sherife and all the Watch are at the\ndoore: they are come to search the House, shall I let\nthem in?\nFalst. Do'st thou heare Hal, neuer call a true peece of\nGold a Counterfeit: thou art essentially made, without\nseeming so\nPrince. And thou a naturall Coward, without instinct\nFalst. I deny your Maior: if you will deny the\nSherife, so: if not, let him enter. If I become not a Cart\nas well as another man, a plague on my bringing vp: I\nhope I shall as soone be strangled with a Halter, as another\nPrince. Goe hide thee behinde the Arras, the rest\nwalke vp aboue. Now my Masters, for a true Face and\ngood Conscience\nFalst. Both which I haue had: but their date is out,\nand therefore Ile hide me.\nEnter.\nPrince. Call in the Sherife.\nEnter Sherife and the Carrier.\nPrince. Now Master Sherife, what is your will with\nmee?\nShe. First pardon me, my Lord. A Hue and Cry hath\nfollowed certaine men vnto this house\nPrince. What men?\nShe. One of them is well knowne, my gracious Lord,\na grosse fat man\nCar. As fat as Butter\nPrince. The man, I doe assure you, is not heere,\nFor I my selfe at this time haue imploy'd him:\nAnd Sherife, I will engage my word to thee,\nThat I will by to morrow Dinner time,\nSend him to answere thee, or any man,\nFor any thing he shall be charg'd withall:\nAnd so let me entreat you, leaue the house\nShe. I will, my Lord: there are two Gentlemen\nHaue in this Robberie lost three hundred Markes\nPrince. It may be so: if he haue robb'd these men,\nHe shall be answerable: and so farewell\nShe. Good Night, my Noble Lord\nPrince. I thinke it is good Morrow, is it not?\nShe. Indeede, my Lord, I thinke it be two a Clocke.\nEnter.\nPrince. This oyly Rascall is knowne as well as Poules:\ngoe call him forth\nPeto. Falstaffe? fast asleepe behinde the Arras, and\nsnorting like a Horse\nPrince. Harke, how hard he fetches breath: search his\nPockets.\nHe searcheth his Pockets, and findeth certaine Papers.\nPrince. What hast thou found?\nPeto. Nothing but Papers, my Lord\nPrince. Let's see, what be they? reade them\nPeto. Item, a Capon. ii.s.ii.d.\nItem, Sawce iiii.d.\nItem, Sacke, two Gallons. v.s.viii.d.\nItem, Anchoues and Sacke after Supper. ii.s.vi.d.\nItem, Bread. ob\nPrince. O monstrous, but one halfe penny-worth of\nBread to this intollerable deale of Sacke? What there is\nelse, keepe close, wee'le reade it at more aduantage: there\nlet him sleepe till day. Ile to the Court in the Morning:\nWee must all to the Warres, and thy place shall be honorable.\nIle procure this fat Rogue a Charge of Foot,\nand I know his death will be a Match of Twelue-score.\nThe Money shall be pay'd backe againe with aduantage.\nBe with me betimes in the Morning: and so good morrow\nPeto\nPeto. Good morrow, good my Lord.\nExeunt.\nActus Tertius. Scena Prima.\nEnter Hotspurre, Worcester, Lord Mortimer, Owen Glendower.\nMort. These promises are faire, the parties sure,\nAnd our induction full of prosperous hope\nHotsp. Lord Mortimer, and Cousin Glendower,\nWill you sit downe?\nAnd Vnckle Worcester; a plague vpon it,\nI haue forgot the Mappe\nGlend. No, here it is:\nSit Cousin Percy, sit good Cousin Hotspurre:\nFor by that Name, as oft as Lancaster doth speake of you,\nHis Cheekes looke pale, and with a rising sigh,\nHe wisheth you in Heauen\nHotsp. And you in Hell, as oft as he heares Owen Glendower\nspoke of\nGlend. I cannot blame him: At my Natiuitie,\nThe front of Heauen was full of fierie shapes,\nOf burning Cressets: and at my Birth,\nThe frame and foundation of the Earth\nShak'd like a Coward\nHotsp. Why so it would haue done at the same season,\nif your Mothers Cat had but kitten'd, though your selfe\nhad neuer beene borne\nGlend. I say the Earth did shake when I was borne\nHotsp. And I say the Earth was not of my minde,\nIf you suppose, as fearing you, it shooke\nGlend. The heauens were all on fire, the Earth did\ntremble\nHotsp. Oh, then the Earth shooke\nTo see the Heauens on fire,\nAnd not in feare of your Natiuitie.\nDiseased Nature oftentimes breakes forth\nIn strange eruptions; and the teeming Earth\nIs with a kinde of Collick pincht and vext,\nBy the imprisoning of vnruly Winde\nWithin her Wombe: which for enlargement striuing,\nShakes the old Beldame Earth, and tombles downe\nSteeples, and mosse-growne Towers. At your Birth,\nOur Grandam Earth, hauing this distemperature,\nIn passion shooke\nGlend. Cousin: of many men\nI doe not beare these Crossings: Giue me leaue\nTo tell you once againe, that at my Birth\nThe front of Heauen was full of fierie shapes,\nThe Goates ranne from the Mountaines, and the Heards\nWere strangely clamorous to the frighted fields:\nThese signes haue markt me extraordinarie,\nAnd all the courses of my Life doe shew,\nI am not in the Roll of common men.\nWhere is the Liuing, clipt in with the Sea,\nThat chides the Bankes of England, Scotland, and Wales,\nWhich calls me Pupill, or hath read to me?\nAnd bring him out, that is but Womans Sonne,\nCan trace me in the tedious wayes of Art,\nAnd hold me pace in deepe experiments\nHotsp. I thinke there's no man speakes better Welsh:\nIle to Dinner\nMort. Peace cousin Percy, you will make him mad\nGlend. I can call Spirits from the vastie Deepe\nHotsp. Why so can I, or so can any man:\nBut will they come, when you doe call for them?\nGlend. Why, I can teach thee, Cousin, to command the\nDeuill\nHotsp. And I can teach thee, Cousin, to shame the Deuil,\nBy telling truth. Tell truth, and shame the Deuill.\nIf thou haue power to rayse him, bring him hither,\nAnd Ile be sworne, I haue power to shame him hence.\nOh, while you liue, tell truth, and shame the Deuill\nMort. Come, come, no more of this vnprofitable\nChat\nGlend. Three times hath Henry Bullingbrooke made head\nAgainst my Power: thrice from the Banks of Wye,\nAnd sandy-bottom'd Seuerne, haue I hent him\nBootlesse home, and Weather-beaten backe\nHotsp. Home without Bootes,\nAnd in foule Weather too,\nHow scapes he Agues in the Deuils name?\nGlend. Come, heere's the Mappe:\nShall wee diuide our Right,\nAccording to our three-fold order ta'ne?\nMort. The Arch-Deacon hath diuided it\nInto three Limits, very equally:\nEngland, from Trent, and Seuerne. hitherto,\nBy South and East, is to my part assign'd:\nAll Westward, Wales, beyond the Seuerne shore,\nAnd all the fertile Land within that bound,\nTo Owen Glendower: And deare Couze, to you\nThe remnant Northward, lying off from Trent.\nAnd our Indentures Tripartite are drawne:\nWhich being sealed enterchangeably,\n(A Businesse that this Night may execute)\nTo morrow, Cousin Percy, you and I,\nAnd my good Lord of Worcester, will set forth,\nTo meete your Father, and the Scottish Power,\nAs is appointed vs at Shrewsbury.\nMy Father Glendower is not readie yet,\nNor shall wee neede his helpe these foureteene dayes:\nWithin that space, you may haue drawne together\nYour Tenants, Friends, and neighbouring Gentlemen\nGlend. A shorter time shall send me to you, Lords:\nAnd in my Conduct shall your Ladies come,\nFrom whom you now must steale, and take no leaue,\nFor there will be a World of Water shed,\nVpon the parting of your Wiues and you\nHotsp. Me thinks my Moity, North from Burton here,\nIn quantitie equals not one of yours:\nSee, how this Riuer comes me cranking in,\nAnd cuts me from the best of all my Land,\nA huge halfe Moone, a monstrous Cantle out.\nIle haue the Currant in this place damn'd vp,\nAnd here the smug and Siluer Trent shall runne,\nIn a new Channell, faire and euenly:\nIt shall not winde with such a deepe indent,\nTo rob me of so rich a Bottome here\nGlend. Not winde? it shall, it must, you see it doth\nMort. Yea, but marke how he beares his course,\nAnd runnes me vp, with like aduantage on the other side,\nGelding the opposed Continent as much,\nAs on the other side it takes from you\nWorc. Yea, but a little Charge will trench him here,\nAnd on this North side winne this Cape of Land,\nAnd then he runnes straight and euen\nHotsp. Ile haue it so, a little Charge will doe it\nGlend. Ile not haue it alter'd\nHotsp. Will not you?\nGlend. No, nor you shall not\nHotsp. Who shall say me nay?\nGlend. Why, that will I\nHotsp. let me not vnderstand you then, speake it in\nWelsh\nGlend. I can speake English, Lord, as well as you:\nFor I was trayn'd vp in the English Court;\nWhere, being but young, I framed to the Harpe\nMany an English Dittie, louely well,\nAnd gaue the Tongue a helpefull Ornament;\nA Vertue that was neuer seene in you\nHotsp. Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart,\nI had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew,\nThen one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers:\nI had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd,\nOr a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree,\nAnd that would set my teeth nothing an edge,\nNothing so much, as mincing Poetrie;\n'Tis like the forc't gate of a shuffling Nagge\nGlend. Come, you shall haue Trent turn'd\nHotsp. I doe not care: Ile giue thrice so much Land\nTo any well-deseruing friend;\nBut in the way of Bargaine, marke ye me,\nIle cauill on the ninth part of a hayre.\nAre the Indentures drawne? shall we be gone?\nGlend. The Moone shines faire,\nYou may away by Night:\nIle haste the Writer; and withall,\nBreake with your Wiues, of your departure hence:\nI am afraid my Daughter will runne madde,\nSo much she doteth on her Mortimer.