But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your House. He could be contented to be there; why is he not then? in respect of the love he bears our House!

he shews in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our House. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous. Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink: but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time it self unsorted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoize of so great an opposition. Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this? By the lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this? Why, my lord of York commends the plot, and the general course of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and my self, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides, the Dowglas? have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are there not some of them set forward already? What a Pagan rascal is this? an infidel. Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide my self, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimm'd milk with so honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will set forward to night.

Lady.
O my good lord, why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been
A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?
Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?

Why dost thou bend thy eyes upon the earth?
And start so often, when thou sitt'st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks?
And given my treasures and my rights of thee,
To thick-ey'd musing, and curst melancholy!
In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watcht,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars:
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;
Cry, courage! to the field! and thou hast talk'd
Of sallies, and retires; of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets;
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the current of a heady fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestir'd thee in thy sleep,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream:
And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden haste. O, what portents are these?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it; else he loves me not.

Hot.
What, ho! is Gilliams with the packet gone? Enter Servant.

Serv.
He is, my lord, an hour agone.

Hot.
Hath Butler brought those horses from the Sheriff?

Serv.
One horse, my lord, he brought ev'n now.

Hot.
What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

Serv.
It is, my lord.

Hot.
That roan shall be my Throne.
Well, I will back him strait. O Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the Park.

Lady.
But hear you, my lord.

Hot.
What say'st thou, my lady?

Lady.
What is it carries you away?

Hot.
Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

Lady.
Out, you mad-headed ape! A weazel hath not
Such a deal of spleen as you are tost with.
In faith, I'll know your business, that I will.
I fear, my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his Title, and hath sent for you
To line his enterprize: but if you go—

Hot.
—So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Lady.
Come, come, you Paraquito, answer me
Directly to this question, I shall ask.
I'll break thy little finger, Harry,
An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

Hot.
Away, away, you trifler:—love! I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate; this is no world
To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips.
We must have bloody noses, and crack'd crowns,
And pass them currant too—gods me! my horse.
What say'st thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me?

Lady.
Do ye not love me? do you not, indeed?
Well, do not then. For since you love me not,
I will not love my self. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me, if you speak in jest, or no?

Hot.
Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when I am o' horse-back, I will swear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth question me,
Whither I go; nor reason, where about.
Whither I must, I must; and to conclude,
This evening must I leave thee, gentle Kate.
I know you wise; but yet no further wise
Than Harry Percy's wife. Constant you are,
But yet a woman; and for secresie,
No lady closer. For I well believe,
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

Lady.
How, so far?

Hot.
Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate,
Whither I go, thither shall you go too:

To day will I set forth, to morrow you.
Will this content you, Kate?

Lady.
It must of force. [Exeunt.

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