Hot.
Well said, my noble Scot, if speaking Truth
In this fine Age, were not thought Flattery,
Such attribution should the Dowglass have,
As not a Soldier of this Seasons stamp,
Should go so general currant through the World.
By Heav'n I cannot flatter: I defie
The Tongues of Soothers. But a braver place
In my Heart's love, hath no Man than your self.
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, Lord.

Dow.
Thou art the King of Honour:
No Man so potent breaths upon the Ground,
But I will Beard him. Enter a Messenger.

Hot.
Do so, and 'tis well. 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 is grievous sick.

Hot.
How! Has he the leisure to be sick now,
In such a justling time? Who leads his Power?
Under whose Government come they along?

Mess.
His Letters bear his Mind, not I his Mind.

Wor.
I prethee tell me, doth he keep his Bed?

Mess.
He did, my Lord, four Days e'er I set forth:
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear'd by his Physician.

Wor.
I would the state of time had first been whole,
E'er he by Sickness had been visited;
His Health was never better worth than now.

Hot.
Sick now? Droop now? This Sickness doth infect
This very Life-blood of our Enterprise,
'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
On any Soul remov'd, but on his own.
Yet doth he give us bold Advertisement,
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 now,
Because the King is certainly possest
Of all our Purposes. What say you to it?

Wor.
Your Father's Sickness is a maim to us.

Hot.
A perillous 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 Mine
On the nice hazard of one doubtful Hour,
It were not good; for therein should we read
The very bottom, and the Soul of hope,
The very List, the very utmost bound
Of all our Fortunes.

Dow.
Faith, and so we should,
Where now remains a sweet Reversion.
We may boldly spend, upon the hope
Of what is to come in:
A comfort of Retirement lives in this.

Hot.
A Rendezvous, a Home to flie 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
The Quality and Heir of our Attempt
Brooks no Division: It will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That Wisdom, Loyalty, and meer 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, we of the offering side,
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 draws a Curtain,
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 your great Enterprise,
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 topsie-turvy down.
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.

Dow.
As Heart can think:
There is not such a word spoke of in Scotland,
As this Dream of Fear, 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 Westmorland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hither-wards with Prince John.

Hot.
No harm; what more?

Ver.
And further, I have learn'd,
The King himself in Person hath set forth,
Or hither-wards intended speedily,
With strong and mighty Preparation.

Hot.
He shall be welcome too,
Where is his Son?
The nimble-footed Mad-cap, Prince of Wales,
And his Comrades, that daft the World aside,
And bid it pass?

Ver.
All furnisht, all in Arms,
All plum'd like Estridges, that wing the Wind,
Baited like Eagles, having lately bath'd,
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.
I saw young Harry with his Beaver on,
His Cushes 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,
And 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,
All to the fire-ey'd Maid of smoaky 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 Reprizal 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.
Harry to Harry, shall not Horse to Horse
Meet, and ne'er part, 'till one drop down a Coarse?
Oh, 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.

Dow.
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 Battel reach unto?

Ver.
To thirty thousand.

Hot.
Forty let it be,
My Father and Glendower being both away,
The Power of us may serve so great a Day.
Come, let us take a Muster speedily:
Dooms-day is near; die all, die merrily.

Dow.
Talk not of dying, I am out of fear
Of Death, or Death's Hand, for this one half Year. [Exeunt.

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