\nEnter.\nMort. Fie, Cousin Percy, how you crosse my Father\nHotsp. I cannot chuse: sometime he angers me,\nWith telling me of the Moldwarpe and the Ant,\nOf the Dreamer Merlin, and his Prophecies;\nAnd of a Dragon, and a finne-lesse Fish,\nA clip-wing'd Griffin, and a moulten Rauen,\nA couching Lyon, and a ramping Cat,\nAnd such a deale of skimble-skamble Stuffe,\nAs puts me from my Faith. I tell you what,\nHe held me last Night, at least, nine howres,\nIn reckning vp the seuerall Deuils Names,\nThat were his Lacqueyes:\nI cry'd hum, and well, goe too,\nBut mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious\nAs a tyred Horse, a rayling Wife,\nWorse then a smoakie House. I had rather liue\nWith Cheese and Garlick in a Windmill farre,\nThen feede on Cates, and haue him talke to me,\nIn any Summer-House in Christendome\nMort. In faith he was a worthy Gentleman,\nExceeding well read, and profited,\nIn strange Concealements:\nValiant as a Lyon, and wondrous affable,\nAnd as Bountifull, as Mynes of India.\nShall I tell you, Cousin,\nHe holds your temper in a high respect,\nAnd curbes himselfe, euen of his naturall scope,\nWhen you doe crosse his humor: 'faith he does.\nI warrant you, that man is not aliue,\nMight so haue tempted him, as you haue done,\nWithout the taste of danger, and reproofe:\nBut doe not vse it oft, let me entreat you\nWorc. In faith, my Lord, you are too wilfull blame,\nAnd since your comming hither, haue done enough,\nTo put him quite besides his patience.\nYou must needes learne, Lord, to amend this fault:\nThough sometimes it shew Greatnesse, Courage, Blood,\nAnd that's the dearest grace it renders you;\nYet oftentimes it doth present harsh Rage,\nDefect of Manners, want of Gouernment,\nPride, Haughtinesse, Opinion, and Disdaine:\nThe least of which, haunting a Nobleman,\nLoseth mens hearts, and leaues behinde a stayne\nVpon the beautie of all parts besides,\nBeguiling them of commendation\nHotsp. Well, I am school'd:\nGood-manners be your speede;\nHeere come your Wiues, and let vs take our leaue.\nEnter Glendower, with the Ladies.\nMort. This is the deadly spight, that angers me,\nMy Wife can speake no English, I no Welsh\nGlend. My Daughter weepes, shee'le not part with you,\nShee'le be a Souldier too, shee'le to the Warres\nMort. Good Father tell her, that she and my Aunt Percy\nShall follow in your Conduct speedily.\nGlendower speakes to her in Welsh, and she answeres him in the\nsame.\nGlend. Shee is desperate heere:\nA peeuish selfe-will'd Harlotry,\nOne that no perswasion can doe good vpon.\nThe Lady speakes in Welsh.\nMort. I vnderstand thy Lookes: that pretty Welsh\nWhich thou powr'st down from these swelling Heauens,\nI am too perfect in: and but for shame,\nIn such a parley should I answere thee.\nThe Lady againe in welsh.\nMort. I vnderstand thy Kisses, and thou mine,\nAnd that's a feeling disputation:\nBut I will neuer be a Truant, Loue,\nTill I haue learn'd thy Language: for thy tongue\nMakes Welsh as sweet as Ditties highly penn'd,\nSung by a faire Queene in a Summers Bowre,\nWith rauishing Diuision to her Lute\nGlend. Nay, if thou melt, then will she runne madde.\nThe Lady speakes againe in Welsh.\nMort. O, I am Ignorance it selfe in this\nGlend. She bids you,\nOn the wanton Rushes lay you downe,\nAnd rest your gentle Head vpon her Lappe,\nAnd she will sing the Song that pleaseth you,\nAnd on your Eye-lids Crowne the God of Sleepe,\nCharming your blood with pleasing heauinesse;\nMaking such difference betwixt Wake and Sleepe,\nAs is the difference betwixt Day and Night,\nThe houre before the Heauenly Harneis'd Teeme\nBegins his Golden Progresse in the East\nMort. With all my heart Ile sit, and heare her sing:\nBy that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne\nGlend. Doe so:\nAnd those Musitians that shall play to you,\nHang in the Ayre a thousand Leagues from thence;\nAnd straight they shall be here: sit, and attend\nHotsp. Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying downe:\nCome, quicke, quicke, that I may lay my Head in thy\nLappe\nLady. Goe, ye giddy-Goose.\nThe Musicke playes.\nHotsp. Now I perceiue the Deuill vnderstands Welsh,\nAnd 'tis no maruell he is so humorous:\nByrlady hee's a good Musitian\nLady. Then would you be nothing but Musicall,\nFor you are altogether gouerned by humors:\nLye still ye Theefe, and heare the Lady sing in Welsh\nHotsp. I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in\nIrish\nLady. Would'st haue thy Head broken?\nHotsp. No\nLady. Then be still\nHotsp. Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault\nLady. Now God helpe thee\nHotsp. To the Welsh Ladies Bed\nLady. What's that?\nHotsp. Peace, shee sings.\nHeere the Lady sings a Welsh Song.\nHotsp. Come, Ile haue your Song too\nLady. Not mine, in good sooth\nHotsp. Not yours, in good sooth?\nYou sweare like a Comfit-makers Wife:\nNot you, in good sooth; and, as true as I liue;\nAnd, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day:\nAnd giuest such Sarcenet suretie for thy Oathes,\nAs if thou neuer walk'st further then Finsbury.\nSweare me, Kate, like a Lady, as thou art,\nA good mouth-filling Oath: and leaue in sooth,\nAnd such protest of Pepper Ginger-bread,\nTo Veluet-Guards, and Sunday-Citizens.\nCome, sing\nLady. I will not sing\nHotsp. 'Tis the next way to turne Taylor, or be Redbrest\nteacher: and the Indentures be drawne, Ile away\nwithin these two howres: and so come in, when yee\nwill.\nEnter.\nGlend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as slow,\nAs hot Lord Percy is on fire to goe.\nBy this our Booke is drawne: wee'le but seale,\nAnd then to Horse immediately\nMort. With all my heart.\nExeunt.\nScaena Secunda.\nEnter the King, Prince of Wales, and others.\nKing. Lords, giue vs leaue:\nThe Prince of Wales, and I,\nMust haue some priuate conference:\nBut be neere at hand,\nFor wee shall presently haue neede of you.\nExeunt. Lords.\nI know not whether Heauen will haue it so,\nFor some displeasing seruice I haue done;\nThat in his secret Doome, out of my Blood,\nHee'le breede Reuengement, and a Scourge for me:\nBut thou do'st in thy passages of Life,\nMake me beleeue, that thou art onely mark'd\nFor the hot vengeance, and the Rod of heauen\nTo punish my Mistreadings. Tell me else,\nCould such inordinate and low desires,\nSuch poore, such bare, such lewd, such meane attempts,\nSuch barren pleasures, rude societie,\nAs thou art matcht withall, and grafted too,\nAccompanie the greatnesse of thy blood,\nAnd hold their leuell with thy Princely heart?\nPrince. So please your Maiesty, I would I could\nQuit all offences with as cleare excuse,\nAs well as I am doubtlesse I can purge\nMy selfe of many I am charg'd withall:\nYet such extenuation let me begge,\nAs in reproofe of many Tales deuis'd,\nWhich oft the Eare of Greatnesse needes must heare,\nBy smiling Pick-thankes, and base Newes-mongers;\nI may for some things true, wherein my youth\nHath faultie wandred, and irregular,\nFinde pardon on my true submission\nKing. Heauen pardon thee:\nYet let me wonder, Harry,\nAt thy affections, which doe hold a Wing\nQuite from the flight of all thy ancestors.\nThy place in Councell thou hast rudely lost,\nWhich by thy younger Brother is supply'de;\nAnd art almost an alien to the hearts\nOf all the Court and Princes of my blood.\nThe hope and expectation of thy time\nIs ruin'd, and the Soule of euery man\nProphetically doe fore-thinke thy fall.\nHad I so lauish of my presence beene,\nSo common hackney'd in the eyes of men,\nSo stale and cheape to vulgar Company;\nOpinion, that did helpe me to the Crowne,\nHad still kept loyall to possession,\nAnd left me in reputelesse banishment,\nA fellow of no marke, nor likelyhood.\nBy being seldome seene, I could not stirre,\nBut like a Comet, I was wondred at,\nThat men would tell their Children, This is hee:\nOthers would say; Where, Which is Bullingbrooke.\nAnd then I stole all Courtesie from Heauen,\nAnd drest my selfe in such Humilitie,\nThat I did plucke Allegeance from mens hearts,\nLowd Showts and Salutations from their mouthes,\nEuen in the presence of the Crowned King.\nThus I did keepe my Person fresh and new,\nMy Presence like a Robe Pontificall,\nNe're seene, but wondred at: and so my State,\nSeldome but sumptuous, shewed like a Feast,\nAnd wonne by rarenesse such Solemnitie.\nThe skipping King hee ambled vp and downe,\nWith shallow Iesters, and rash Bauin Wits,\nSoone kindled, and soone burnt, carded his state,\nMingled his Royaltie with Carping Fooles,\nHad his great Name prophaned with their Scornes,\nAnd gaue his Countenance, against his Name,\nTo laugh at gybing Boyes, and stand the push\nOf euery Beardlesse vaine Comparatiue;\nGrew a Companion to the common Streetes,\nEnfeoff'd himselfe to Popularitie:\nThat being dayly swallowed by mens Eyes,\nThey surfeted with Honey, and began to loathe\nThe taste of Sweetnesse, whereof a little\nMore then a little, is by much too much.\nSo when he had occasion to be seene,\nHe was but as the Cuckow is in Iune,\nHeard, not regarded: seene but with such Eyes,\nAs sicke and blunted with Communitie,\nAffoord no extraordinarie Gaze,\nSuch as is bent on Sunne-like Maiestie,\nWhen it shines seldome in admiring Eyes:\nBut rather drowz'd, and hung their eye-lids downe,\nSlept in his Face, and rendred such aspect\nAs Cloudie men vse to doe to their aduersaries,\nBeing with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.