Mortimer.
These promises are fair, the parties sure,
And our induction full of prosp'rous hope.

Hot.
Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,
Will you sit down?
And, uncle Worcester—A plague upon it!
I have forgot the map.

Glend.
No, here it is;
Sit, cousin Percy, sit, good cousin Hot-spur:
For by that name, as oft as Lancaster
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale; and with
A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heav'n.

Hot.
And you in hell, as often as he hears
Owen Glendower spoke of.

Glend.
I blame him not: at my Nativity,
The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning Cressets; know, that, at my birth,
The frame and the foundation of the earth
Shook like a coward.

Hot.
So it wou'd have done
At the same season, if your mother's cat
Had kitten'd, though your self had ne'er been born.

Glend.
I say, the earth did shake when I was born.

Hot.
I say, the earth then was not of my mind;
If you suppose, as fearing you, it shook.

Glend.
The heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did tremble.

Hot.
O, then the earth shook to see the heav'ns on fire,
And not in fear of your Nativity.
Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions; and the teeming earth
Is with a kind of colick pinch'd and vext,
By the imprisoning of unruly wind
Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldam earth and topples down
High tow'rs and moss-grown steeples. At your birth,
Our grandam earth, with this distemperature,
In passion shook.

Glend.
Cousin, of many men
I do not bear these crossings: give me leave
To tell you once again, that at my Birth
The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes,
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were strangely clam'rous in the frighted fields:
These signs have mark'd me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do shew,
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living, clipt in with the sea
That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me?
And bring him out, that is but woman's son,
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
Or hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hot.
I think, there is no man speaks better Welsh.
I'll to dinner.—

Mort.
Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

Glend.
I can call Spirits from the vasty deep.

Hot.
Why, so can I, or so can any man:
But will they come, when you do call for them?

Glend.
Why, I can teach thee to command the devil.

Hot.
And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil,
By telling truth. Tell truth, and shame the devil.—
If thou hast pow'r to raise him, bring him hither,
And I'll be sworn, I've pow'r to shame him hence.
Oh, while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil.

Mort.
Come, come!
No more of this unprofitable chat.

Glend.
Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made Head
Against my Pow'r; thrice from the banks of Wye,
And sandy-bottom'd Severn, have I sent
Him bootless home, and weather-beaten back.

Hot.
Home, without boots, and in foul weather too!
How 'scapes he agues, in the devil's name?

Glend.
Come, here's the Map: shall we divide our Right,
According to our threefold order ta'en?

Mort.
Th' Archdeacon hath divided it
Into three limits, very equally:
England, from Trent, and Severn hitherto,
By south and east, is to my part assign'd:
All westward, Wales, beyond the Severn shore,
And all the fertile Land within that bound,
To Owen Glendower; and, dear coz, to you
The remnant northward, lying off from Trent.
And our indentures tripartite are drawn:
Which being sealed interchangeably,
(A business, that this night may execute)
To morrow, cousin Percy, you and I,
And my good lord of Worcester, will set forth,
To meet your father, and the Scottish Power,
As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.
My father Glendower is not ready yet,
Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days:
Within that space, you may have drawn together
Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

Glend.
A shorter time shall send me to you, lords:
And in my conduct shall your ladies come,
From whom you now must steal and take no leave;
For there will be a world of water shed,
Upon the parting of your wives and you.

Hot.
Methinks, my moiety, north from Burton here,
In quantity equals not one of yours:
See, how this river comes me crankling in,
And cuts me, from the best of all my Land,
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I'll have the Current in this place damm'd up:
And here the smug and silver Trent shall run
In a new channel, fair and evenly:
It shall not wind with such a deep indent,
To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glend.
Not wind? it shall, it must; you see, it doth.

Mort.
But mark, he bears his course, and runs me up
With like advantage on the other side,
Gelding th' opposed continent as much,
As on the other side it takes from you.

Wor.
Yes, but a little charge will trench him here,
And on this north-side win this cape of land,
And then he runs strait and even.

Hot.
I'll have it so, a little charge will do it.

Glend.
I will not have it alter'd.

