Colevile.
York.
What is the Forest call'd?
Hast.
'Tis Gualtree Forest, and't please your Grace.
York.
Stand here, my Lords, and send discoveries forth,
To know the number of our Enemies.
Hast.
We have sent already.
York.
'Tis well done.
My Friends and Brethren, in these great Affairs,
I must acquaint you, that I have receiv'd
New-dated Letters from Northumberland:
Their cold intent, tenure and substance thus.
How doth he wish his Person, with such Powers
As might hold sortance with his Quality,
-- 1254 --
The which he could not levy; whereupon
He is retir'd, to ripe his growing Fortunes,
To Scotland: And concludes in hearty Prayers,
That your Attempts may over live the hazard,
And fearful meeting of their Opposite.
Mow.
Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground,
And dash themselves to pieces.
Enter a Messenger.
Hast.
Now, what News?
Mess.
West of this Forest, scarcely off a mile,
In goodly form comes on the Enemy:
And by the ground they hide, I judge their number
Upon, or near, the rate of thirty thousand.
Mow.
The just proportion that we gave them out.
Let us sway on, and face them in the Field.
Enter Westmorland.
York.
What well appointed Leader fronts us here?
Mow.
I think it is my Lord of Westmorland.
West.
Health and fair Greeting from our General,
The Prince, Lord John, and Duke of Lancaster.
York.
Say on, my Lord of Westmorland, in peace:
What doth concern your coming?
West.
Then, my Lord,
Unto your Grace do I in chief address
The substance of my Speech. If that Rebellion
Came like it self, in base and abject Routs,
Led on by bloody Youth, guarded with Rage,
And countenanc'd by Boys and Beggary:
I say, if damn'd Commotion so appear
In his true, native, and most proper shape,
You, Reverend Father, and these Noble Lords,
Had not been here to dress the ugly Form
Of base and bloody Insurrection,
With your fair Honours. You, Lord Archbishop,
Whose See is by a Civil Peace maintain'd,
Whose Beard the Silver Hand of Peace hath touch'd,
Whose Learning and good Letters Peace hath tutor'd,
Whose white Investments figure Innocence,
The Dove, and very blessed Spirit of Peace;
Wherefore do you so ill translate your self,
Out of the speech of Peace, that bears such Grace,
-- 1255 --
Into the harsh and boist'rous Tongue of War?
Turning your Books to Graves, your Ink to Blood,
Your Pens to Launces, and your Tongue divine
To a lowd Trumpet, and a Point of War?
York.
Wherefore do I this? So the Question stands.
Briefly to this end: We are all diseas'd,
And, with our surfeiting and wanton hours,
Have brought our selves into a burning Feaver,
And we must bleed for it: Of which Disease
Our late King Richard, being infected, dy'd.
But, my most Noble Lord of Westmorland,
I take not on me here as a Physician,
Nor do I, as an Enemy to Peace,
Troop in the throngs of military Men:
But rather shew a while like fearful War,
To diet rank Minds, sick of Happiness,
And purge th' obstructions which begin to stop
Our very Veins of Life. Hear me more plainly.
I have in equal Ballance justly weigh'd,
What Wrongs our Arms may do, what Wrongs we suffer,
And find our Griefs heavier than our Offences.
We see which way the Stream of Time doth run,
And are inforc'd from our most quiet there,
By the rough Torrent of Occasion,
And have the summary of all our Griefs,
When time shall serve, to shew in Articles,
Which long e'er this we offer'd to the King,
And might by no Suit gain our Audience:
When we are wrong'd and would unfold our Griefs,
We are deny'd access unto his Person,
Even by those Men that most have done us wrong.
The dangers of the Day's but newly gone,
Whose Memory is written on the Earth
With yet appearing Blood; and the Examples
Of every minutes instance, present now,
Hath put us in these ill-beseeming Arms:
Not to break Peace, or any Branch of it,
But to establish here a Peace indeed,
Concurring both in Name and Quality.
West.