\nAnd in that very Line, Harry, standest thou:\nFor thou hast lost thy Princely Priuiledge,\nWith vile participation. Not an Eye\nBut is awearie of thy common sight,\nSaue mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more:\nWhich now doth that I would not haue it doe,\nMake blinde it selfe with foolish tendernesse\nPrince. I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious Lord,\nBe more my selfe\nKing. For all the World,\nAs thou art to this houre, was Richard then,\nWhen I from France set foot at Rauenspurgh;\nAnd euen as I was then, is Percy now:\nNow by my Scepter, and my Soule to boot,\nHe hath more worthy interest to the State\nThen thou, the shadow of Succession;\nFor of no Right, nor colour like to Right.\nHe doth fill fields with Harneis in the Realme,\nTurnes head against the Lyons armed Iawes;\nAnd being no more in debt to yeeres, then thou,\nLeades ancient Lords, and reuerent Bishops on\nTo bloody Battailes, and to brusing Armes.\nWhat neuer-dying Honor hath he got,\nAgainst renowned Dowglas? whose high Deedes,\nWhose hot Incursions, and great Name in Armes,\nHolds from all Souldiers chiefe Maioritie,\nAnd Militarie Title Capitall.\nThrough all the Kingdomes that acknowledge Christ,\nThrice hath the Hotspur Mars, in swathing Clothes,\nThis Infant Warrior, in his Enterprises,\nDiscomfited great Dowglas, ta'ne him once,\nEnlarged him, and made a friend of him,\nTo fill the mouth of deepe Defiance vp,\nAnd shake the peace and safetie of our Throne.\nAnd what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,\nThe Arch-bishops Grace of Yorke, Dowglas, Mortimer,\nCapitulate against vs, and are vp.\nBut wherefore doe I tell these Newes to thee?\nWhy, Harry, doe I tell thee of my Foes,\nWhich art my neer'st and dearest Enemie?\nThou, that art like enough, through vassall Feare,\nBase Inclination, and the start of Spleene,\nTo fight against me vnder Percies pay,\nTo dogge his heeles, and curtsie at his frownes,\nTo shew how much thou art degenerate\nPrince. Doe not thinke so, you shall not finde it so:\nAnd Heauen forgiue them, that so much haue sway'd\nYour Maiesties good thoughts away from me:\nI will redeeme all this on Percies head,\nAnd in the closing of some glorious day,\nBe bold to tell you, that I am your Sonne,\nWhen I will weare a Garment all of Blood,\nAnd staine my fauours in a bloody Maske:\nWhich washt away, shall scowre my shame with it.\nAnd that shall be the day, when ere it lights,\nThat this same Child of Honor and Renowne.\nThis gallant Hotspur, this all-praysed Knight.\nAnd your vnthought-of Harry chance to meet:\nFor euery Honor sitting on his Helme,\nWould they were multitudes, and on my head\nMy shames redoubled. For the time will come,\nThat I shall make this Northerne Youth exchange\nHis glorious Deedes for my Indignities:\nPercy is but my Factor, good my Lord,\nTo engrosse vp glorious Deedes on my behalfe:\nAnd I will call him to so strict account,\nThat he shall render euery Glory vp,\nYea, euen the sleightest worship of his time,\nOr I will teare the Reckoning from his Heart.\nThis, in the Name of Heauen, I promise here:\nThe which, if I performe, and doe suruiue,\nI doe beseech your Maiestie, may salue\nThe long-growne Wounds of my intemperature:\nIf not, the end of Life cancells all Bands,\nAnd I will dye a hundred thousand Deaths,\nEre breake the smallest parcell of this Vow\nKing. A hundred thousand Rebels dye in this:\nThou shalt haue Charge, and soueraigne trust herein.\nEnter Blunt.\nHow now good Blunt? thy Lookes are full of speed\nBlunt. So hath the Businesse that I come to speake of.\nLord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word,\nThat Dowglas and the English Rebels met\nThe eleuenth of this moneth, at Shrewsbury:\nA mightie and a fearefull Head they are,\n(If Promises be kept on euery hand)\nAs euer offered foule play in a State\nKing. The earle of Westmerland set forth to day:\nWith him my sonne, Lord Iohn of Lancaster,\nFor this aduertisement is fiue dayes old.\nOn Wednesday next, Harry thou shalt set forward:\nOn thursday, wee our selues will march.\nOur meeting is Bridgenorth: and Harry, you shall march\nThrough Glocestershire: by which account,\nOur Businesse valued some twelue dayes hence,\nOur generall Forces at Bridgenorth shall meete.\nOur Hands are full of Businesse: let's away,\nAduantage feedes him fat, while men delay.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Falstaffe and Bardolph.\nFalst. Bardolph, am I not falne away vilely, since this\nlast action? doe I not bate? doe I not dwindle? Why\nmy skinne hangs about me like an olde Ladies loose\nGowne: I am withered like an olde Apple Iohn. Well,\nIle repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking:\nI shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall haue no\nstrength to repent. And i haue not forgotten what the\nin-side of a Church is made of, I am a Pepper-Corne, a\nBrewers Horse, the in-side of a Church. Company, villanous\nCompany hath beene the spoyle of me\nBard. Sir Iohn, you are so fretfull, you cannot liue\nlong\nFalst. Why there is it: Come, sing me a bawdy Song,\nmake me merry; I was as vertuously giuen, as a Gentleman\nneed to be; vertuous enough, swore little, dic'd not\naboue seuen times a weeke, went to a Bawdy-house not\naboue once in a quarter of an houre, payd Money that I\nborrowed, three or foure times; liued well, and in good\ncompasse: and now I liue out of all order, out of compasse\nBard. Why, you are so fat, Sir Iohn, that you must\nneedes bee out of of all compasse; out all reasonable\ncompasse, Sir Iohn\nFalst. Doe thou amend thy Face, and Ile amend thy\nLife: Thou art our Admirall, thou bearest the Lanterne\nin the Poope, but 'tis in the Nose of thee; thou art the\nKnight of the burning Lampe\nBard. Why, Sir Iohn, my Face does you no harme\nFalst. No, Ile be sworne: I make as good vse of it, as\nmany a man doth of a Deaths-Head, or a Memento Mori.\nI neuer see thy Face, but I thinke vpon Hell fire, and Diues\nthat liued in Purple; for there he is in his Robes burning,\nburning. If thou wert any way giuen to vertue, I would\nsweare by thy Face; my Oath should bee, By this Fire:\nBut thou art altogether giuen ouer; and wert indeede,\nbut for the Light in thy Face, the Sunne of vtter Darkenesse.\nWhen thou ran'st vp Gads-Hill in the Night, to\ncatch my Horse, if I did not thinke that thou hadst beene\nan Ignis fatuus, or a Ball of Wild-fire, there's no Purchase\nin Money. O, thou art a perpetuall Triumph, an euerlasting\nBone-fire-Light: thou hast saued me a thousand\nMarkes in Linkes and Torches, walking with thee in the\nNight betwixt Tauerne and Tauerne: But the Sack that\nthou hast drunke me, would haue bought me Lights as\ngood cheape, as the dearest Chandlers in Europe. I haue\nmaintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time\nthis two and thirtie yeeres, Heauen reward me for it\nBard. I would my Face were in your Belly\nFalst. So should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.\nEnter Hostesse.\nHow now, Dame Partlet the Hen, haue you enquir'd yet\nwho pick'd my Pocket?\nHostesse. Why Sir Iohn, what doe you thinke, Sir Iohn?\ndoe you thinke I keepe Theeues in my House? I haue\nsearch'd, I haue enquired, so haz my Husband, Man by\nMan, Boy by Boy, Seruant by Seruant: the tight of a\nhayre was neuer lost in my house before\nFalst. Ye lye Hostesse: Bardolph was shau'd, and lost\nmany a hayre; and Ile be sworne my Pocket was pick'd:\ngoe to, you are a Woman, goe\nHostesse. Who I? I defie thee: I was neuer call'd so\nin mine owne house before\nFalst. Goe to, I know you well enough\nHostesse. No, sir Iohn, you doe not know me, Sir Iohn:\nI know you, Sir Iohn: you owe me Money, Sir Iohn, and\nnow you picke a quarrell, to beguile me of it: I bought\nyou a dozen of Shirts to your Backe\nFalst. Doulas, filthy Doulas: I haue giuen them\naway to Bakers Wiues, and they haue made Boulters of\nthem\nHostesse. Now as I am a true Woman, Holland of eight\nshillings an Ell: You owe Money here besides, Sir Iohn,\nfor your Dyet, and by-Drinkings, and Money lent you,\nfoure and twentie pounds\nFalst. Hee had his part of it, let him pay\nHostesse. Hee? alas hee is poore, hee hath nothing\nFalst. How? Poore? Looke vpon his Face: What call\nyou Rich? Let them coyne his Nose, let them coyne his\nCheekes, Ile not pay a Denier. What, will you make a\nYounker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine Inne,\nbut I shall haue my Pocket pick'd? I haue lost a Seale-Ring\nof my Grand-fathers, worth fortie marke\nHostesse. I haue heard the Prince tell him, I know not\nhow oft, that that Ring was Copper\nFalst. How? the Prince is a Iacke, a Sneake-Cuppe:\nand if hee were heere, I would cudgell him like a Dogge,\nif hee would say so.\nEnter the Prince marching, and Falstaffe meets him, playing on his\nTrunchion like a Fife.\nFalst. How now Lad? is the Winde in that Doore?\nMust we all march?\nBard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion\nHostesse. My Lord, I pray you heare me\nPrince. What say'st thou, Mistresse Quickly? How\ndoes thy Husband? I loue him well, hee is an honest\nman\nHostesse. Good, my Lord, heare mee\nFalst. Prethee let her alone, and list to mee\nPrince. What say'st thou, Iacke?