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.

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