When ever yet was your Appeal deny'd?
Wherein have you been galled by the King?
-- 1256 --
What Peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you,
That you should seal this lawless bloody Book
Of forg'd Rebellion with a Seal divine?
York.
My Brother General, the Commonwealth
I make my Quarrel in particular.
West.
There is no need of any such Redress;
Or if there were, it not belongs to you.
Mow.
Why not to him in part, and to us all,
That feel the bruises of the Days before,
And suffer the Condition of these Times
To lay an heavy and unequal Hand upon our Honours?
West.
O my good Lord Mowbray,
Construe the Times to their Necessities,
And you shall say, indeed, it is the Time,
And not the King, that doth you Injuries.
Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
Either from the King, or in the present Time,
That you should have an inch of any Ground
To build a Grief on: Were you not restor'd
To all the Duke of Norfolk's Seignories,
Your noble and right well remembred Father's?
Mow.
What thing, in Honour, had my Father lost
That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me?
The King that lov'd him, as the State stood then,
Was forc'd, perforce compell'd to banish him:
And when, that Henry Bullingbroke and he
Being mounted, and both rowsed in their Seats,
Their neighing Coursers daring of the Spur,
Their armed Staves in charge, their Beavers down,
Their Eyes of Fire, sparkling through sights of Steel,
And the loud Trumpet blowing them together:
Then, then, when there was nothing could have staid
My Father from the Breast of Bullingbroke;
O, when the King did throw his Warder down,
His own Life hung upon the Staff he threw,
Then threw he down himself and all their Lives,
That by Indictment, and by dint of Sword,
Have since miscarried under Bullingbroke.
West.
You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.
The Earl of Hereford was reputed then
In England the most valiant Gentleman.
-- 1257 --
Who knows, on whom Fortune would then have smil'd?
But if your Father had been Victor there,
He ne'er had born it out of Coventry.
For all the Country, in a general Voice,
Cry'd hate upon him; and all their Prayers, and Love,
Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,
And bless'd, and grac'd, more than the King himself.
But this is meer digression from my Purpose.
Here come I from our Princely General,
To know your Griefs; to tell you from his Grace,
That he will give you Audience; and wherein
It shall appear, that your Demands are just,
You shall enjoy them, every thing set off
That might so much as think you Enemies.
Mow.
But he hath forc'd us to compel this Offer,
And it proceeds from Policy, not Love.
West.
Mowbray, you over-ween to take it so:
This Offer comes from Mercy, not from Fear.
For lo, within a Ken our Army lyes;
Upon mine Honour, all too confident
To give admittance to a thought of Fear.
Our Battel is more full of Names than yours,
Our Men more perfect in the use of Arms,
Our Armour all as strong, our Cause the best;
Then Reason will, our Hearts should be as good.
Say you not then our Offer is compell'd.
Mow.
Well, by my Will we shall admit no Parley.
West.
That argues but the shame of your Offence:
A rotten Case abides no handling.
Hast.
Hath the Prince John a full Commission,
In very ample Virtue of his Father,
To hear, and absolutely to determine
Of what Conditions we shall stand upon?
West.
That is intended in the General's Name:
I muse you make so slight a Question.
York.
Then take, my Lord of Westmorland, this Schedule,
For this contains our general Grievances:
Each several Article herein redress'd,
All Members of our Cause, both here, and hence,
That are insinewed to this Action,
Acquitted by a true substantial Form,
-- 1258 --
And present Executions of our Wills,
To us, and to our Purposes confin'd,
We come within our awful Banks again,
And knit our Powers to the Arm of Peace.
West.
This will I shew the General. Please you, Lords,
In sight of both our Battels, we may meet
At either end in Peace; which Heav'n so frame,
Or to the place of difference call the Swords,
Which must needs decide it.
York.
My Lord, we will do so.
[Exit. West.
Mow.
There is a thing within my Bosom tells me,
That no Condition of our Peace can stand.
Host.
