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

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