King.
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, then my condition,
Which hath been smooth as Oyl, soft as young Down,
And therefore lost the Title of Respect,
Which the proud ne're 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 holp to make so portly.

Nor.
My Lord.

King.
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.
You were about to speak.

North.
Yea, 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 delivered to your Majesty:
Who either through envy, or misprision,
Was 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 Toyl,
Breathless and faint leaning upon my Sword,
Came there a certain Lord, neat and trimly drest;
Fresh as a Bride-groom, and his Chin new reapt,
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 Civit-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 tlak'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: Among the rest, demanded
My Prisoners, in your Majesties behalf.
I then, all-smarting with my Wounds being cold,
(To be so pestered with a Popingay)
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,
That Villanous Salt-peter 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 Souldier.
This bald, unjointed Chat of his (my Lord)
Made me to answer 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 considered, good my Lord,
What ever 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.

King.
Why yet he doth deny his Prisoners,
But with Proviso and Exception,
That we at our own Charge, shall ransom streight
His Brother-in-law the foolish Mortimer,
Who (in 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 married. Shall our Coffers then
Be emptied, to redeem a Traitor home?
Shall we buy Treason? and indent with Fears?
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,
But by the Chance of War: to prove that true,
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 crisped-head in a hollow Bank,
Blood-stained with these valiant Combatants.
Never did base, and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly Wounds;
Nor never could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly:
Then let him not be slander'd with Revolt.

King.
Thou do'st belye him, Percy, thou do'st belye him;
He never did encounter with Glendower:
I tell thee, he durst as well have met the Devil alone,
As Owen Glendower for an Enemy.
Art thou not asham'd? But Sirrah, henceforth
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 displesie ye. My Lord Northumberland
We license your departure with your Son:
Send us your Prisoners, or you'll hear of it. [Exit King.

Hot.
And if the Devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after streight
And tell him so: for I will ease my Heart,
Although it be with hazard of my Head.

Nor.
What? drunk with Choller? 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 joyn with him.
In his behalf, I'll empty all those Veins,
And shed my dear Blood drop by drop i'th' dust,
But I will lift the downfaln Mortimer
As high i'th' Air as this unthankful King,
And this ingrate and cankred Bullingbrook.

Nor.
Brother, the King hath made your Nephew mad.

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 Wives Brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my Face he turn'd an Eye of death,
Trembling even at the Name of Mortimer.

Wor.
I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim'd
By Richard that dead is, the next of Blood?

Nor.
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 Worlds wide mouth
Live so scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of.

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

Nor.
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 wore the detested Blot
Of murtherous Subornations? 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, if 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,
Did gage 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 Cancker Bullingbrook?
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,
Even 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 conveying Discontents,
I'le read your Matter, deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and adventurous Spirit,
As to o're-walk a Current, roaring loud,
On the unstedfast 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 in from the North to South,
And let them grapple: The Blood more stirs
To rowze a Lyon, than to start a Hare.

Nor.
Imagination of some great Exploit,
Drives him beyond the bounds of Patience.

Hot.
By Heaven, methinks it were an easie leap,
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 drown'd Honour by the Locks:
So he that doth redeem her thence, might wear
Without Co-rival, 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,
And list to me.

Hot.
I cry you mercy.

Wor.
Those same Noble Scots
That are your Prisoners.

Hot.
I'll keep them all.
By Heaven, 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.
Nay, 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 lies a sleep,
And in his Ear Ill holla, Mortimer.
Nay, I'll have a Starling shall be 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 Bullingbrook,
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 would have poyson'd him with a pot of Ale.

Wor.
Farewell, Kinsman: I'll talk to you
When you are temperd to attend.

Nor.
Why what a wasp-tongu'd and impatient Fool
Art thou, to break into this Womans mood,
Tying thine Ear to no Tongue but thine own?

Hot.
Why look you, I am whipt and scourg'd with rods?
Netled and stung with Pismires, when I hear
Of this vile Politician Bullingbrook.
In Richard's time: What de'ye call the place?
A plague upon't, it is in Glocester-shire:
'Twas where the madcap Duke his Uncle kept,
His Uncle York, where I first bow'd my Knee
Unto the King of Smiles, this Bullingbrook:
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

Nor.
At Berkley Castle.

Hot.
You say true:
Why what a gaudy deal of Curtesie
This fawning Gray-hound then did proffer me.
Look when his infant Fortune came to age,
And gentle Harry Percy, and kind Cousin:
O, 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, insooth.

Wor.
Then once more to your Scottish Prisoners.
Deliver them up without their Ransom streight,
And make the Dowglas Son your only mean
For Powers in Scotland: Which for divers Reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assur'd
Will easily be granted to you, my Lord.
Your Son in Scotland being thus employ'd,
Shall secretly in the bosom creep
Of that same noble Prelate, well belov'd,
The Arch-Bishop.

Hot.
Of York, is't not?

Wor.
True, who bears hard
His Brothers death at Bristow, 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:
Upon my Life, it will do wondrous well.

Nor.
Before the game's a foot, thou still lett'st slip.

Hot.
Why it cannot choose but be a noble Plot,
And then the Power of Scotland, and of York
To joyn with Mortimer, Ha.

Wor.
And so they shall.

Hot.
In faith it is exceeding 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 think our selves unsatisfied,
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 lo, Mortimer,
Where you, and Dowglas, and our Powers 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.

Nor.
Farewell, good Brother, we shall thrive, I trust.

Hot.
Uncle, adieu: O let Hours be short,
Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport. [Exit.

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