Fear you not that, if we can make our Peace
Upon such large Terms, and so absolute,
As our Conditions shall insist upon,
Our Peace shall stand as firm as Rocky Mountains.
Mow.
Ay, but our Valuation shall be such,
That every slight, and false-derived Cause,
Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton Reason,
Shall to the King taste of this Action;
That were our Royal Faiths, Martyrs in Love,
We shall be winnowed with so rough a Wind,
That even our Corn shall seem as light as Chaff,
And good from bad find no partition.
York.
No, no, my Lord, note this; the King is weary
Of dainty, and such picking Grievances:
For he hath found, to end one doubt by Death,
Revives two greater in the Heirs of Life.
And therefore will he wipe his Tables clean,
And keep no Tell-tale to his Memory,
That may repeat, and History his Loss,
To new Remembrance. For full well he knows,
He cannot so precisely weed this Land,
As his misdoubts present occasion:
His Foes are so enrooted with his Friends,
That plucking to unfix an Enemy,
He doth unfasten so, and shake a Friend.
So that this Land, like an offensive Wife,
That hath enrag'd him on, to offer strokes,
As he is striking, holds his Infant up,
-- 1259 --
And hangs resolv'd Correction in the Arm,
That was uprear'd to Execution.
Hast.
Besides, the King hath wasted all his Rods
On late Offenders, that he now doth lack
The very Instruments of Chastisement:
So that his Power, like to a Fangless Lion
May offer, but not hold.
York.
'Tis very true:
And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal,
If we do now make our Atonement well,
Our Peace will, like a broken Limb united,
Grow stronger, for the breaking.
Mow.
Be it so.
Here is return'd my Lord of Westmorland.
Enter Westmorland.
West.
The Prince is here at hand: Pleaseth your Lordship
To meet his Grace, just distance 'tween our Armies?
Mow.
Your Grace of York, in Heav'n's Name then forward.
York.
Before, and greet his Grace, my Lord, we come.
Enter Prince John of Lancaster.
Lan.
You are well encountred here, my Cousin Mowbray;
Good Day to you, gentle Lord Arch-Bishop,
And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.
My Lord of York, it better shew'd with you,
When that your Flock, assembled by the Bell,
Encircled you, to hear with reverence
Your Exposition on the holy Text,
Than now to see you here an Iron Man,
Cheering a rout of Rebels with your Drum,
Turning the Word to Sword, and Life to Death.
That Man that sits within a Monarch's Heart,
And ripens in the Sun-shine of his Favour,
Would he abuse the Countenance of the King,
Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach,
In shadow of such greatness? With you, Lord Bishop,
It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken,
How deep you were within the Books of Heav'n?
To us, the Speaker in his Parliament;
To us, the imagine Voice of Heav'n it self;
The very Opener, and Intelligencer
-- 1260 --
Between the Grace, the Sanctities of Heav'n,
And our dull workings. O, who shall believe,
But you misuse the reverence of your Place,
Employ the Countenance and Grace of Heav'n,
As a false Favourite doth his Prince's Name,
In Deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,
Under the counterfeited Zeal of Heav'n,
The Subjects of Heav'n's Substitute, my Father,
And both against the Peace of Heav'n, and him,
Have here up-swarmed them.
York.
Good my Lord of Lancaster,
I am not here against your Father's Peace:
But, as I told my Lord of Westmorland,
The time, mis-order'd, doth in common Sense
Crowd us, and crush us, to this monstrous Form,
To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace
The Parcels and Particulars of our Grief,
The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the Court:
Whereon this Hydra-Son of War is born,
Whose dangerous Eyes may well be charm'd asleep,
With grant of our most just and right desire;
And true Obedience, of this Madness cur'd,
Stoop tamely to the foot of Majesty.
Mow.
If not, we ready are to try our Fortunes
To the last Man.
Hast.
And though we here fall down,
We have Supplies to second our Attempt:
If they miscarry, theirs shall second them.
And so, success of mischief shall be born,
And Heir from Heir shall hold this Quarrel up,
Whiles England shall have Generation.