Hot.
Will not you?

Glend
No, nor you shall not.

Hot.
Who shall say me nay?

Glend.
Why, that will I.

Hot.
Let me not understand you then,
Speak it in Welsh.

Glend.
I can speak English, lord, as well as you,
For I was train'd up in the English Court:
Where, being young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty, lovely well,
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament;
A virtue, that was never seen in you.

Hot.
Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my heart.
I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew!—
Than one of these same meeter-ballad-mongers;
I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd,
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree,
And that would nothing set my teeth on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing Poetry;
'Tis like the forc'd gate of a shuffling nag.

Glend.
Come, you shall have Trent turn'd.

Hot.
I do not care; I'll give thrice so much land
To any well-deserving friend;
But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?

Glend.
The moon shines fair, you may away by night:
(I'll haste the writer) and withal,
Break with your wives of your departure hence:
I am afraid, my daughter will run mad;
So much she doteth on her Mortimer. [Exit.

Mort.
Fie, cousin Percy, how you cross my father?

Hot.
I cannot chuse; sometime he angers me,
With telling me of the Moldwarp and the Ant,
Of dreamer Merlin, and his prophecies;
And of a Dragon, and a finless fish,
A clipt-wing Griffin, and a moulting Raven;
A couching Lion, and a ramping Cat;
And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff,
As puts me from my faith. I tell you what,
He held me the last night at least nine hours,
In reck'ning up the several devils names,
That were his lackeys: I cry'd, hum,—and well,—
But mark'd him not a word. O, he's as tedious
As a tir'd horse, or as a railing wife:
Worse than a smoaky house. I'd rather live
With cheese and garlick, in a windmil, far;
Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me,
In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mort.
In faith, he is a worthy gentleman;
Exceedingly well read, and profited
In strange concealments; valiant as a Lion;
And wond'rous affable; as bountiful
As Mines of India: shall I tell you, cousin?
He holds your temper in a high respect,
And curbs himself, even of his natural scope,
When you do cross his humour; 'faith, he does.
I warrant you, that man is not alive
Might so have tempted him as you have done,
Without the taste of danger and reproof.
But do not use it oft, let me intreat you.

Wor.
In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame,
And, since your coming here, have done enough
To put him quite besides his patience:
You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault;

Though sometimes it shews greatness, courage, blood,
(And that's the dearest grace it renders you;)
Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,
Defect of manners, want of government,
Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain:
The least of which, haunting a Nobleman,
Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain
Upon the beauty of all parts besides,
Beguiling them of commendation.

Hot.
Well, I am school'd: good manners be your speed!
Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. Enter Glendower, with the ladies.

Mort.
This is the deadly spight that angers me,
My Wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

Glend.
My daughter weeps, she will not part with you,
She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

Mort.
Good father, tell her, she and my aunt Percy
Shall follow in your Conduct speedily. [Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.

Glend.
She's desp'rate here: a peevish self-will'd harlotry,
That no persuasion can do good upon. [The Lady speaks in Welsh.

Mort.
I understand thy looks; that pretty Welsh,
Which thou pow'r'st down from those two swelling heavens,
I am too perfect in: and, but for shame,
In such a parly should I answer thee. [The Lady again in Welsh.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,(18) ^note

And that's a feeling disputation:
But I will never be a truant, love,
'Till I have learn'd thy language; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair Queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division to her lute.

Glend.
Nay, if thou melt, then will she run mad. [The Lady speaks again in Welsh.

Mort.
O, I am ignorance it self in this.

Glend.
She bids you,
All on the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eye-lids crown the God of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;
Making such diff'rence betwixt wake and sleep,
As is the diff'rence betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heav'nly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mort.
With all my heart I'll sit, and hear her sing:
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

Glend.
Do so;
And those musicians, that shall play to you,
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence;
Yet strait they shall be here; sit, and attend.

Hot.

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lad.

Go, ye giddy goose.

Hot.

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh, and 'tis no marvel, he is so humourous: by'rlady, he's a good musician.

Lady.

Then would you be nothing but musical, for you are altogether govern'd by humours: lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

Hot.

