King Henry.
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant† ^note

:
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces.
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmorland,
What yester-night our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear experience‡ ^note.

West.
My Liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down,

But yester-night; when all athwart there came
A post from Wales, laden with heavy news,
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against th' irregular and wild Glendower,
Was, by the rude hands of that Welshman, taken;
And a thousand of his people butchered.

K. Henry.
It seems then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West.
This, matcht with other like, my gracious lord!
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the North, and thus it did import:
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hot-spur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon spent a sad and bloody hour;
As, by discharge of their artillery* ^note,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told:
For he that brought it, in the very heat
And pride of their contention, did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

K. Henry.
Here is a dear and true industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news:
The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;
Ten thousand bold Scots, three-and-twenty knights,
† ^noteBalk'd in their own blood, did Sir Walter see,
On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hot-spur took
Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son
To beaten Douglas, and the Earls of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Monteith.
And is this not an honourable spoil?
A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?

West.
In faith it is, a conquest for a prince to boast of.

K. Henry.
Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin
In envy, that my lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so blest a son;

Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
Of my young Harry. O, that it could be prov'd
That some night-tripping Fairy had exchang'd,
In cradle-clothes, our children where they lay,
And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet!
* ^noteThen I would have his Harry, and he mine.
But let him from my thoughts.—What think you, cousin,
Of this young Percy's pride? The prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surpriz'd,
To his own use he keeps, and sends me word,
I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

West.
This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,
Malevolent to you in all aspects;
Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up
The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Henry.
But I have sent for him to answer this;
And for this cause a while we must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next, our council we
Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords:
But come yourself with speed to us again;
For more is to be said, and to be done,
Than out of anger can be uttered. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, an Apartment of the Prince's. Enter Henry Prince of Wales, and Sir John Falstaff† ^note.

Fal.
Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

P. Henry.

Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches in the afternoon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly, which thou would'st truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, I see no reason why thou should'st be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Fal.

Indeed you come near me now, Hal. For we, that take purses, go by the moon and seven stars, and not by Phœbus, he, that wand'ring knight so fair. And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art King— as save thy grace (Majesty, I should say; for grace thou wilt have none.)—

P. Henry.

What! none?

Fal.

No, not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter* ^note.

P. Henry.

Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly—

Fal.

Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art King, let not us, that are squires of the night's body, be call'd thieves of the day's booty: let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon; and let men say, we be men of good government, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we—steal.

P. Henry.

Thou say'st well, and it holds well, too; for the fortune of us, that are the moon's men, doth ebb and flow like the sea, being govern'd as the sea is, by the moon. As for proof, now: a purse of gold, most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing, Lay by, and spent with crying, Bring in more sack; now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

Fal.

By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad! and is not mine hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

P. Henry.

As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff-jerkin a most sweet robe of durance* ^note?

Fal.

How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff-jerkin?

P. Henry.

Why, what a plague have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Fal.

Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning, many a time and oft.

P. Henry.

Did I ever call thee to pay thy part?

Fal.

No, I'll give thee thy due; thou hast paid all, there.

P. Henry.

Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.

Fal.

Yea, and so us'd it, that were it not here apparent, that thou art heir apparent—But, I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England, when thou art King? and resolution thus fobb'd, as it is, with the rusty curb of old father Antic, the law? Do not thou, when thou art a King, hang a thief.

P. Henry.

No; thou shalt.

Fal.

Shall I? O rare! by the Lord, I'll be a brave judge!

P. Henry.

Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

Fal.

Well, Hal, well! and in some sort it jumps with my humour, as well as waiting in the court, I call tell you.

P. Henry.

For obtaining of suits?—

Fal.

Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat† ^note, or a lugg'd bear.

P. Henry.

Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.

Fal.

Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

P. Henry.

What say'st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?

Fal.

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascallest—sweet young Prince!—But, Hal, I pr'ythee, trouble me no more with vanity; I would thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought: an old Lord of the council rated me, the other day, in the street, about you, Sir; but I mark'd him not, and yet he talk'd very wisely, and in the street too.

P. Henry.

Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out, and no man regards it* ^note.

Fal.

O! thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed, able to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harm unto me, Hal; heaven forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; an I do not, I am a villain. I'll be damn'd for never a King's son in Christendom.

P. Henry.

Where shall we take a purse, to-morrow, Jack?

Fal.

Where thou wilt, lad, where thou wilt.—I'll make one; an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.

P. Henry.

I see a good amendment of life in thee, from praying to purse-taking.

Fal.

Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.

P. Henry.

Good morrow, Ned.

Poins.

Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse? what says Sir John Sack-and-Sugar? Jack! but, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock, early at Gads-hill; there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding

to London with fat purses. I have vizors for you all; you have horses for yourselves. Gads-hill lies to-night in Rochester; I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in East-cheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home, and be hang'd.