Lan.
You are too shallow, Hastings,
Much too shallow,
To sound the bottom of the after-times.
West.
Pleaseth your Grace, to answer them directly,
How far-forth you do like their Articles?
Lan.
I like them all, and do allow them well:
And swear here, by the Honour of my Blood,
My Father's purposes have been mistook,
And some, about him, have too lavishly
Wrested his Meaning and Authority.
-- 2261 --
My Lord, these Griefs shall be with speed redrest;
Upon my Life, they shall. If this may please you,
Discharge your Powers unto their several Counties,
As we will ours; and here between the Armies,
Let's drink together friendly, and embrace,
That all their Eyes may bear those Tokens home,
Of our restored Love and Amity.
York.
I take your Princely word, for these redresses.
Lan.
I give it you, and will maintain my word;
And thereupon I drink unto your Grace.
Hast.
Go Captain, and deliver to the Army
This News of Peace; let them have Pay, and part:
I know it will well please them.
Hie thee, Captain.
[Exit Colevile.
York.
To you, my noble Lord of Westmorland.
West.
I pledge your Grace:
And if you knew what pains I have bestow'd,
To breed this present Peace,
You would drink freely; but my Love to ye
Shall shew it self more openly hereafter.
York.
I do not doubt you.
West.
I am glad of it.
Health to my Lord, and gentle Cousin Mowbray.
Mow.
You wish me Health in very happy Season,
For I am on the sudden something ill.
York.
Against ill Chances Men are ever merry,
But Heaviness fore-runs the good Event.
West.
Therefore be merry, Coz, since sudden Sorrow
Serves to say thus; some good thing comes to morrow.
York.
Believe me, I am passing light in Spirit.
Mow.
So much the worse, if your own Rule be true.
Lan.
The word of Peace is render'd; hark how they
shout.
Mow.
This had been chearful after Victory.
York.
A peace is of the Nature of a Conquest;
For then both Parties nobly are subdu'd,
And neither Party loser.
Lan.
Go, my Lord,
And let our Army be discharged too.
[Exit. West.
And, good my Lord, so please you, let our Trains
-- 1262 --
March by us, that we may Peruse the Men,
We should have cop'd withal.
Bish.
Go, good Lord Hastings:
And e'er they be dismiss'd, let them march by.
[Exit Host.
Lan.
I trust, Lords, we shall to night lye together.
Enter Westmorland.
Now Cousin, wherefore stands our Army still?
West.
The Leaders, having Charge from you to stand,
Will not go off until they hear you speak.
Lan.
They know their Duties.
Enter Hastings.
Hast.
Our Army is dispers'd:
Like Youthful Steers unyoak'd, they took their Course
East, West, North, South: Or like a School broke up,
Each hurries towards his Home, and sporting Place.
West.
Good Tidings, my Lord Hastings, for the which
I do arrest thee, Traitor, of High Treason:
And you Lord Arch-bishop, and you Lord Mowbray,
Of Capital Treason, I attach you both.
Mow.
Is this Proceeding just and honourable?
West.
Is your Assembly so?
York.
Will you thus break your Faith?
Lan.
I pawn'd you none:
I promis'd you Redress of these same Grievances
Whereof you did complain; which by mine Honour,
I will perform, with a most Christian Care.
But for you, Rebels, look to taste the Due
Meet for Rebellion, and such Acts as yours.
Most shallowly did you these Arms commence,
Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.
Strike up our Drums, pursue the scatter'd stray,
Heaven, and not we, have safely fought to Day.
Some guard these Traitors to the Block of Death,
Treasons true Bed, and yielder up of Breath.
[Exeunt.
Enter Falstaffe and Colevile.
Fal.
What's your Name, Sir? Of what Consideration are
you? And of what place, I pray?
Col.
I am a Knight, Sir:
And my Name is Colevile of the Dale.
Fal.