I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

Lady.

Would'st have thy head broken?

Hot.

No.

Lady.

Then be still.

Hot.

Neither, 'tis a woman's fault.

Lady.

Now God help thee!

Hot.

To the Welsh lady's bed.

Lady.

What's that?

Hot.

Peace, she sings. [Here the Lady sings a Welsh song. Come, I'll have your song too.

Lady.

Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot.

Not yours, in good sooth! you swear like a comfit-maker's wife; not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I live; and, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day: and givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths, as if thou never walk'd'st further than Finsbury.

Lady.

I will not sing.

Hot.

'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be Robin-Red-Breast teacher: if the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours: and so come in, when ye will.

Glend.
Come, come, lord Mortimer, you are as slow,
As hot lord Percy is on fire to go.
By this, our book is drawn: we will but seal,
And then to horse immediately.

Mort.
With all my heart. [Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE changes to the Presence-chamber in Windsor. Enter King Henry, Prince of Wales, Lords and others.

K. Henry.
Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I
Must have some private conference: but be near,

For we shall presently have need of you.— [Exeunt Lords.
I know not, whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done;
That in his secret doom, out of my blood
He breeds revengement and a scourge for me:
But thou dost in thy passages of life
Make me believe, that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heav'n,
To punish my mis-treadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate and low desires,
Such poor, such base, such lewd, such mean attempts,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,
Accompany the Greatness of thy blood,
And hold their level with thy princely heart?

P. Henry.
So please your Majesty, I wish, I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse,
As well, as, I am doubtless, I can purge
My self of many I am charg'd withal.
Yet such extenuation let me beg,
As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,
Which oft the ear of Greatness needs must hear,
By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers;
I may for some things true (wherein my youth
Hath faulty wander'd, and irregular)
Find pardon, on my true submission.

K. Henry.
Heav'n pardon thee: yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite from the flight of all thy Ancestors.
Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger Brother is supply'd;
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the Court and Princes of my blood.
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man
Prophetically does fore-think thy Fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,

So stale and cheap to vulgar company;
Opinion, that did help me to the Crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession;
And left me in reputeless Banishment,
A fellow of no mark, nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But like a comet I was wonder'd at!
That men would tell their children, this is he.
Others would say, where? which is Bolingbroke?
And then I stole all courtesie from heav'n,
And drest my self in such humility,
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,
Even in the presence of the crowned King.
Thus I did keep my person fresh and new,
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne'er seen, but wonder'd at; and so my State,
Seldom, but sumptuous, shewed like a feast,
And won, by rareness, such solemnity.
The skipping King, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled, and soon burnt; carded his State;
Mingled his Royalty with carping fools;
Had his great name profaned with their scorns;
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gybing boys, and stand the push
Of every beardless, vain comparative:
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity:
That, being daily swallow'd by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey, and began
To loath the taste of sweetness; whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but, as the Cuckow is in June,
Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes,
As, sick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze;
Such as is bent on sun-like Majesty,
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes:

But rather drowz'd, and hung their eye-lids down,
Slept in his face, and rendred such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.
And in that very line, Harry, stand'st thou;
For thou hast lost thy Princely privilege
With vile participation. Not an eye,
But is a-weary of thy common sight,
Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;
Which now doth, what I would not have it do,
Make blind it self with foolish tenderness.

P. Henry.
I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,
Be more my self.

K. Henry.
For all the world,
As thou art at this hour, was Richard then,
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;
And ev'n as I was then, is Percy now.
Now by my scepter, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy Interest to the State,
Than thou, the shadow of succession!
For, of no Right, nor colour like to Right,
He doth fill fields with harness in the Realm,
Turns head against the Lion's armed jaws;
And, being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and rev'rend bishops on,
To bloody battels, and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got
Against renowned Dowglas, whose high deeds,
Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms,
Holds from all soldiers chief Majority,
And military Title capital,
Through all the Kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.
Thrice hath this Hot-spur Mars in swathing cloaths,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises,
Discomfited great Dowglas, ta'en him once,
Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,
And shake the peace and safety of our Throne.
And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
Th' Arch-bishop's Grace of York, Dowglas and Mortimer,

Capitulate against us, and are up.
But wherefore do I tell this news to thee?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
To fight against me under Percy's Pay:
To dog his heels, and curt'sie at his frowns,
To show how much thou art degenerate.