\nFalst. The other Night I fell asleepe heere behind the\nArras, and had my Pocket pickt: this House is turn'd\nBawdy-house, they picke Pockets\nPrince. What didst thou lose, Iacke?\nFalst. Wilt thou beleeue me, Hal? Three or foure Bonds\nof fortie pound apeece, and a Seale-Ring of my Grand-fathers\nPrince. A Trifle, some eight-penny matter\nHost. So I told him, my Lord; and I said, I heard your\nGrace say so: and (my Lord) hee speakes most vilely of\nyou, like a foule-mouth'd man as hee is, and said, hee\nwould cudgell you\nPrince. What hee did not?\nHost. There's neyther Faith, Truth, nor Woman-hood\nin me else\nFalst. There's no more faith in thee then a stu'de Prune;\nnor no more truth in thee, then in a drawne Fox: and for\nWooman-hood, Maid-marian may be the Deputies wife\nof the Ward to thee. Go you nothing: go\nHost. Say, what thing? what thing?\nFalst. What thing? why a thing to thanke heauen on\nHost. I am no thing to thanke heauen on, I wold thou\nshouldst know it: I am an honest mans wife: and setting\nthy Knighthood aside, thou art a knaue to call me so\nFalst. Setting thy woman-hood aside, thou art a beast\nto say otherwise\nHost. Say, what beast, thou knaue thou?\nFal. What beast? Why an Otter\nPrin. An Otter, sir Iohn? Why an Otter?\nFal. Why? She's neither fish nor flesh; a man knowes\nnot where to haue her\nHost. Thou art vniust man in saying so; thou, or anie\nman knowes where to haue me, thou knaue thou\nPrince. Thou say'st true Hostesse, and he slanders thee\nmost grossely\nHost. So he doth you, my Lord, and sayde this other\nday, You ought him a thousand pound\nPrince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?\nFalst. A thousand pound Hal? A Million. Thy loue is\nworth a Million: thou ow'st me thy loue\nHost. Nay my Lord, he call'd you Iacke, and said hee\nwould cudgell you\nFal. Did I, Bardolph?\nBar. Indeed Sir Iohn, you said so\nFal. Yea, if he said my Ring was Copper\nPrince. I say 'tis Copper. Dar'st thou bee as good as\nthy word now?\nFal. Why Hal? thou know'st, as thou art but a man, I\ndare: but, as thou art a Prince, I feare thee, as I feare the\nroaring of the Lyons Whelpe\nPrince. And why not as the Lyon?\nFal. The King himselfe is to bee feared as the Lyon:\nDo'st thou thinke Ile feare thee, as I feare thy Father? nay\nif I do, let my Girdle breake\nPrin. O, if it should, how would thy guttes fall about\nthy knees. But sirra: There's no roome for Faith, Truth,\nnor Honesty, in this bosome of thine: it is all fill'd vppe\nwith Guttes and Midriffe. Charge an honest Woman\nwith picking thy pocket? Why thou horson impudent\nimbost Rascall, if there were any thing in thy Pocket but\nTauerne Recknings, Memorandums of Bawdie-houses,\nand one poore peny-worth of Sugar-candie to make thee\nlong-winded: if thy pocket were enrich'd with anie other\niniuries but these, I am a Villaine: And yet you will\nstand to it, you will not Pocket vp wrong. Art thou not\nasham'd?\nFal. Do'st thou heare Hal? Thou know'st in the state\nof Innocency, Adam fell: and what should poore Iacke\nFalstaffe do, in the dayes of Villany? Thou seest, I haue\nmore flesh then another man, and therefore more frailty.\nYou confesse then you pickt my Pocket?\nPrin. It appeares so by the Story\nFal. Hostesse, I forgiue thee:\nGo make ready Breakfast, loue thy Husband,\nLooke to thy Seruants, and cherish thy Guests:\nThou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason:\nThou seest, I am pacified still.\nNay, I prethee be gone.\nExit Hostesse.\nNow Hal, to the newes at Court for the Robbery, Lad?\nHow is that answered?\nPrin. O my sweet Beefe:\nI must still be good Angell to thee.\nThe Monie is paid backe againe\nFal. O, I do not like that paying backe, 'tis a double\nLabour\nPrin. I am good Friends with my Father, and may do\nanything\nFal. Rob me the Exchequer the first thing thou do'st,\nand do it with vnwash'd hands too\nBard. Do my Lord\nPrin. I haue procured thee Iacke, A Charge of Foot\nFal. I would it had beene of Horse. Where shal I finde\none that can steale well? O, for a fine theefe of two and\ntwentie, or thereabout: I am heynously vnprouided. Wel\nGod be thanked for these Rebels, they offend none but\nthe Vertuous. I laud them, I praise them\nPrin. Bardolph\nBar. My Lord\nPrin. Go beare this Letter to Lord Iohn of Lancaster\nTo my Brother Iohn. This to my Lord of Westmerland,\nGo Peto, to horse: for thou, and I,\nHaue thirtie miles to ride yet ere dinner time.\nIacke, meet me tomorrow in the Temple Hall\nAt two a clocke in the afternoone,\nThere shalt thou know thy Charge, and there receiue\nMoney and Order for their Furniture.\nThe Land is burning, Percie stands on hye,\nAnd either they, or we must lower lye\nFal. Rare words! braue world.\nHostesse, my breakfast, come:\nOh, I could wish this Tauerne were my drumme.\nExeunt. omnes.\nActus Quartus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Harrie Hotspurre, Worcester, and Dowglas.\nHot. Well said, my Noble Scot, if speaking truth\nIn this fine Age, were not thought flatterie,\nSuch attribution should the Dowglas haue,\nAs not a Souldiour of this seasons stampe,\nShould go so generall currant through the world.\nBy heauen I cannot flatter: I defie\nThe Tongues of Soothers. But a Brauer place\nIn my hearts loue, hath no man then your Selfe.\nNay, taske me to my word: approue me Lord\nDow. Thou art the King of Honor:\nNo man so potent breathes vpon the ground,\nBut I will Beard him.\nEnter a Messenger.\nHot. Do so, and 'tis well. What letters hast there?\nI can but thanke you\nMess. These Letters come from your Father\nHot. Letters from him?\nWhy comes he not himselfe?\nMes. He cannot come, my Lord,\nHe is greeuous sicke\nHot. How? haz he the leysure to be sicke now,\nIn such a iustling time? Who leades his power?\nVnder whose Gouernment come they along?\nMess. His Letters beares his minde, not I his minde\nWor. I prethee tell me, doth he keepe his Bed?\nMess. He did, my Lord, foure dayes ere I set forth:\nAnd at the time of my departure thence,\nHe was much fear'd by his Physician\nWor. I would the state of time had first beene whole,\nEre he by sicknesse had beene visited:\nHis health was neuer better worth then now\nHotsp. Sicke now? droope now? this sicknes doth infect\nThe very Life-blood of our Enterprise,\n'Tis catching hither, euen to our Campe.\nHe writes me here, that inward sicknesse,\nAnd that his friends by deputation\nCould not so soone be drawne: nor did he thinke it meet,\nTo lay so dangerous and deare a trust\nOn any Soule remou'd, but on his owne.\nYet doth he giue vs bold aduertisement,\nThat with our small coniunction we should on,\nTo see how Fortune is dispos'd to vs:\nFor, as he writes, there is no quailing now,\nBecause the King is certainely possest\nOf all our purposes. What say you to it?\nWor. Your Fathers sicknesse is a mayme to vs\nHotsp. A perillous Gash, a very Limme lopt off:\nAnd yet, in faith, it is not his present want\nSeemes more then we shall finde it.\nWere it good, to set the exact wealth of all our states\nAll at one Cast? To set so rich a mayne\nOn the nice hazard of one doubtfull houre,\nIt were not good: for therein should we reade\nThe very Bottome, and the Soule of Hope,\nThe very List, the very vtmost Bound\nOf all our fortunes\nDowg. Faith, and so wee should,\nWhere now remaines a sweet reuersion.\nWe may boldly spend, vpon the hope\nOf what is to come in:\nA comfort of retyrement liues in this\nHotsp. A Randeuous, a Home to flye vnto,\nIf that the Deuill and Mischance looke bigge\nVpon the Maydenhead of our Affaires\nWor. But yet I would your Father had beene here:\nThe qualitie and Heire of our Attempt\nBrookes no diuision: It will be thought\nBy some, that know not why he is away,\nThat wisedome, loyaltie, and meere dislike\nOf our proceedings, kept the Earle from hence.\nAnd thinke, how such an apprehension\nMay turne the tyde of fearefull Faction,\nAnd breede a kinde of question in our cause:\nFor well you know, wee of the offring side,\nMust keepe aloofe from strict arbitrement,\nAnd stop all sight-holes, euery loope, from whence\nThe eye of reason may prie in vpon vs:\nThis absence of your Father drawes a Curtaine,\nThat shewes the ignorant a kinde of feare,\nBefore not dreamt of\nHotsp. You strayne too farre.\nI rather of his absence make this vse:\nIt lends a Lustre, and more great Opinion,\nA larger Dare to your great Enterprize,\nThen if the Earle were here: for men must thinke,\nIf we without his helpe, can make a Head\nTo push against the Kingdome; with his helpe,\nWe shall o're-turne it topsie-turuy downe:\nYet all goes well, yet all our ioynts are whole\nDowg. As heart can thinke:\nThere is not such a word spoke of in Scotland,\nAt this Dreame of Feare.\nEnter Sir Richard Vernon.\nHotsp. My Cousin Vernon, welcome by my Soule\nVern. Pray God my newes be worth a welcome, Lord.\nThe Earle of Westmerland, seuen thousand strong,\nIs marching hither-wards, with Prince Iohn\nHotsp. No harme: what more?\nVern. And further, I haue learn'd,\nThe King himselfe in person hath set forth,\nOr hither-wards intended speedily,\nWith strong and mightie preparation\nHotsp. He shall be welcome too.\nWhere is his Sonne,\nThe nimble-footed Mad-Cap, Prince of Wales,\nAnd his Cumrades, that daft the World aside,\nAnd bid it passe?