SCENE I.
The camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.
Hot.
Well said, my noble Scot: If speaking truth,
In this fine age, were not thought flattery,
Such attribution should the Douglas6 note have,
As not a soldier of this season's stamp
Should go so general current through the world.
By heaven, I cannot flatter; I defy
The tongues of soothers; but a braver place
In my heart's love, hath no man than yourself:
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.
Doug.
Thou art the king of honour:
No man so potent breathes upon the ground,
But I will beard him7 note
.
Hot.
Do so, and 'tis well:—
-- 382 --
Enter a Messenger.
What letters hast thou there?—I can but thank you.
Mess.
These letters come from your father.
Hot.
Letters from him! why comes he not himself?
Mess.
He cannot come, my lord; he's grievous sick.
Hot.
'Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick,
In such a justling time? Who leads his power?
Under whose government come they along?
8 note
Mess.
His letters bear his mind, not I.
Hot.
His mind!
Wor.
I pr'ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?
Mess.
He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth;
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear'd by his physicians.
Wor.
I would, the state of time had first been whole,
Ere he by sickness had been visited;
His health was never better worth than now.
Hot.
Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect
The very life-blood of our enterprize;
'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.—
He writes me here,—that inward sickness—
And that his friends by deputation could not
So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet,
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
9 noteOn any soul remov'd, but on his own.
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,—
-- 383 --
That with our small conjunction, we should on,
To see how fortune is dispos'd to us:
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now1 note
;
Because the king is certainly possess'd
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
Wor.
Your father's sickness is a maim to us.
Hot.
A perilous gash, a very limb lopt off:—
And yet, in faith, 'tis not; his present want
Seems more than we shall find it:—Were it good,
To set the exact wealth of all our states
All at one cast? to set so rich a main
Oh the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
It were not good: for 2 note
therein should we read
The very bottom and the soul of hope;
The very list, the very utmost bound
Of all our fortunes.9Q0707
Doug.
Faith, and so we should;
Where now remains a sweet reversion:
We may boldly spend upon the hope of what
Is to come in:
3 noteA comfort of retirement lives in this.
-- 384 --
Hot.
A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,
If that the devil and mischance look big
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.
Wor.
But yet, I would your father had been here.
4 note
The quality and hair of our attempt
Brooks no division: It will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence;
And think, how such an apprehension
May turn the tide of fearful faction,
And breed a kind of question in our cause:
For, well you know, 5 note
we of the offering side
-- 385 --
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement;
And stop all sight-holes, every loop, from whence
The eye of reason may pry in upon us:
This absence of your father's draws a curtain,9Q0708
That shews the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of.
Hot.
You strain too far.
I, rather, of his absence make this use;—
It lends a lustre, and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprize,
Than if the earl were here: for men must think,
If we, without his help, can make a head
To push against the kingdom; with his help,
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.—
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.
Doug.
As heart can think: there is not such a word
Spoke of in Scotland, as this term of fear.9Q0709
Enter Sir Richard Vernon.
Hot.
My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.
Ver.
Pray God, my news be worth a welcome, lord.
The earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards; with him, prince John.
Hot.
No harm: What more?
Ver.
And further, I have learn'd,—
The king himself in person is set forth,
Or hitherwards intended speedily,
With strong and mighty preparation.
Hot.
He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,
6 noteThe nimble-footed mad-cap prince of Wales,
-- 386 --
And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside,
And bid it pass?
Ver.
7 note
All furnish'd, all in arms,
-- 387 --
8 noteAll plum'd like estridges, that with the wind
Bated like eagles having lately bath'd:
9 note
Glittering in golden coats, like images;
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
1 note
I saw young Harry,—with his beaver on,
-- 388 --
2 note
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,—
Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
3 noteAnd witch the world with noble horsemanship.
Hot.
No more, no more; worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come;
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours:—Come, let me take my horse,
Who is to bear me, like a thunder-bolt,
Against the bosom of the prince of Wales:
4 note
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse—
-- 389 --
Meet, and ne'er part, 'till one drop down a corse.—
O, that Glendower were come!
Ver.
There is more news:
I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
Doug.
That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet.
Wor.
Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
Hot.
What may the king's whole battle reach unto?
Ver.
To thirty thousand.
Hot.
Forty let it be;
My father and Glendower being both away,
The powers of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily:
Dooms-day is near; die all, die merrily.
Doug.
Talk not of dying; I am out of fear
Of death, or death's hand, for this one half year.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
