K. Henry.
Go, call the Earls of Surrey, and Warwick:
But e'er they come, bid them o'er-read these Letters,
And well consider of them: make good speed. [Exit Page.
How many thousands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O Sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's soft Nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And steep my Senses in Forgetfulness?
Why rather, Sleep, lyest thou in smoaky Cribs,
Upon uneasie Pallads stretching thee,
And husht with buzzing Night, fly'st to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of costly State,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathsom Beds, and leav'st the Kingly Couch
A watch-case, or a common Larum-Bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Mast,
Seal up the Ship-boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the visitation of the Winds,
Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning Clamours in the slip'ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it self awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repose
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour so rude?
And in the calmest, and most stillest Night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King? Then happy Low, lye down,
Uneasie lyes the Head, that wears a Crown. Enter Warwick and Surrey.

War.
Many good-morrows to your Majesty.

K. Henry.
Is it good-morrow, Lords?

War.
'Tis one a Clock, and past.

K. Henry.
Why then good-morrow to you all, my Lords:
Have you read o'er the Letters that I sent you?

War.
We have, my Liege.

K. Henry.
Then you perceive the Body of our Kingdom,
How foul it is; what rank Diseases grow,
And with what danger, near the heart of it.

War.
It is but as a Body, yet distemper'd,
Which to the former strength may be restor'd,
With good Advice, and little Medicine;
My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd.

K. Henry.
Oh Heav'n, that one might read the Book of Fate,
And see the Revolution of the Times
Make Mountains level, and the Continent,
Weary of solid firmness, melt it self
Into the Sea; and other Times, to see
The beachy Girdle of the Ocean
Too wide for Neptune's Hips; how Chances mock
And Changes fill the Cup of Alteration
With divers Liquors. 'Tis not ten years gone,
Since Richard and Northumberland, great Friends,
Did feast together; and in two years after,
Were they at Wars. It is but eight years since,
This Percy was the man nearest my Soul;
Who like a Brother, toil'd in my Affairs,
And laid his Love and Life under my foot:
Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard
Gave him defiance. But which of you was by?
You Cousin Nevil, as I may remember, [to Warwick.
When Richard, with his Eye, brim-full of Tears,
Then check'd and rated by Northumberland,
Did speak these words, now prov'd a Prophecy.
Northumberland, thou Ladder, by the which
My Cousin Bullinbroke ascends my Throne:
(Though then, Heaven knows, I had no such intent,
But that necessity so bow'd the State,
That I and Greatness were compell'd to kiss)
The time shall come, thus did he follow it,
The time will come, that foul Sin gathering head
Shall break into Corruption: So went on,
Fore-telling this same Time's Condition,
And the division of our Amity.

War.
There is a History in all Mens Lives,
Figuring the nature of the Times deceas'd;
The which observ'd, a Man may prophesie,
With a near aim, of the main Chance of things
As yet not come to Life, which in their Seeds
And weak beginnings lie entreasured.
Such things become the Hatch and Brood of Time;
And by the necessary form of this,
King Richard might create a perfect guess,
That great Northumberland, then false to him,
Would of that Seed grow to a greater falseness,
Which should not find a Ground to root upon,
Unless on you.

K. Henry.
Are these things then Necessities?
Then let us meet them like Necessities;
And that same word, even now cries out on us:
They say the Bishop and Northumberland
Are fifty thousand strong.

War.
It cannot be, my Lord:
Rumour doth double, like the Voice of Eccho,
The number of the Feared. Please it your Grace
To go to bed, upon my Life, my Lord,
The Pow'rs that you already have sent forth,
Shall bring this Prize in very easily.
To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd
A certain instance that Glendower is dead.
Your Majesty hath been this Fort-night ill,
And these unseason'd Hours perforce must add
Unto your Sickness.

K. Henry.
I will take your Counsel:
And were these inward Wars once out of Hand,
We would, dear Lords, unto the Holy-Land. [Exeunt.

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