Fal.

Heark ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home, and go not, I'll hang you for going.

Poins.

You will, chops?

Fal.

Hal, wilt thou make one?

P. Henry.

Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.

Fal.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee; nor thou cam'st not of the Blood Royal, if thou dar'st not bid stand, for ten shillings.

P. Henry.

Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.

Fal.

Why, that's well said.

P. Henry.

Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

Fal.

By the Lord! I'll be a traytor then, when thou art King.

P. Henry.

I care not.

Poins.

Sir John, I pr'ythee leave the Prince and me alone; I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.

Fal.

Well, may'st thou have the spirit of persuasion, and he the ears of profiting; that what thou speak'st may move, and what he hears may be believ'd; that the true Prince may (for recreation-sake) prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance! Farewel! you shall find me in East-cheap.

P. Henry.

Farewel, thou latter Spring! Farewel, all-hallown Summer!

Poins.

Now, my good sweet honey Lord, ride with us to-morrow. I have a jest to execute, that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gads-hill, shall rob those men that we have already way-laid; yourself and I will not be there: and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.

P. Henry.

But how shall we part with them in setting forth?

Poins.

Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves, which they shall have no sooner atchiev'd, but we'll set upon them.

P. Henry.

Ay; but 'tis like they will know us, by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.

Poins.

Tut! our horses they shall not see, I'll tye them in the wood; our vizors we will change, after we leave them; and, Sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.

P. Henry.

But I doubt, they will be too hard for us.

Poins.

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us, when we meet at supper; how thirty at least he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities, he endured: And in the repoof of this lies the jest.

P. Henry.

Well, I'll go with thee: provide us all things necessary, and meet me to-morrow night in East-cheap; there I'll sup. Farewel!

Poins.
Farewel, my Lord! [Exit Poins.

* ^noteP. Henry.
I know you all, and will a while uphold
The un-yok'd humour of your idleness;
Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at* ^note







.
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify mens hopes,
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall shew more goodly, and attract more eyes,
Than that which hath no foil to set it off:
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill,
Redeeming time, when men think least I will. [Exit. Scene SCENE changes to an Apartment in the Palace. Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur* ^note, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.

K. Henry.
My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities;

And you have found me; for, accordingly,
You tread upon my patience: but be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that title of respect,
Which the proud soul ne'er pays, but to the proud.

Wor.
Our house, my sovereign Liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;
And that same greatness too, which our own hands
Have help'd to make so portly.

North.
My good Lord—

K. Henry.
Worcester, get thee gone! for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye.
O, Sir! your presence is too bold and peremptory:
And Majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier* ^note of a servant brow† ^note.
You have good leave to leave us. When we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. [Exit Wor.
You were about to speak. [To Northumberland.

North.
Yes, my good Lord.
Those prisoners, in your Highness' name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were, as he says, not with such strength deny'd
As was deliver'd to your Majesty.

Hot.
My Liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain Lord, neat, trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new-reap'd,
Shew'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner,
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which, ever-and-anon,
He gave his nose, and took't away again,
And still he smil'd and talk'd;

And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome coarse,
Betwixt the wind and his nobility:
With many holiday and lady terms,
He question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf.
I, then all-smarting with my wounds, being cold,
(To be so pester'd with a popinjay* ^note)
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what,
He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so bright, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds (heaven save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth,
Was Parmacity, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd,
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.—
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my Lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said:
And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.

Blunt.
The circumstance consider'd, good my Liege,
Whatever Harry Percy then had said,
To such a person, and, in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest retold,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it, now.

K. Henry.
Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,
But with proviso and exception,

That we, at our own charge, shall ransom strait
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer,
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd
The lives of those that he did lead to fight,
Against the great magician, damn'd Glendower,
Whose daughter, as we hear, the earl of March
Hath lately marry'd. Shall our coffers then,
Be empty'd, to redeem a traitor home?
Shall we buy treason, and indent with fears,
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No; on the barren mountains let him starve:
For I shall never hold that man my friend,
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost,
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Hot.
Revolted Mortimer!
He never did fall off, my sovereign Liege,
But bides the chance of war. To prove that true,
Needs no more but one tongue: for all those wounds,
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,
In single opposition, hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour,
In changing hardiment with great Glendower:
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
Who, then affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did base and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly wounds;
Nor ever could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly.
Then let him not be slander'd with revolt* ^note.

* ^noteK. Henry.
Thou dost belie him; Percy, thou beliest him!
He never did encounter with Glendower;
He durst as well have met the devil alone,
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art not asham'd? But, sirrah, from this hour,
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me,
As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland,
We licence your departure with your son.
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it. [Exit K. Henry.