Well then, Colevile is your Name, a Knight is your
Degree, and your Place, the Dale. Colevile shall still be
-- 1263 --
your Name, a Traitor your Degree, and the Dungeon your
Place, a place deep enough: So shall you still be Colevile of
the Dale.
Cole.
Are not you Sir John Falstaff?
Fal.
As good a Man as he, Sir, who e'er I am: Do ye
yield, Sir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are
the drops of thy Lovers, and they weep for thy Death,
therefore rowze up Fear and Trembling, and do observance
to my Mercy.
Cole.
I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought
yield me.
Fal.
I have a whole School of Tongues in this Belly of
mine, and not a Tongue of them all speaks any other word
but my Name: And I had but a Belly of any indifferency,
I were simply the most active Fellow in Europe: My
Womb, my Womb, my Womb undoes me. Here comes our
General.
Enter Prince John of Lancaster and Westmorland.
Lan.
The Heat is past, follow no farther now,
Call in the Powers, good Cousin Westmorland.
[Exit West.
Now Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When every thing is ended, then you come.
These tardy Tricks of yours will, on my Life,
One time or other, break some Gallow's Back.
Fal.
I would be sorry, my Lord, but it should be thus:
I never knew yet, but rebuke and check was the reward of
Valour. Do you think me a Swallow, an Arrow, or a Bullet?
Have I, in my poor and old Motion, the expedition of
Thought? I speeded hither with the very extremest Inch
of Possibility. I have foundred ninescore and odd Posts:
And here, Travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and
immaculate Valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the Dale, a
most furious Knight, and valorous Enemy: But what of
that? He saw me, and yielded; that I may justly, say with
the hook-nos'd Fellow of Rome, I came, saw, and overcame.
Lan.
It was more of his Courtesie, than your Deserving.
Fal.
I know not; here he is, and here I yield him; and
I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this
days deeds; or, I swear, I will have it in a particular,
Ballad, with mine own Picture on the top of it, Colevile
-- 1264 --
kissing my foot: To the which course, if I be enforc'd, if
you do not all shew like gilt two-pences to me; and I, in
the clear Sky of Fame, o'er-shine you as much as the full
Moon doth the Cynders of the Element, which shew like
Pins Heads to her, believe not the word of the Noble; therefore
let me have right, and let Desert mount.
Lan.
Thine's too heavy too mount.
Fal.
Let it shine then.
Lan.
Thine's too thick to shine.
Fal.
Let it do something, my good Lord, that may do
me good, and call it what you will.
Lan.
Is thy Name Colevile?
Cole.
It is, my Lord.
Lan.
A famous Rebel art thou, Colevile.
Fal.
And a famous true Subject took him.
Cole.
I am, my Lord, but as my Betters are,
That led me hither; had they been rul'd by me,
You should have won them dearer than you have.
Fal.
I know not how they sold themselves; but thou,
like a kind Fellow, gav'st thy self away; and I thank thee,
for thee.
Enter Westmorland.
Lan.
Have you left pursuit?
West.
Retreat is made, and Execution stay'd.
Lan.
Send Colevile, with his Confederates,
To York, to present Execution.
Blunt, lead him hence, and see you guard him sure.
[Exit Colevile.
And now dispatch we toward the Court, my Lords;
I hear the King, my Father, is sore sick;
Our News shall go before us to his Majesty,
Which, Cousin, you shall bear, to comfort him:
And we with sober speed will follow you.
Fal.
My Lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through
Glocestershire; and when you come to Court, stand my good
Lord, 'pray, in your good report.
Lan.
Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition,
Shall better speak of you, than you deserve.
[Exit.
Fal.