\nVern. All furnisht, all in Armes,\nAll plum'd like Estridges, that with the Winde\nBayted like Eagles, hauing lately bath'd,\nGlittering in Golden Coates, like Images,\nAs full of spirit as the Moneth of May,\nAnd gorgeous as the Sunne at Mid-summer,\nWanton as youthfull Goates, wilde as young Bulls.\nI saw young Harry with his Beuer on,\nHis Cushes on his thighes, gallantly arm'd,\nRise from the ground like feathered Mercury,\nAnd vaulted with such ease into his Seat,\nAs if an Angell dropt downe from the Clouds,\nTo turne and winde a fierie Pegasus,\nAnd witch the World with Noble Horsemanship\nHotsp. No more, no more,\nWorse then the Sunne in March:\nThis prayse doth nourish Agues: let them come.\nThey come like Sacrifices in their trimme,\nAnd to the fire-ey'd Maid of smoakie Warre,\nAll hot, and bleeding, will wee offer them:\nThe mayled Mars shall on his Altar sit\nVp to the eares in blood. I am on fire,\nTo heare this rich reprizall is so nigh,\nAnd yet not ours. Come, let me take my Horse,\nWho is to beare me like a Thunder-bolt,\nAgainst the bosome of the Prince of Wales.\nHarry to Harry, shall not Horse to Horse\nMeete, and ne're part, till one drop downe a Coarse?\nOh, that Glendower were come\nVer. There is more newes:\nI learned in Worcester, as I rode along,\nHe cannot draw his Power this fourteene dayes\nDowg. That's the worst Tidings that I heare of\nyet\nWor. I by my faith, that beares a frosty sound\nHotsp. What may the Kings whole Battaile reach\nvnto?\nVer. To thirty thousand\nHot. Forty let it be,\nMy Father and Glendower being both away,\nThe powres of vs, may serue so great a day.\nCome, let vs take a muster speedily:\nDoomesday is neere; dye all, dye merrily\nDow. Talke not of dying, I am out of feare\nOf death, or deaths hand, for this one halfe yeare.\nExeunt. Omnes.\nScaena Secunda.\nEnter Falstaffe and Bardolph.\nFalst. Bardolph, get thee before to Couentry, fill me a\nBottle of Sack, our Souldiers shall march through: wee'le\nto Sutton-cop-hill to Night\nBard. Will you giue me Money, Captaine?\nFalst. Lay out, lay out\nBard. This Bottle makes an Angell\nFalst. And if it doe, take it for thy labour: and if it\nmake twentie, take them all, Ile answere the Coynage.\nBid my Lieutenant Peto meete me at the Townes end\nBard. I will Captaine: farewell.\nEnter.\nFalst. If I be not asham'd of my Souldiers, I am a\nsowc't-Gurnet: I haue mis-vs'd the Kings Presse damnably.\nI haue got, in exchange of a hundred and fiftie\nSouldiers, three hundred and odde Pounds. I presse me\nnone but good House-holders, Yeomens Sonnes: enquire\nme out contracted Batchelers, such as had beene ask'd\ntwice on the Banes: such a Commoditie of warme slaues,\nas had as lieue heare the Deuill, as a Drumme; such as\nfeare the report of a Caliuer, worse then a struck-Foole,\nor a hurt wilde-Ducke. I prest me none but such Tostes\nand Butter, with Hearts in their Bellyes no bigger then\nPinnes heads, and they haue bought out their seruices:\nAnd now, my whole Charge consists of Ancients, Corporals,\nLieutenants, Gentlemen of Companies, Slaues as\nragged a Lazarus in the painted Cloth, where the Gluttons\nDogges licked his Sores; and such, as indeed were\nneuer Souldiers, but dis-carded vniust Seruingmen, younger\nSonnes to younger Brothers, reuolted Tapsters and\nOstlers, Trade-falne, the Cankers of a calme World, and\nlong Peace, tenne times more dis-honorable ragged,\nthen an old-fac'd Ancient; and such haue I to fill vp the\nroomes of them that haue bought out their seruices: that\nyou would thinke, that I had a hundred and fiftie totter'd\nProdigalls, lately come from Swine-keeping, from eating\nDraffe and Huskes. A mad fellow met me on the way,\nand told me, I had vnloaded all the Gibbets, and prest the\ndead bodyes. No eye hath seene such skar-Crowes: Ile\nnot march through Couentry with them, that's flat. Nay,\nand the Villaines march wide betwixt the Legges, as if\nthey had Gyues on; for indeede, I had the most of them\nout of Prison. There's not a Shirt and a halfe in all my\nCompany: and the halfe Shirt is two Napkins tackt together,\nand throwne ouer the shoulders like a Heralds\nCoat, without sleeues: and the Shirt, to say the truth,\nstolne from my Host of S[aint]. Albones, or the Red-Nose\nInne-keeper of Dauintry. But that's all one, they'le finde\nLinnen enough on euery Hedge.\nEnter the Prince, and the Lord of Westmerland.\nPrince. How now blowne Iack? how now Quilt?\nFalst. What Hal? How now mad Wag, what a Deuill\ndo'st thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmerland,\nI cry you mercy, I thought your Honour had already\nbeene at Shrewsbury\nWest. 'Faith, Sir Iohn, 'tis more then time that I were\nthere, and you too: but my Powers are there alreadie.\nThe King, I can tell you, lookes for vs all: we must away\nall to Night\nFalst. Tut, neuer feare me, I am as vigilant as a Cat, to\nsteale Creame\nPrince. I thinke to steale Creame indeed, for thy theft\nhath alreadie made thee Butter: but tell me, Iack, whose\nfellowes are these that come after?\nFalst. Mine, Hal, mine\nPrince. I did neuer see such pittifull Rascals\nFalst. Tut, tut, good enough to tosse: foode for Powder,\nfoode for Powder: they'le fill a Pit, as well as better:\ntush man, mortall men, mortall men\nWestm. I, but Sir Iohn, me thinkes they are exceeding\npoore and bare, too beggarly\nFalst. Faith, for their pouertie, I know not where they\nhad that; and for their barenesse, I am sure they neuer\nlearn'd that of me\nPrince. No, Ile be sworne, vnlesse you call three fingers\non the Ribbes bare. But sirra, make haste, Percy is already\nin the field\nFalst. What, is the King encamp'd?\nWestm. Hee is, Sir Iohn, I feare wee shall stay too\nlong\nFalst. Well, to the latter end of a Fray, and the beginning\nof a Feast, fits a dull fighter, and a keene Guest.\nExeunt.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter Hotspur, Worcester, Dowglas, and Vernon.\nHotsp. Wee'le fight with him to Night\nWorc. It may not be\nDowg. You giue him then aduantage\nVern. Not a whit\nHotsp. Why say you so? lookes he not for supply?\nVern. So doe wee\nHotsp. His is certaine, ours is doubtfull\nWorc. Good Cousin be aduis'd, stirre not to night\nVern. Doe not, my Lord\nDowg. You doe not counsaile well:\nYou speake it out of feare, and cold heart\nVern. Doe me no slander, Dowglas: by my Life,\nAnd I dare well maintaine it with my Life,\nIf well-respected Honor bid me on,\nI hold as little counsaile with weake feare,\nAs you, my Lord, or any Scot that this day liues.\nLet it be seene to morrow in the Battell,\nWhich of vs feares\nDowg. Yea, or to night\nVern. Content\nHotsp. To night, say I\nVern. Come, come, it may not be.\nI wonder much, being me[n] of such great leading as you are\nThat you fore-see not what impediments\nDrag backe our expedition: certaine Horse\nOf my Cousin Vernons are not yet come vp,\nYour Vnckle Worcesters Horse came but to day,\nAnd now their pride and mettall is asleepe,\nTheir courage with hard labour tame and dull,\nThat not a Horse is halfe the halfe of himselfe\nHotsp. So are the Horses of the Enemie\nIn generall iourney bated, and brought low:\nThe better part of ours are full of rest\nWorc. The number of the King exceedeth ours:\nFor Gods sake, Cousin, stay till all come in.\nThe Trumpet sounds a Parley. Enter Sir Walter Blunt.\nBlunt. I come with gracious offers from the King,\nIf you vouchsafe me hearing, and respect\nHotsp. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt:\nAnd would to God you were of our determination.\nSome of vs loue you well: and euen those some\nEnuie your great deseruings, and good name,\nBecause you are not of our qualitie,\nBut stand against vs like an Enemie\nBlunt. And Heauen defend, but still I should stand so,\nSo long as out of Limit, and true Rule,\nYou stand against anoynted Maiestie.\nBut to my Charge.\nThe King hath sent to know\nThe nature of your Griefes, and whereupon\nYou coniure from the Brest of Ciuill Peace,\nSuch bold Hostilitie, teaching his dutious Land\nAudacious Crueltie. If that the King\nHaue any way your good Deserts forgot,\nWhich he confesseth to be manifold,\nHe bids you name your Griefes, and with all speed\nYou shall haue your desires, with interest;\nAnd Pardon absolute for your selfe, and these,\nHerein mis-led, by your suggestion\nHotsp. The King is kinde:\nAnd well wee know, the King\nKnowes at what time to promise, when to pay.\nMy Father, my Vnckle, and my selfe,\nDid giue him that same Royaltie he weares:\nAnd when he was not sixe and twentie strong,\nSicke in the Worlds regard, wretched, and low,\nA poore vnminded Out-law, sneaking home,\nMy Father gaue him welcome to the shore:\nAnd when he heard him sweare, and vow to God,\nHe came but to be Duke of Lancaster,\nTo sue his Liuerie, and begge his Peace,\nWith teares of Innocencie, and tearmes of Zeale;\nMy Father, in kinde heart and pitty mou'd,\nSwore him assistance, and perform'd it too.\nNow, when the Lords and Barons of the Realme\nPerceiu'd Northumberland did leane to him,\nThe more and lesse came in with Cap and Knee,\nMet him in Boroughs, Cities, Villages,\nAttended him on Bridges, stood in Lanes,\nLayd Gifts before him, proffer'd him their Oathes,\nGaue him their Heires, as Pages followed him,\nEuen at the heeles, in golden multitudes.