King Henry.
If Humphrey my son of Glo'ster be not gone
To rest—bid him attend us.

Lord.
My Lord, I shall. [Exit. [The King waves his hand, and exeunt Lords.

† ^noteK. Henry.
How many thousands of my poorest subjects,
Are at this hour asleep! O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness!
Why rather, sleep, ly'st thou in smoaky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody.
O thou dull god! why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case, or a common larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains,
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slipp'ry shroud,
That, with the hurley, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude?
And in the calmest, and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot;
Deny it to a King! Then, happy lowly clown!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown* ^note. SCENE II. Enter Gloucester, Clarence, and Chief Justice.

Glou.
What would your Majesty?

K. Henry.
Humphry, my son of Glo'ster,
Where is the Prince your brother?

Glou.
I think he is gone to hunt, my Lord, at Windsor.

K. Henry.
And how accompanied?

Glou.
I do not know, my Lord.

K. Henry.
Is not his brother Thomas of Clarence with him?

Glou.
No, my good Lord; he is in presence here.

Cla.
What would my Lord and father?

K. Henry.
Nothing, but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.
How chance thou art not with the Prince thy brother?
He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas;
Thou hast a better place in his affection,
Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy,
And noble offices thou may'st effect,
Of mediation, after I am dead,
Between his greatness and thy other brethren.
Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love,
Nor lose the good advantage of his grace,
By seeming cold, or careless of his will.
For he is gracious, if he be observ'd:
* ^noteHe hath a tear, for pity; and a hand.
Open as day, for melting charity:
Yet, notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's flint;
As humorous as winter, and as sudden,
As flaws congealed in the spring of day.
His temper therefore must be well observ'd:
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth:
But being moody, give him line and scope,
Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,
And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends;
A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,
That the united vessel of their blood,
(Mingled with venom of suggestion,
As force—perforce, the age will pour it in)
Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
As Aconitum, or rash gun-powder.

Cla.
I shall observe him with all care and love.

K. Henry.
Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?

Cla.
He is not there to-day; he dines in London.

K. Henry.
And how accompanied? canst thou tell that?

Cla.
With Poins, and other his continual followers.

K. Henry.
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds:
And he, the noble image of my youth,
Is over-spread with them; therefore my grief
Stretches itself beyond the hour of death.
* ^noteThe blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape,
In forms imaginary, th' unguided days,
And rotten times, that you shall look upon,
When I am sleeping with my ancestors.
For when his head-strong riot hath no curb,
When rage and hot blood are his counsellors,
When means and lavish manners meet together,
Oh, with what wings shall his affection fly
Tow'rds fronting peril and oppos'd decay?

Ch. Just.
My gracious Lord, you look beyond him, quite:
The Prince but studies his companions,
Like a strange tongue; wherein, to gain the language,
'Tis needful that the most immodest word
Be look'd upon, and learn'd; which once attain'd,
Your Highness knows, comes to no farther use,
But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,
The Prince will, in the perfectness of time,
Cast off his followers; and their memory
Shall as a pattern or a measure live,
By which his Grace must mete the lives of others;
Turning past evils to advantages.

K. Henry.
'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb,
In the dead carrion† ^note. Who's there? Westmorland?

SCENE III. Enter Westmorland.

West.
Health to my sovereign, and new happiness,
Added to that, which I am to deliver.
Prince John, your son, doth kiss your Grace's hand:
Mowbray, the Bishop, Scroop, Hastings, and all,
Are brought to the correction of your law;
There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd,
But peace puts forth her olive, ev'ry where.
The manner how this action hath been borne,
Here at more leisure may your highness read,
With every course, in his particular. [Gives a Letter.

K. Henry.
O Westmorland, thou art a summer bird,
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings
The lifting-up of day. Enter Gower.
Look, here's more news.

Gower.
From enemies heav'n keep your Majesty!
And when they stand against you, may they fall,
As those that I am come to tell you of!
The Earl Northumberland, and the Lord Bardolf,
With a great pow'r of English and of Scots,
Are by the Sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown:
The manner and true order of the fight,
This packet, please it you, contains, at large. [Gives a Packet.