I would you had but the Wit; 'twere better than
your Dukedome. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded
Boy doth not love me, nor a Man cannot make
-- 1265 --
him laugh; but that's no marvel, he drinks no Wine. There's
never any of these demure Boys come to any proof; for thin
drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many Fish-Meals,
that they fall into a kind of Male Green-sickness; and
then, when they marry, they get Wenches. They are generally
Fools, and Cowards; which some of us should be
too, but for inflammation. A good Sherris-Sack hath a two-fold
Operation in it; it ascends me into the Brain, dries me
there all the foolish, and dull, and crudy Vapours, which
environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of
nimble, fiery, and delectable Shapes; which deliver'd o'er
to the Voyce, the Tongue, which is the Birth, becomes
excellent Wit. The second property of your excellent Sherris,
is, the warming of the Blood; which before, cold and
settled, left the Liver white and pale; which is the Badge
of Pusillanimity, and Cowardice; but the Sherris warms it,
and makes it course from the inwards, to the Parts extreme;
it illuminateth the Face, which, as a Beacon, gives warning
to all the rest of this little Kingdom, Man, to arm; and
then the Vital Commoners, and inland petty Spirits, muster
me all to their Captain, the Heart; who great, and puft up
with his Retinue, doth any deed of Courage; and this Valour
comes of Sherris. So that Skill in the Weapon is nothing,
without Sack, for that sets it a work; and Learning a
meer Hoard of Gold, kept by a Devil, till Sack commences
it, and sets it in Act, and use. Hereof comes it, that Prince
Harry is valiant; for the cold Blood he did naturally inherit
of his Father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare Land, manured,
husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavour of
drinking good and good store of fertil Sherris, that he is
become very hot, and valiant. If I had a thousand Sons,
the first Principle I would teach them, should be to forswear
thin Potations, and to addict themselves to Sack.
Enter Bardolph.
How now, Bardolph?
Bard.
The Army is discharged all, and gone.
Fal.
Let them go; I'll through Glocestershire, and there will
I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire: I have him already
tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly
will I seal with him. Come away.
[Exeunt.
-- 1266 --
SCENE II.
Enter King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, and Gloucester.
K. Henry.
Now Lords, if Heav'n doth give successful end
To this Debate that bleedeth at our doors,
We will our Youth lead on to higher Fields,
And draw no Swords, but what are sanctifi'd.
Our Navy is address'd, our Power collected,
Our Substitutes, in absence, well invested,
And every thing lyes level to our wish;
Only we want a little personal strength:
And pawse us, till these Rebels, now a-foot,
Come underneath the Yoak of Government.
War.
Both which we doubt not, but your Majesty
Shall soon enjoy.
K. Henry.
Humphry, my Son of Gloucester, where is the
Prince your Brother?
Glo.
I think he's gone to hunt, my Lord, at Windsor.
K. Henry.
And how accompanied?
Glo.
I do not know, my Lord.
K. Henry.
Is not his Brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?
Glo.
No, my good Lord, he is in presence here.
Clar.
What would my Lord and Father?
K. Henry.
Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence,
How chance thou art not with the Prince, thy Brother?
He loves thee, and thou do'st neglect him, Thomas;
Thou hast a better place in his Affection
Than all thy Brothers: Cherish it, my Boy,
And Noble Offices thou may'st effect
Of Mediation, after I am dead,
Between his Greatness, and thy other Brethren.
Therefore omit him not; blunt not his Love,
Nor lose the good advantage of his Grace,
By seeming cold or careless of his will.
For he is gracious if he be observ'd:
He hath a Tear for Pity, and a Hand
Open as Day, for melting Charity:
Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's Flint,
As humorous as Winter, and as sudden
As Flaws congealed in the Spring of day.
-- 1267 --
His Temper therefore must be well observ'd:
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth:
But being moody, give him line and scope,
Till that his passions, like a Whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,
And thou shalt prove a Shelter to thy Friends.
A Hoop of Gold to bind thy Brothers in:
That the united Vessel of their Blood,
Mingled with Venom of Suggestion,
As force, perforce, the Age will pour it in,
Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
As Aconitum, or rash Gun-powder.
Clar.
I shall observe him with all care and love.
K. Henry.
Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?
Clar.
He is not there to day; he dines in London.
K. Henry.
And how accompanied? Can'st thou tell that?
Clar.
With Poins, and other his continual Followers.