\nHe presently, as Greatnesse knowes it selfe,\nStep me a little higher then his Vow\nMade to my Father, while his blood was poore,\nVpon the naked shore at Rauenspurgh:\nAnd now (forsooth) takes on him to reforme\nSome certaine Edicts, and some strait Decrees,\nThat lay too heauie on the Common-wealth;\nCryes out vpon abuses, seemes to weepe\nOuer his Countries Wrongs: and by this Face,\nThis seeming Brow of Iustice, did he winne\nThe hearts of all that hee did angle for.\nProceeded further, cut me off the Heads\nOf all the Fauorites, that the absent King\nIn deputation left behinde him heere,\nWhen hee was personall in the Irish Warre\nBlunt. Tut, I came not to hear this\nHotsp. Then to the point.\nIn short time after, hee depos'd the King.\nSoone after that, depriu'd him of his Life:\nAnd in the neck of that, task't the whole State.\nTo make that worse, suffer'd his Kinsman March,\nWho is, if euery Owner were plac'd,\nIndeede his King, to be engag'd in Wales,\nThere, without Ransome, to lye forfeited:\nDisgrac'd me in my happie Victories,\nSought to intrap me by intelligence,\nRated my Vnckle from the Councell-Boord,\nIn rage dismiss'd my Father from the Court,\nBroke Oath on Oath, committed Wrong on Wrong,\nAnd in conclusion, droue vs to seeke out\nThis Head of safetie; and withall, to prie\nInto his Title: the which wee finde\nToo indirect, for long continuance\nBlunt. Shall I returne this answer to the King?\nHotsp. Not so, Sir Walter.\nWee'le with-draw a while:\nGoe to the King, and let there be impawn'd\nSome suretie for a safe returne againe,\nAnd in the Morning early shall my Vnckle\nBring him our purpose: and so farewell\nBlunt. I would you would accept of Grace and Loue\nHotsp. And't may be, so wee shall\nBlunt. Pray Heauen you doe.\nExeunt.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter the Arch-Bishop of Yorke, and Sir Michell.\nArch. Hie, good Sir Michell, beare this sealed Briefe\nWith winged haste to the Lord Marshall,\nThis to my Cousin Scroope, and all the rest\nTo whom they are directed.\nIf you knew how much they doe import,\nYou would make haste\nSir Mich. My good Lord, I guesse their tenor\nArch. Like enough you doe.\nTo morrow, good Sir Michell, is a day,\nWherein the fortune of ten thousand men\nMust bide the touch. For Sir, at Shrewsbury,\nAs I am truly giuen to vnderstand,\nThe King, with mightie and quick-raysed Power,\nMeetes with Lord Harry: and I feare, Sir Michell,\nWhat with the sicknesse of Northumberland,\nWhose Power was in the first proportion;\nAnd what with Owen Glendowers absence thence,\nWho with them was rated firmely too,\nAnd comes not in, ouer-rul'd by Prophecies,\nI feare the Power of Percy is too weake,\nTo wage an instant tryall with the King\nSir Mich. Why, my good Lord, you need not feare,\nThere is Dowglas, and Lord Mortimer\nArch. No, Mortimer is not there\nSir Mic. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,\nAnd there is my Lord of Worcester,\nAnd a Head of gallant Warriors,\nNoble Gentlemen\nArch. And so there is, but yet the King hath Drawne\nThe speciall head of all the Land together:\nThe Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster,\nThe Noble Westmerland, and warlike Blunt;\nAnd many moe Corriuals, and deare men\nOf estimation, and command in Armes\nSir M. Doubt not my Lord, he shall be well oppos'd\nArch. I hope no lesse? Yet needfull 'tis to feare,\nAnd to preuent the worst, Sir Michell speed;\nFor if Lord Percy thriue not, ere the King\nDismisse his power, he meanes to visit vs:\nFor he hath heard of our Confederacie,\nAnd, 'tis but Wisedome to make strong against him:\nTherefore make hast, I must go write againe\nTo other Friends: and so farewell, Sir Michell.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus. Scena Prima.\nEnter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of\nWestmerland, Sir Walter Blunt, and Falstaffe.\nKing. How bloodily the Sunne begins to peere\nAboue yon busky hill: the day lookes pale\nAt his distemperature\nPrin. The Southerne winde\nDoth play the Trumpet to his purposes,\nAnd by his hollow whistling in the Leaues,\nFortels a Tempest, and a blust'ring day\nKing. Then with the losers let it sympathize,\nFor nothing can seeme foule to those that win.\nThe Trumpet sounds.\nEnter Worcester.\nKing. How now my Lord of Worster? 'Tis not well\nThat you and I should meet vpon such tearmes,\nAs now we meet. You haue deceiu'd our trust,\nAnd made vs doffe our easie Robes of Peace,\nTo crush our old limbes in vngentle Steele:\nThis is not well, my Lord, this is not well.\nWhat say you to it? Will you againe vnknit\nThis churlish knot of all-abhorred Warre?\nAnd moue in the obedient Orbe againe,\nWhere you did giue a faire and naturall light,\nAnd be no more an exhall'd Meteor,\nA prodigie of Feare, and a Portent\nOf broached Mischeefe, to the vnborne Times?\nWor. Heare me, my Liege:\nFor mine owne part, I could be well content\nTo entertaine the Lagge-end of my life\nWith quiet houres: For I do protest,\nI haue not sought the day of this dislike\nKing. You haue not sought it: how comes it then?\nFal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it\nPrin. Peace, Chewet, peace\nWor. It pleas'd your Maiesty, to turne your lookes\nOf Fauour, from my Selfe, and all our House;\nAnd yet I must remember you my Lord,\nWe were the first, and dearest of your Friends:\nFor you, my staffe of Office did I breake\nIn Richards time, and poasted day and night\nTo meete you on the way, and kisse your hand,\nWhen yet you were in place, and in account\nNothing so strong and fortunate, as I;\nIt was my Selfe, my Brother, and his Sonne,\nThat brought you home, and boldly did out-dare\nThe danger of the time. You swore to vs,\nAnd you did sweare that Oath at Doncaster,\nThat you did nothing of purpose 'gainst the State,\nNor claime no further, then your new-falne right,\nThe seate of Gaunt, Dukedome of Lancaster,\nTo this, we sware our aide: But in short space,\nIt rain'd downe Fortune showring on your head,\nAnd such a floud of Greatnesse fell on you,\nWhat with our helpe, what with the absent King.\nWhat with the iniuries of wanton time,\nThe seeming sufferances that you had borne,\nAnd the contrarious Windes that held the King\nSo long in the vnlucky Irish Warres,\nThat all in England did repute him dead:\nAnd from this swarme of faire aduantages,\nYou tooke occasion to be quickly woo'd,\nTo gripe the generall sway into your hand,\nForgot your Oath to vs at Doncaster,\nAnd being fed by vs, you vs'd vs so,\nAs that vngentle gull the Cuckowes Bird,\nVseth the Sparrow, did oppresse our Nest\nGrew by our Feeding, to so great a builke,\nThat euen our Loue durst not come neere your sight\nFor feare of swallowing: But with nimble wing\nWe were infor'd for safety sake, to flye\nOut of your sight, and raise this present Head,\nWhereby we stand opposed by such meanes\nAs you your selfe, haue forg'd against your selfe,\nBy vnkinde vsage, dangerous countenance,\nAnd violation of all faith and troth\nSworne to vs in yonger enterprize\nKin. These things indeed you haue articulated,\nProclaim'd at Market Crosses, read in Churches,\nTo face the Garment of Rebellion\nWith some fine colour, that may please the eye\nOf fickle Changelings, and poore Discontents,\nWhich gape, and rub the Elbow at the newes\nOf hurly burly Innouation:\nAnd neuer yet did Insurrection want\nSuch water-colours, to impaint his cause:\nNor moody Beggars, staruing for a time\nOf pell-mell hauocke, and confusion\nPrin. In both our Armies, there is many a soule\nShall pay full dearely for this encounter,\nIf once they ioyne in triall. Tell your Nephew,\nThe Prince of Wales doth ioyne with all the world\nIn praise of Henry Percie: By my Hopes,\nThis present enterprize set off his head,\nI do not thinke a brauer Gentleman,\nMore actiue, valiant, or more valiant yong,\nMore daring, or more bold, is now aliue,\nTo grace this latter Age with Noble deeds.\nFor my part, I may speake it to my shame,\nI haue a Truant beene to Chiualry,\nAnd so I heare, he doth account me too:\nYet this before my Fathers Maiesty,\nI am content that he shall take the oddes\nOf his great name and estimation,\nAnd will, to saue the blood on either side,\nTry fortune with him, in a Single Fight\nKing. And Prince of Wales, so dare we venter thee,\nAlbeit, considerations infinite\nDo make against it: No good Worster, no,\nWe loue our people well; euen those we loue\nThat are misled vpon your Cousins part:\nAnd will they take the offer of our Grace:\nBoth he, and they, and you; yea euery man\nShall be my Friend againe, and Ile be his.\nSo tell your Cousin, and bring me word,\nWhat he will do. But if he will not yeeld,\nRebuke and dread correction waite on vs,\nAnd they shall do their Office. So bee gone,\nWe will not now be troubled with reply,\nWe offer faire, take it aduisedly.\nExit Worcester.\nPrin. It will not be accepted, on my life,\nThe Dowglas and the Hotspurre both together,\nAre confident against the world in Armes\nKing. Hence therefore, euery Leader to his charge,\nFor on their answer will we set on them;\nAnd God befriend vs, as our cause is iust.\nExeunt.\nManet Prince and Falstaffe.\nFal. Hal, if thou see me downe in the battell,\nAnd bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship\nPrin. Nothing but a Colossus can do thee that frendship\nSay thy prayers, and farewell\nFal. I would it were bed time Hal, and all well\nPrin. Why, thou ow'st heauen a death\nFalst. 