K. Henry.
And wherefore should these good news make me sick?
Will Fortune never come with both hands full,
But write her fair words still in foulest letters?
She either gives a stomach, and no food;
(Such are the poor in health) or else a feast,
And takes away the stomach; such the rich;
That have abundance, and enjoy it not.
I should rejoice now at this happy news.
And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.
O me! come near me, now I am much ill!

Glou.
Comfort your Majesty!

Cla.
Oh, my royal father!

West.
Be patient, Princes; you do know these fits
Are with his Highness very ordinary.
Stand from him, give him air: he'll soon be well.

Cla.
No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs.

West.
Speak lower, Princes; for the King recovers.

K. Henry.
I pray you take me up, and bear me to my bed:
Softly, pray.
Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends,
Unless some slow and favourable hand
Will whisper musick to my weary spirit.

West.
Call for the musick in the other room.

K. Henry.
Set me the crown upon my pillow, here.

Cla.
His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

West.
Less noise, less noise. [Soft Music. SCENE IV. Enter Prince Henry.

P. Henry.
Who saw the Duke of Clarence?

Cla.
I am here, brother, full of heaviness.

P. Henry.
How now! rain within doors, and none abroad?
How doth the King?

Glou.
Exceeding ill.

P. Henry.
Heard he the good news, yet?
Tell it him.

Glou.
He alter'd much upon the hearing it.

P. Henry.
If he be sick with joy,
He'll recover without physick.

West.
Not so much noise, my Lords; sweet Prince, speak low;
The King, your father, is dispos'd to sleep.

Glou.
Let us withdraw into the other room.

West.
Will't please your Grace to go along with us?

P. Henry.
No; I will sit, and watch here by the King. [Exeunt all, but P. Henry.
* ^noteWhy doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
Being so troublesome a bed-fellow?

O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide,
To many a watchful night: sleep with it, now!
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he whose brow with homely biggen bound,
Snores out the watch of night. O Majesty!
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scald'st with safety. By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
Perforce must move. My gracious Lord! my father!
This sleep is sound, indeed; this is a sleep,
That from this golden circle hath divorc'd
So many English Kings. Thy due from me
Is tears, and heavy sorrows of the blood,
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,
Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously.
My due from thee is this imperial crown,
Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,
Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits, [Puts it on.
Which heav'n shall guard: and put the world's whole strength
Into one giant arm, it shall not force
This lineal honour from me. [Exit. ^note SCENE V. Enter Gloucester, and Clarence.

K. Henry.
Gloucester! Clarence!

Glou. and Cla.
Doth the King call? Enter Westmorland.

West.
What would your Majesty? how fares your Grace?

K. Henry.
Why did you leave me here alone, my Lords?

Cla.
We left the Prince, my brother, here, my Liege;
Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

K. Henry.
The Prince of Wales! where is he? let me see him.

West.
The door is open, he is gone that way.

Glou.
He came not through the chamber where we stay'd.

K. Henry.
Where is the crown? who took it from my pillow?

West.
When we withdrew, my Liege, we left it here.

K. Henry.
The Prince hath ta'en it hence; go seek him out. [They help the King to his chair.
Is he so hasty, that he doth suppose
My sleep my death? Find him, my Lord of Westmorland,
And chide him hither strait [Exit Westmorland]; this part of his
Conjoins with my disease, and helps to end me.
See, sons, what things you are; how quickly nature
Falls to revolt, when gold becomes her object!
For this, the foolish, over-careful fathers
Have broke their sleeps with thought, their brains with care,
Their bones with industry: for this engross'd
The canker'd heaps of strange-atchieved gold:
For this, they have been thoughtful to invest
Their sons with arts and martial exercises:
When, like the bee, culling from ev'ry flow'r'
Our thighs are packt with wax, our mouths with honey* ^note,
We bring it to the hive, and like the bees,
Are murder'd for our pains! This bitter taste
Yield his engrossments to the dying father. Enter Westmorland.
Now where is he, that will not stay so long,
Till his friend, sickness, hath determin'd me?

