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 my self,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oyl, 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 soveraign 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 of a servant brow.
You have good leave to leave us. When we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. [Exit Worcester.

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.
Or Envy therefore, or Misprision,
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.

Hot.
My Liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extream 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;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff.—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,)
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 brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the soveraign'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 currant for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.

Blunt.
The circumstance consider'd, good my lord,
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 soveraign Liege,(9) ^note

Needs no more but one tongue, for all those wounds,
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn's sedgie 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,
And hid his crisp'd head in the hollow bank,
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.

K. 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 downfall'n Mortimer
As high i'th' Air as this unthankful King,
As this ingrate and cankred Bolingbroke.

North.
Brother, the King hath made your Nephew mad. [To Worcester.

Wor.
Who strook 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;
And then it was, when the unhappy King
(Whose wrongs in us, God pardon!) did set forth
Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he, intercepted, did return
To be depos'd, and shortly murthered.

Wor.
And for whose death, we in the world's wide mouth
Live scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of.

Hot.
But soft, I pray you;—did King Richard then
Proclaim my brother Mortimer
Heir to the Crown?

North.
He did; my self 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
Ingag'd them both in an unjust behalf;
(As Both of you, God 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 your selves
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—

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'er-walk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast 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.

Hot.
By heav'n, methinks, it were an easie leap,(10) ^note

To pluck bright Honour from the pale-fac'd Moon;
Or dive into the bottom of the Deep,
Where fadom-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 lyes 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.

Wor.
Hear you, cousin: a word.

Hot.
All Studies here I solemnly defie,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
(But that, I think, his father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some mischance,)
I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale.

Wor.
Farewel, my kinsman; I will talk to you,
When you are better temper'd to attend.

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—
'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 Barkley castle.

Hot.
You say true:
Why, what a deal of candied Courtesie
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—God 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 Hot-spur.
Deliver them without their ransom strait,
And make the Dowglas' Son your only mean
For Pow'rs in Scotland; which, for divers reasons(11) ^note







Which I shall send you written, be assur'd,
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 chuse 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 our selves as even as we can,
The King will always think him in our debt;
And think, we deem our selves 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, farewel. 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.

North.
Farewel, good brother; we shall thrive, I trust.

Hot.
Uncle, adieu: O let the hours be short,
Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our Sport! [Exeunt.

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