King,
So shaken as we are, so wan with Care,
Find we a time for frighted Peace to pant:
No more shall trenching War channel her Fields,
Nor bruise her Flowrets with the armed Hoofs
Of Hostile Paces.
The edge of War, like an ill-sheathed Knife,
No more shall cut his Master. Then let me hear
Of you my gentle Cousin Westmerland,
What yesternight our Council did decree,
In forwarding this dear Expedience.

West.
My Liege: This haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the Charge set down
But yesternight: When all athwart there came
A Post from Wales, loaden with heavy News;
Whose worst was, That the Noble Mortimer,
Leading the Men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
And a thousand of his People butchered:
Upon whose dead Corps there was such misuse,

Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done, as may not be
(Without much shame) retold or spoken of.

King.
It seems then, that the tidings of this Broil,
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West.
This matcht, with other like; my gracious Lord,
Far more uneven and unwelcome News
Came from the North, and thus it did report:
On Holy-Rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met, where they did spend
A sad and bloody hour:
As by discharge of their Artillery
And shape of likelihood the News was told:
For he that brought them, in the very Heat
And pride of their Contention, did take Horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

King.
Here is a dear and true industrious Friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his Horse,
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome News.
The Earl of Dowglas is discomfited,
Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights
Balk't in their own Blood did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon's Plains. Of Prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake Earl of Fife, and eldest Son
To beaten Dowglas, and the Earl of Athol,
Of Marry, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an Honourable Spoyl?
A gallant Prize? Ha, Cousin, is it not? In faith it is.

West.
A Conquest for a Prince to boast of.

King.
Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin,
In envy, that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the Father of so blest a Son:
Whil'st I by looking on the Praise of him,
See Ryot and Dishonour stain the Brow
Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov'd,
That some Night-tripping Fairy had exchang'd,
In Cradle-cloaths, our Children where they lay,
And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet:
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine:
But let him from my Thoughts. What think you, Coze,
Of this young Percie's Pride? The Prisoners,
Which he in this Adventure hath surpriz'd,
To his own use he keeps, and sends me word
I shall have none but Mardake Earl of Fife.

West.
This is his Uncles teaching. This is Worcester,
Malevolent to you in all Aspects:
Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up
The crest of Youth against your Dignity.

King.
But I have sent for him to answer this:
And for this cause a while me must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next, our Council we will hold
At Windsor, so inform the Lords,
But come your self with speed to us again,
For more is to be said, and to be done,
Than out of anger can be uttered.

West.
I will, my Liege. [Exeunt.

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