K. Henry.
Most subject is the fattest Soil to Weeds:
And He, the Noble Image of my Youth,
Is over-spread with them; therefore my grief
Stretches it self beyond the hour of Death.
The blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape,
In forms imaginary, th' unguided Days,
And rotten Times, that you shall look upon,
When I am sleeping with my Ancestors.
For when his head-strong Riot hath no Curb,
When Rage and hot Blood are his Counsellors,
When Means and lavish Manners meet together,
Oh, with what Wings shall his Affections fly
Tow'rds fronting Peril, and oppos'd decay?
War.
My gracious Lord, you look beyond him quite:
The Prince but studies his Companions,
Like a strange Tongue; wherein, to gain the Language,
'Tis needful, that the most immodest word
Be look'd upon, and learn'd; which once attain'd,
Your Highness knows, comes to no farther use,
But to be known, and hated. So, like gross terms,
The Prince will, in the perfectness of time,
Cast off his Followers; and their Memory
Shall as a Pattern, or a Measure live,
-- 1268 --
By which his Grace must mete the lives of others,
Turning past Evils to advantages.
K. Henry.
'Tis seldom, when the Bee doth leave her Comb
In the dead Carrion.
Enter Westmorland.
Who's here? Westmorland?
West.
Health to my Soveraign, and new happiness
Added to that, that I am to deliver.
Prince John, your Son, doth kiss your Grace's hand:
Mowbray, the Bishop, Scroop, Hastings, and all,
Are brought to the Correction of your Law;
There is not now a Rebel's Sword unsheath'd,
But Peace puts forth her Olive every where:
The manner how this Action hath been born,
Here, at more leisure, may your Highness read,
With every course, in his particular.
K. Henry.
O Westmorland, thou art a Summer Bird,
Which ever, in the haunch of Winter, sings
The lifting up of day.
Enter Harecourt.
Look, here's more News.
Hare.
From Enemies Heav'n keep your Majesty;
And when they stand against you, may they fall,
As those that I am come to tell you of.
The Earl of Northumberland, and the Lord Bardolf,
With a great Power of English, and of Scots,
Are by the Sheriff of York-shire overthrown:
The manner, and true order of the fight,
This Packet, please it you, contains at large.
K. Henry.
And wherefore should these good News
Make me sick?
Will Fortune never come with both hands full,
But write her fair words still in foulest Letters?
She either gives a Stomach, and no Food,
Such are the Poor, in health; or else a Feast,
And takes away the Stomach; such are the Rich,
That have abundance, and enjoy it not.
I should rejoice now at this happy News,
And now my Sight fails, and my Brain is giddy.
O me, come near me, now I am much ill.
Glo.
Comfort your Majesty.
-- 1269 --
Cla.
Oh, my Royal Father.
West.
My Soveraign Lord, chear up your self, look up.
War.
Be patient, Princes; you do know, these Fits
Are with his Highness very ordinary.
Stand from him, give him Air:
He'll straight be well.
Cla.
No no, he cannot long hold out; these Pangs,
Th' incessant care, and labour of his Mind,
Hath wrought the Mure, that should confine it in,
So thin, that Life looks through, and will break out.
Glo.
The People fear me; for they do observe
Unfather'd Heirs, and loathly Births of Nature:
The Seasons change their manners, as the Year
Had found some Months asleep, and leap'd them over.
Cla.
The River hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between;
And the old folk, Time's doating Chronicles,
Say it did so, a little time before
That our Grand-sire Edward sick'd, and dy'd.
War.
Speak lower, Princes, for the King recovers.
Glo.
This Apoplexy will, certain, be his end.
K. Henry.
I pray you take me up, and bear me hence
Into some other Chamber: softly, 'pray.
Let there be no noise made, my gentle Friends,
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper Musick to my weary Spirit.
War.
Call for the Musick in the other Room.
K. Henry.
Set me the Crown upon my Pillow here.
Cla.
His Eye is hollow, and he changes much.
War.
Less noise, less noise.