West.
My Lord, I found the Prince in the next room,
Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,
With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow,
That tyranny, which never quaft but blood,
Would by beholding him have wash'd his knife,
With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

K. Henry.
But wherefore did he take away the crown? Enter Prince Henry.
Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.
Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. [Exit West.

P. Henry.
I never thought to hear you speak again.

K. Henry.
* ^noteThy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:
I stay too long for thee, I weary thee.
Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair,
That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours,
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.
Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity,
Is held from falling, with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop; my day is dim.
Thou hast stoln that, which after some few hours,
Were thine without offence; and at my death
Thou hast seal'd up my expectation:
Thy life did manifest thou lov'dst me not,
And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,
To stab at half an hour of my frail life.
What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then, get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself,
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that should dedew my hearse,
Be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head;

Only compound me with forgotten dust,
Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;
For now a time is come to mock at form.
Henry the Fifth is crown'd: up, vanity!
Down, royal state!* ^note All you sage counsellors, hence:
And to the English court assemble now,
From ev'ry region, apes of idleness:
Now, neighbour-confines, purge you of your scum:
Have you a ruffian that will swear? drink? dance?
Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you know more:
England shall give him office, honour, might:
For the Fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog
Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.
O my poor kingdom! sick with civil blows:
When that my care could not with-hold thy riots,
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.

P. Henry.
O pardon me, my Liege! but for my tears, [Kneeling.
(The moist impediments unto my speech,)
I had forstall'd this dear and deep rebuke,
Ere you with grief had spoke, and I had heard
The course of it so far. There is your crown;
And he that wears the crown immortally,
Long guard it yours! If I affect it more,
Than as your honour, and as your renown,
Let me no more from this obedience rise,
Which my most true and inward duteous spirit
Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending.
Heav'n witness with me, when I here came in,
And found no course of breath within your Majesty,
How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign,

O let me in my present wildness die,
And never live to shew the incredulous world
The noble change that I have purposed!
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
(And dead almost, my Liege, to think you were)
I spake unto the crown, as having sense,
And thus upbraided it—The care on thee depending
Hath fed upon the body of my father,
Hast eat thy bearer up. Thus, Royal Liege,
Accusing it, I put it on my head,
To try with it as with an enemy,
That had before my face murder'd my father)
The quarrel of a true inheritor.
But if it did infect my blood with joy,
Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride,
If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
Did, with the least affection of a welcome,
Give entertainment to the might of it;
Let heav'n for ever keep it from my head,
And make me as the poorest vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

K. Henry.
O my son!
Heav'n put it in thy mind to take it hence,
That thou might'st win the more thy father's love,
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it.
Come hither, Harry; sit thou by my side,
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel,
That ever I shall breathe. Heav'n knows, my son,
By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd ways,
I met this crown; and I myself know well
How troublesome it sate upon my head.
To thee it shall descend with better quiet,
Better opinion, better confirmation:
For all the soil of the atchievement goes
With me into the earth. It seem'd in me
But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand,
And I had many living to upbraid
My gain of it by their assistances,
And by whose power I well might lodge a fear,
To be again displac'd; which to avoid

I cut them off, and had a purpose now,
To lead out many to the Holy Land;
Lest rest and lying still might make them look
Too near into my state. Therefore, my Harry.
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds,
With foreign wars; that action, hence born out,
May waste the memory of former days.
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That strength of speech is utterly deny'd me.
How I came by the crown, O God, forgive!
And grant it may with thee in true peace live!

P. Henry.
My gracious Liege,
You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
Then plain and right must my possession be;
Which I with more than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.

K. Henry.
Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster. Enter Lord John of Lancaster.

Lan.
Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

K. Henry.
Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John.
But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown,
From this bare wither'd trunk. Upon thy sight,
My worldly business makes a period.
Where is my Lord of Westmorland?

P. Henry.
My Lord of Westmorland. Enter Westmorland.

K. Henry.
Doth any name particular belong
Unto the chamber where I first did swoon?

West.
'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble Lord.

K. Henry.
Laud be to heav'n! ev'n there my life must end.
It hath been prophesied to me, many years,
I should not die but in Jerusalem:
Which vainly I suppos'd the Holy Land.

But bear me to that chamber, there I'll lye:
In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [Exeunt* ^note.

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