P. Henry.
Do not think so, you shall not find it so:
And heav'n forgive them, that so much have sway'd
Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head.
And in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you, that I am your son.
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
Which, washt away, shall scowre my shame with it.
And that shall be the day, when e'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hot-spur, this all-praised Knight,
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I shall make this northern Youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
T' engross up glorious deeds on my behalf:
And I will call him to so strict account,
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reck'ning from his heart.
This, in the name of heav'n, I promise here:
The which, if I perform, and do survive,
I do beseech your Majesty, may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperature.
If not, the end of life cancels all bonds;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

K. Henry.
A hundred thousand Rebels die in this!
Thou shalt have Charge, and soveraign Trust herein. Enter Blunt.
How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.

Blunt.
So is the Business that I come to speak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word,
That Dowglas and the English rebels met
Th' eleventh of this month, at Shrewbury:
A mighty and a fearful head they are,
If promises be kept on every hand,
As ever offer'd foul play in a State.

K. Henry.
The Earl of Westmorland set forth to day,
With him my son, lord John of Lancaster;
For this advertisement is five days old.
On Wednesday next, Harry, thou shalt set forward:
On Thursday, we our selves will march: our meeting
Is at Bridgnorth; and, Harry, you shall march
Through Glo'stershire: by which, some twelve days hence
Our general forces at Bridgnorth shall meet.
Our hands are full of business: let's away;
Advantage feeds them fat, while we delay. [Exeunt. Scene 3 SCENE changes to the Boar's-head Tavern in East-cheap. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

Bardolph, am not I fall'n away vilely, since this last action? Do I not bate? do I not dwindle? why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown: I am wither'd; like an old apple John. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking: I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a brewer's horse; the inside of a

church! company, villainous company hath been the spoil of me.

Bard.

Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

Fal.

Why, there is it; come, sing me a bawdy song, to make me merry: I was as virtuously given, as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times a week; went to a bawdy-house not above once in a quarter of an hour; paid mony, that I borrow'd, three or four times; liv'd well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

Bard.

Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

Fal.

Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our Admiral, thou bearest the lanthorn in the poop, but 'tis in the nose of thee; thou art the knight of the burning lamp.

Bard.

Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

Fal.

No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it, as many a man doth of a death's head, or a memento mori. I never see thy face, but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that liv'd in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning.—If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be, by this fire; but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rann'st up Gads-hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think, thou had'st been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wild-fire, there's no purchase in mony. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire light; thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack, that thou hast drunk me, would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years, heav'n reward me for it!

Bard.

'Sblood, I would, my face were in your belly.

Fal.

God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.

How now, dame Partlet the hen, have you enquir'd yet who pick'd my pocket?

Host.

Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think, I keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have enquir'd, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant: the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.

Fal.

Ye lie, hostess; Bardolph was shav'd, and lost many a hair; and I'll be sworn, my pocket was pick'd; go to, you are a woman, go.

Host.

Who I? I defie thee; I was never call'd so in mine own house before.

Fal.

Go to, I know you well enough.

Host.

No, Sir John: you do not know me, Sir John; I know you, Sir John; you owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

Fal.

Dowlas, fifty dowlas: I have given them away to bakers' wives, and they have made boulters of them.

Host.

Now as I am a true woman, Holland of eight shillings an ell; you owe mony here besides, Sir John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four and twenty pounds.

Fal.

He had his part of it, let him pay.

Host.

He? alas! he is poor, he hath nothing.

Fal.

How! poor? look upon his face: what call you rich? let him coin his nose, let him coin his cheeks: I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a yonker of me? shall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a seal-ring of my grand-father's worth forty mark.

Host.

O Jesu! I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that the ring was copper.

Fal.

How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup; and if he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so.