Enter Hot-spur solus, reading a Letter.

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: 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? I protest, our Plot is

as good a 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 with his Lady's Fan. Is there not my Father, my Uncle, and my self, Lord Edmond Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides, the Dowglass? 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 Skim'd-Milk with so honourable an Action. Hang him, let him tell the King we are prepared. I will set forwards 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 Melancholly?
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; 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 bestirr'd thee in thy Sleep,

That Beds 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 even 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 streight. 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 that 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 sooth I'll know your Business, Harry, that I will. I fear my Brother Mortimer doth stir about his Title, and hath sent for you to line his Enterprise. But if you go—

Hot.

So far afoot, I shall be weary, Love.

Lady.

Come, come, you Paraquito, answer me directly unto this Question, that I shall ask. Indeed I'll break thy little Finger; if thou wilt not tell me 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 would'st 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 thou speakest in Jest or no.

Hot.
Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when I am a 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
Then Harry Percy's Wife. Constant you are,
But yet a Woman; and for Secresie,
No Lady closer. For I will 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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