'Tis not due yet: I would bee loath to pay him\nbefore his day. What neede I bee so forward with him,\nthat call's not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honor prickes\nme on. But how if Honour pricke me off when I come\non? How then? Can Honour set too a legge? No: or an\narme? No: Or take away the greefe of a wound? No.\nHonour hath no skill in Surgerie, then? No. What is Honour\nA word. What is that word Honour? Ayre: A\ntrim reckoning. Who hath it? He that dy'de a Wednesday.\nDoth he feele it? No. Doth hee heare it? No. Is it\ninsensible then? yea, to the dead. But wil it not liue with\nthe liuing? No. Why? Detraction wil not suffer it, therfore\nIle none of it. Honour is a meere Scutcheon, and so\nends my Catechisme.\nEnter.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Worcester, and Sir Richard Vernon.\nWor. O no, my Nephew must not know, Sir Richard,\nThe liberall kinde offer of the King\nVer. 'Twere best he did\nWor. Then we are all vndone.\nIt is not possible, it cannot be,\nThe King would keepe his word in louing vs,\nHe will suspect vs still, and finde a time\nTo punish this offence in others faults:\nSupposition, all our liues, shall be stucke full of eyes;\nFor Treason is but trusted like the Foxe,\nWho ne're so tame, so cherisht, and lock'd vp,\nWill haue a wilde tricke of his Ancestors:\nLooke how he can, or sad or merrily,\nInterpretation will misquote our lookes,\nAnd we shall feede like Oxen at a stall,\nThe better cherisht, still the nearer death.\nMy Nephewes Trespasse may be well forgot,\nIt hath the excuse of youth, and heate of blood,\nAnd an adopted name of Priuiledge,\nA haire-brain'd Hotspurre, gouern'd by a Spleene:\nAll his offences liue vpon my head,\nAnd on his Fathers. We did traine him on,\nAnd his corruption being tane from vs,\nWe as the Spring of all, shall pay for all:\nTherefore good Cousin, let not Harry know\nIn any case, the offer of the King\nVer. Deliuer what you will, Ile say 'tis so.\nHeere comes your Cosin.\nEnter Hotspurre.\nHot. My Vnkle is return'd,\nDeliuer vp my Lord of Westmerland.\nVnkle, what newes?\nWor. The King will bid you battell presently\nDow. Defie him by the Lord of Westmerland\nHot. Lord Dowglas: Go you and tell him so\nDow. Marry and shall, and verie willingly.\nExit Dowglas.\nWor. There is no seeming mercy in the King\nHot. Did you begge any? God forbid\nWor. I told him gently of our greeuances,\nOf his Oath-breaking: which he mended thus,\nBy now forswearing that he is forsworne,\nHe cals vs Rebels, Traitors, and will scourge\nWith haughty armes, this hatefull name in vs.\nEnter Dowglas.\nDow. Arme Gentlemen, to Armes, for I haue thrown\nA braue defiance in King Henries teeth:\nAnd Westmerland that was ingag'd did beare it,\nWhich cannot choose but bring him quickly on\nWor. The Prince of Wales stept forth before the king,\nAnd Nephew, challeng'd you to single fight\nHot. O, would the quarrell lay vpon our heads,\nAnd that no man might draw short breath to day,\nBut I and Harry Monmouth. Tell me, tell mee,\nHow shew'd his Talking? Seem'd it in contempt?\nVer. No, by my Soule: I neuer in my life\nDid heare a Challenge vrg'd more modestly,\nVnlesse a Brother should a Brother dare\nTo gentle exercise, and proofe of Armes.\nHe gaue you all the Duties of a Man,\nTrimm'd vp your praises with a Princely tongue,\nSpoke your deseruings like a Chronicle,\nMaking you euer better then his praise,\nBy still dispraising praise, valew'd with you:\nAnd which became him like a Prince indeed,\nHe made a blushing citall of himselfe,\nAnd chid his Trewant youth with such a Grace,\nAs if he mastred there a double spirit\nOf teaching, and of learning instantly:\nThere did he pause. But let me tell the World,\nIf he out-liue the enuie of this day,\nEngland did neuer owe so sweet a hope,\nSo much misconstrued in his Wantonnesse,\nHot. Cousin, I thinke thou art enamored\nOn his Follies: neuer did I heare\nOf any Prince so wilde at Liberty.\nBut be he as he will, yet once ere night,\nI will imbrace him with a Souldiers arme,\nThat he shall shrinke vnder my curtesie.\nArme, arme with speed. And Fellow's, Soldiers, Friends,\nBetter consider what you haue to do,\nThat I that haue not well the gift of Tongue,\nCan lift your blood vp with perswasion.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMes. My Lord, heere are Letters for you\nHot. I cannot reade them now.\nO Gentlemen, the time of life is short;\nTo spend that shortnesse basely, were too long.\nIf life did ride vpon a Dials point,\nStill ending at the arriuall of an houre,\nAnd if we liue, we liue to treade on Kings:\nIf dye; braue death, when Princes dye with vs.\nNow for our Consciences, the Armes is faire,\nWhen the intent for bearing them is iust.\nEnter another Messenger.\nMes. My Lord prepare, the King comes on apace\nHot. I thanke him, that he cuts me from my tale:\nFor I professe not talking: Onely this,\nLet each man do his best. And heere I draw a Sword,\nWhose worthy temper I intend to staine\nWith the best blood that I can meete withall,\nIn the aduenture of this perillous day.\nNow Esperance Percy, and set on:\nSound all the lofty Instruments of Warre,\nAnd by that Musicke, let vs all imbrace:\nFor heauen to earth, some of vs neuer shall,\nA second time do such a curtesie.\nThey embrace, the trumpets sound, the King entereth with his\npower, alarum\nvnto the battell. Then enter Dowglas, and Sir Walter Blunt.\nBlu. What is thy name, that in battel thus y crossest me?\nWhat honor dost thou seeke vpon my head?\nDow. Know then my name is Dowglas,\nAnd I do haunt thee in the Battell thus,\nBecause some tell me, that thou art a King\nBlunt. They tell thee true\nDow. The Lord of Stafford deere to day hath bought\nThy likenesse: for insted of thee King Harry,\nThis Sword hath ended him, so shall it thee,\nVnlesse thou yeeld thee as a Prisoner\nBlu. I was not borne to yeeld, thou haughty Scot,\nAnd thou shalt finde a King that will reuenge\nLords Staffords death.\nFight, Blunt is slaine, then enters Hotspur.\nHot. O Dowglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus\nI neuer had triumphed o're a Scot\nDow. All's done, all's won, here breathles lies the king\nHot. Where?\nDow. Heere\nHot. This Dowglas? No, I know this face full well:\nA gallant Knight he was, his name was Blunt,\nSemblably furnish'd like the King himselfe\nDow. Ah foole: go with thy soule whether it goes,\nA borrowed Title hast thou bought too deere.\nWhy didst thou tell me, that thou wer't a King?\nHot. The King hath many marching in his Coats\nDow. Now by my Sword, I will kill all his Coates,\nIle murder all his Wardrobe peece by peece,\nVntill I meet the King\nHot. Vp, and away,\nOur Souldiers stand full fairely for the day.\nExeunt.\nAlarum, and enter Falstaffe solus.\nFal. Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear\nthe shot heere: here's no scoring, but vpon the pate. Soft\nwho are you? Sir Walter Blunt, there's Honour for you:\nhere's no vanity, I am as hot as molten Lead, and as heauy\ntoo; heauen keepe Lead out of mee, I neede no more\nweight then mine owne Bowelles. I haue led my rag of\nMuffins where they are pepper'd: there's not three of my\n150. left aliue, and they for the Townes end, to beg during\nlife. But who comes heere?\nEnter the Prince\nPri. What, stand'st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword,\nMany a Nobleman lies starke and stiffe\nVnder the hooues of vaunting enemies,\nWhose deaths are vnreueng'd. Prethy lend me thy sword\nFal. O Hal, I prethee giue me leaue to breath awhile:\nTurke Gregory neuer did such deeds in Armes, as I haue\ndone this day. I haue paid Percy, I haue made him sure\nPrin. He is indeed, and liuing to kill thee:\nI prethee lend me thy sword\nFalst. Nay Hal, is Percy bee aliue, thou getst not my\nSword; but take my Pistoll if thou wilt\nPrin. Giue it me: What, is it in the case?\nFal. I Hal, 'tis hot: There's that will Sacke a City.\nThe Prince drawes out a Bottle of Sacke.\nPrin. What, is it a time to iest and dally now.\nEnter.\nThrowes it at him.\nFal. If Percy be aliue, Ile pierce him: if he do come in\nmy way, so: if he do not, if I come in his (willingly) let\nhim make a Carbonado of me. I like not such grinning\nhonour as Sir Walter hath: Giue mee life, which if I can\nsaue, so: if not, honour comes vnlook'd for, and ther's an\nend.\nExit\nScena Tertia.\nAlarum, excursions, enter the King, the Prince, Lord Iohn of\nLancaster,\nand Earle of Westmerland.\nKing. I prethee Harry withdraw thy selfe, thou bleedest\ntoo much: Lord Iohn of Lancaster, go you with him\nP.Ioh. Not I, My Lord, vnlesse I did bleed too\nPrin. I beseech your Maiesty make vp,\nLeast your retirement do amaze your friends\nKing. I will do so:\nMy Lord of Westmerland leade him to his Tent\nWest. Come my Lord, Ile leade you to your Tent\nPrin. Lead me my Lord? I do not need your helpe;\nAnd heauen forbid a shallow scratch should driue\nThe Prince of Wales from such a field as this,\nWhere stain'd Nobility lyes troden on,\nAnd Rebels Armes triumph in massacres\nIoh. We breath too long: Come cosin Westmerland,\nOur duty this way lies, for heauens sake come\nPrin. By heauen thou hast deceiu'd me Lancaster,\nI did not thinke thee Lord of such a spirit:\nBefore, I lou'd thee as a Brother, Iohn;\nBut now, I do respect thee as my Soule\nKing. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point,\nWith lustier maintenance then I did looke for\nOf such an vngrowne Warriour\nPrin. O this Boy, lends mettall to vs all.\nEnter.\nEnter Dowglas.\nDow. Another King? They grow like Hydra's heads:\nI am the Dowglas, fatall to all those\nThat weare those colours on them. What art thou\nThat counterfeit'st the person of a King?\nKing. The King himselfe: who Dowglas grieues at hart\nSo many of his shadowes thou hast met,\nAnd not the very King. I haue two Boyes\nSeeke Percy and thy selfe about the Field:\nBut seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily,\nI will assay thee: so defend thy selfe\nDow. I feare thou art another counterfeit:\nAnd yet infaith thou bear'st thee like a King:\nBut mine I am sure thou art, whoere thou be,\nAnd thus I win thee.\nThey fight, the K[ing]. being in danger, Enter Prince.\nPrin. Hold vp thy head vile Scot, or thou art like\nNeuer to hold it vp againe: the Spirits\nOf valiant Sherly, Stafford, Blunt, are in my Armes;\nit is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee,\nWho neuer promiseth, but he meanes to pay.\nThey Fight, Dowglas flyeth.\nCheerely My Lord: how fare's your Grace?\nSir Nicolas Gawsey hath for succour sent,\nAnd so hath Clifton: Ile to Clifton straight\nKing. Stay, and breath awhile.\nThou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion,\nAnd shew'd thou mak'st some tender of my life\nIn this faire rescue thou hast brought to mee\nPrin. O heauen, they did me too much iniury,\nThat euer said I hearkned to your death.\nIf it were so, I might haue let alone\nThe insulting hand of Dowglas ouer you,\nWhich would haue bene as speedy in your end,\nAs all the poysonous Potions in the world,\nAnd sau'd the Treacherous labour of your Sonne\nK. Make vp to Clifton, Ile to Sir Nicholas Gausey.\nExit\nEnter Hotspur.\nHot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth\nPrin. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name\nHot. My name is Harrie Percie\nPrin. Why then I see a very valiant rebel of that name.\nI am the Prince of Wales, and thinke not Percy,\nTo share with me in glory any more:\nTwo Starres keepe not their motion in one Sphere,\nNor can one England brooke a double reigne,\nOf Harry Percy, and the Prince of Wales\nHot. Nor shall it Harry, for the houre is come\nTo end the one of vs; and would to heauen,\nThy name in Armes, were now as great as mine\nPrin. Ile make it greater, ere I part from thee,\nAnd all the budding Honors on thy Crest,\nIle crop, to make a Garland for my head\nHot. I can no longer brooke thy Vanities.\nFight.\nEnter Falstaffe.\nFal. Well said Hal, to it Hal. Nay you shall finde no\nBoyes play heere, I can tell you.\nEnter Dowglas, he fights with Falstaffe, who fals down as if he\nwere dead.\nThe Prince killeth Percie.\nHot. Oh Harry, thou hast rob'd me of my youth:\nI better brooke the losse of brittle life,\nThen those proud Titles thou hast wonne of me,\nThey wound my thoghts worse, then the sword my flesh:\nBut thought's the slaue of Life, and Life, Times foole;\nAnd Time, that takes suruey of all the world,\nMust haue a stop. O, I could Prophesie,\nBut that the Earth, and the cold hand of death,\nLyes on my Tongue: No Percy, thou art dust\nAnd food for-\nPrin. For Wormes, braue Percy. Farewell great heart:\nIll-weau'd Ambition, how much art thou shrunke?\nWhen that this bodie did containe a spirit,\nA Kingdome for it was too small a bound:\nBut now two paces of the vilest Earth\nIs roome enough. This Earth that beares the dead,\nBeares not aliue so stout a Gentleman.\nIf thou wer't sensible of curtesie,\nI should not make so great a shew of Zeale.\nBut let my fauours hide thy mangled face,\nAnd euen in thy behalfe, Ile thanke my selfe\nFor doing these fayre Rites of Tendernesse.\nAdieu, and take thy praise with thee to heauen,\nThy ignomy sleepe with thee in the graue,\nBut not remembred in thy Epitaph.\nWhat? Old Acquaintance? Could not all this flesh\nKeepe in a little life? Poore Iacke, farewell:\nI could haue better spar'd a better man.\nO, I should haue a heauy misse of thee,\nIf I were much in loue with Vanity.\nDeath hath not strucke so fat a Deere to day,\nThough many dearer in this bloody Fray:\nImbowell'd will I see thee by and by,\nTill then, in blood, by Noble Percie lye.\nEnter.\nFalstaffe riseth vp.\nFalst. Imbowell'd? If thou imbowell mee to day, Ile\ngiue you leaue to powder me, and eat me too to morow.\n'Twas time to counterfet, or that hotte Termagant Scot,\nhad paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I am no counterfeit;\nto dye, is to be a counterfeit, for hee is but the\ncounterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man: But\nto counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liueth, is to be\nno counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeede.\nThe better part of Valour, is Discretion; in the\nwhich better part, I haue saued my life. I am affraide of\nthis Gun-powder Percy though he be dead. How if hee\nshould counterfeit too, and rise? I am afraid hee would\nproue the better counterfeit: therefore Ile make him sure:\nyea, and Ile sweare I kill'd him. Why may not hee rise as\nwell as I: Nothing confutes me but eyes, and no-bodie\nsees me. Therefore sirra, with a new wound in your thigh\ncome you along me.\nTakes Hotspurre on his backe.\nEnter Prince and Iohn of Lancaster.\nPrin. Come Brother Iohn, full brauely hast thou flesht\nthy Maiden sword\nIohn. But soft, who haue we heere?\nDid you not tell me this Fat man was dead?\nPrin. I did, I saw him dead,\nBreathlesse, and bleeding on the ground: Art thou aliue?\nOr is it fantasie that playes vpon our eye-sight?\nI prethee speake, we will not trust our eyes\nWithout our eares. Thou art not what thou seem'st\nFal. No, that's certaine: I am not a double man: but\nif I be not Iacke Falstaffe, then am I a Iacke: There is Percy,\nif your Father will do me any Honor, so: if not, let him\nkill the next Percie himselfe. I looke to be either Earle or\nDuke, I can assure you\nPrin. Why, Percy I kill'd my selfe, and saw thee dead\nFal. Did'st thou? Lord, Lord, how the world is giuen\nto Lying? I graunt you I was downe, and out of breath,\nand so was he, but we rose both at an instant, and fought\na long houre by Shrewsburie clocke. If I may bee beleeued,\nso: if not, let them that should reward Valour, beare\nthe sinne vpon their owne heads. Ile take't on my death\nI gaue him this wound in the Thigh: if the man were aliue,\nand would deny it, I would make him eate a peece\nof my sword\nIohn. This is the strangest Tale that e're I heard\nPrin. This is the strangest Fellow, Brother Iohn.\nCome bring your luggage Nobly on your backe:\nFor my part, if a lye may do thee grace,\nIle gil'd it with the happiest tearmes I haue.\nA Retreat is sounded.\nThe Trumpets sound Retreat, the day is ours:\nCome Brother, let's to the highest of the field,\nTo see what Friends are liuing, who are dead.\nExeunt.\nFal. Ile follow as they say, for Reward. Hee that rewards\nme, heauen reward him. If I do grow great again,\nIle grow lesse? For Ile purge, and leaue Sacke, and liue\ncleanly, as a Nobleman should do.\nExit\nScaena Quarta.\nThe Trumpets sound.\nEnter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of\nWestmerland, with Worcester & Vernon Prisoners.\nKing. Thus euer did Rebellion finde Rebuke.\nIll-spirited Worcester, did we not send Grace,\nPardon, and tearmes of Loue to all of you?\nAnd would'st thou turne our offers contrary?\nMisuse the tenor of thy Kinsmans trust?\nThree Knights vpon our party slaine to day,\nA Noble Earle, and many a creature else,\nHad beene aliue this houre,\nIf like a Christian thou had'st truly borne\nBetwixt our Armies, true Intelligence\nWor. What I haue done, my safety vrg'd me to,\nAnd I embrace this fortune patiently,\nSince not to be auoyded, it fals on mee\nKing. Beare Worcester to death, and Vernon too:\nOther offenders we will pause vpon.\nExit Worcester and Vernon.\nHow goes the Field?\nPrin. The Noble Scot Lord Dowglas, when hee saw\nThe fortune of the day quite turn'd from him,\nThe Noble Percy slaine, and all his men,\nVpon the foot of feare, fled with the rest;\nAnd falling from a hill, he was so bruiz'd\nThat the pursuers tooke him. At my Tent\nThe Dowglas is, and I beseech your Grace,\nI may dispose of him\nKing. With all my heart\nPrin. Then Brother Iohn of Lancaster,\nTo you this honourable bounty shall belong:\nGo to the Dowglas, and deliuer him\nVp to his pleasure, ransomlesse and free:\nHis Valour shewne vpon our Crests to day,\nHath taught vs how to cherish such high deeds,\nEuen in the bosome of our Aduersaries\nKing. Then this remaines: that we diuide our Power.\nYou Sonne Iohn, and my Cousin Westmerland\nTowards Yorke shall bend you, with your deerest speed\nTo meet Northumberland, and the Prelate Scroope,\nWho (as we heare) are busily in Armes.\nMy Selfe, and you Sonne Harry will towards Wales,\nTo fight with Glendower, and the Earle of March.\nRebellion in this Land shall lose his way,\nMeeting the Checke of such another day:\nAnd since this Businesse so faire is done,\nLet vs not leaue till all our owne be wonne.\nExeunt.\nFINIS. The First Part of Henry the Fourth, with the Life and Death\nof\nHENRY Sirnamed HOT-SPVRRE.","title":"The First Part of Henry the Fourth","type":"page"}