Hot.
And if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after strait,
And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,
Although it be with hazard of my head.

North.
What, drunk with choler? stay and pause, a while:
Here comes your uncle. Enter Worcester.

Hot.
Speak of Mortimer!
Yes, I will speak of him: and let my soul
Want mercy, if I do not join with him!
In his behalf I'll empty all these veins,
And shed my dear blood, drop by drop, in dust,
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer
As high i'th' air as this unthankful king,
As this ingrate and cank'red Bolingbroke.

North.
Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad. [To Worcester.

Wor.
Who struck this heat up, after I was gone?

Hot.
He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;
And when I urg'd the ransom once again,
Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,
Trembling ev'n at the name of Mortimer.

Wor.
I cannot blame him. Was he not proclaim'd,
By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?

North.
He was; I heard the proclamation.

Hot.
But soft, I pray you!—Did king Richard then
Proclaim my brother Mortimer
Heir to the crown?

North.
He did; myself did hear it.

Hot.
Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,
That wish'd him on the barren mountains starv'd.
But shall it be, that you, that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man,
And for his sake wear the detested blot
Of murd'rous subornation? shall it be,
That you a world of curses undergo,
Being the agents, or base second means,
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman, rather?
(O, pardon me! that I descend so low,
To shew the line, and the predicament,
Wherein you range under this subtle king)
Shall it, for shame, be spoken, in these days,
Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
That men of your nobility and power,
Engag'd them both in an unjust behalf!
(As both of you, heaven pardon it! have done)
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?
And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken,
That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off,
By him, for whom these shames ye underwent?
No: yet time serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish'd honours, and restore yourselves,
Into the good thoughts of the world again;
Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt,
Of this proud King, who studies, day and night,
To answer all the debt he owes unto you,
Ev'n with the bloody payments of your deaths:
Therefore, I say—* ^note

Wor.
Peace, cousin! say no more!
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And, to your quick-conceiving discontents,
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and advent'rous spirit,
As to o'erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unstedfast footing of a spear.

Hot.
If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim:
Send danger from the East unto the West,
So honour cross it from the North to South,
And let them grapple.—O! the blood more stirs
To rouze a lion, than to start a hare.

North.
Imagination of some great exploit,
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

* ^noteHot.
By heav'n! methinks it were an easy leap,
To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon;
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear,
Without corrival, all her dignities.
But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!

Wor.
He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.
Good cousin, give me audience, for a while.

Hot.
I cry you mercy.

Wor.
Those same noble Scots,
That are your prisoners—

Hot.
I'll keep them all;
By heav'n, he shall not have a Scot of them!
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not!
I'll keep them, by this hand.

Wor.
You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes;
Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hot.
I will; that's flat.
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer:
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I'll holla, Mortimer!
Nay, I will have a starling taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion* ^note.

North.
Why, what a wasp-tongu'd and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Hot.
Why, look you! I am whipt and scourg'd with rods,
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear
Of this vile politician Bolingbroke.
In Richard's time—what do ye call the place?—
A plague upon't!—it is in Glo'stershire—† ^note
'Twas where the mad-cap duke his uncle kept—
His uncle York—where I first bow'd my knee
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

North.
At Berkley castle.

Hot.
You say true.
Why, what a deal of candied courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
Look, when his infant Fortune came to age.—
And, gentle Harry Percy—and kind Cousin—
The devil take such cozeners!—heaven forgive me!—
Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.

Wor.
Nay, if you have not, to't again;
We'll stay your leisure.

Hot.
I have done, I'faith.

Wor.
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. [To Hotspur.
Deliver them without their ransom strait,
And make the Dowglas' son your only mean

For pow'rs in Scotland; which, for divers reasons,
Will easily be granted.—You, my Lord, [To North.
Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd,
Shall secretly into the bosom creep
Of that same noble Prelate, well-belov'd,
Th' Arch-bishop.

Hot.
York, is't not?

Wor.
True; who bears hard
His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be; but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
And only stays but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

Hot.
I smell it; on my life it will do well.

North.
Before the game's a-foot, thou still lett'st slip.

Hot.
It cannot choose but be a noble plot:
And then the power of Scotland, and of York,
To join with Mortimer. Ha!—

Wor.
So they shall.

Hot.
In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd.

Wor.
And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads, by raising of a head;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The king will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfy'd,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home:
And see, already, how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.

Hot.
He does, he does; we'll be reveng'd on him.

Wor.
Cousin, farewell! No further go in this,
Than I, by letters, shall direct your course.
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,
I'll steal to Glendower, and Lord Mortimer,
Where you, and Dowglas, and our pow'rs at once
(As I will fashion it) shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

Hot.
Uncle, adieu! O let the hours be short,

Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport! [Exeunt.* ^note

Previous section

Next section