Enter Prince Henry.
P. Henry.
Who saw the Duke of Clarence?
Cla.
I am here, Brother, full of heaviness.
P. Henry.
How now? Rain within doors, and none abroad?
How doth the King?
Glo.
Exceeding ill.
P. Henry.
Heard he the good News yet?
Tell it him.
Glo.
He alter'd much, upon the hearing it.
P. Henry.
If he be sick with Joy,
He'll recover without Physick.
-- 1270 --
War.
Not so much noise, my Lords,
Sweet Prince, speak low.
The King, your Father, is dispos'd to sleep.
Cla.
Let us withdraw into the other Room.
War.
Wil't please your Grace to go along with us?
P. Henry.
No; I will sit, and watch here by the King.
Why doth the Crown lye there, upon his Pillow,
[Exeunt all but P. Henry.
Being so troublesome a Bed-fellow?
O polish'd Perturbation! Golden Care!
That keep'st the Ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful Night: Sleep with it now,
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he whose Brow, with homely Biggen bound,
Snores out the Watch of Night. O Majesty!
When thou do'st pinch thy Bearer, thou do'st sit
Like a rich Armor, worn in heat of day,
That scald'st with safety; by his Gates of breath,
There lyes a downy Feather, which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless Down
Perforce must move. My gracious Lord! my Father!
This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep,
That from this Golden Rigol hath divorc'd
So many English Kings. Thy due from me,
Is Tears, and heavy Sorrows of the Blood,
Which Nature, Love, and filial Tenderness
Shall, O dear Father, pay thee plenteously.
My due, from thee, is this Imperial Crown,
Which, as immediate from thy place, and blood,
Derives it self to me. Lo, here it sits,
Which Heav'n shall guard:
And put the World's whole strength
Into one Gyant Arm, it shall not force
This Lineal Honour from me. This, from thee,
Will I to mine leave, As 'tis left to me.
[Exit.
Enter Warwick, Gloucester, and Clarence.
K. Henry.
Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!
Cla.
Doth the King call?
War.
What would your Majesty? how fares your Grace?
K. Henry.
Why did you leave me here alone, my Lords?
Cla.
We left the Prince, my Brother, here, my Liege;
Who undertook to sit and watch by you.
-- 1271 --
K. Henry.
The Prince of Wales! where is he? let me see him.
War.
The door is open, he is gone this way.
Glo.
He came not through the Chamber where we staid.
K. Henoy.
Where is the Crown? who took it from my
Pillow?
War.
When we with-drew, my Liege, we left it here.
K. Henry.
The Prince hath ta'en it hence:
Go seek him out.
Is he so hasty, that he doth suppose
My sleep, my death? Find him, my Lord of Warwick,
Chide him hither; this part of his conjoins
With my disease, and helps to end me.
See, Sons, what things you are:
How quickly Nature falls into revolt,
When Gold becomes her Object?
For this, the foolish over-careful Fathers
Have broke their sleeps with thought,
Their brains with care, their bones with industry.
For this, they have engrossed and pil'd up
The canker'd heaps of strange-atchiev'd Gold:
For this, they have been thoughtful to invest
Their Sons with Art, and Martial Exercises:
When, like the Bee, culling from every Flower
The virtuous Sweets, our Thighs packt with Wax,
Our Mouths with Honey, we bring it to the Hive;
And like the Bees, are murthered for our pains.
This bitter taste yield his Engrossments
To the ending Father.
Enter Warwick.
Now where is he, that will not stay so long,
Till his friend's sickness hath determin'd me?
War.
My Lord, I found the Prince in the next Room,
Washing with kindly Tears his gentle Cheeks,
With such a deep demeanour, in great sorrow,
That Tyranny, which never quafft but blood,
Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his Knife
With gentle Eye-drops. He is coming hither.
K. Henry.
But wherefore did he take away the Crown?
Enter Prince Henry.
Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry,
Depart the Chamber, leave us here alone.
[Exit.
-- 1272 --
P. Henry.
I never thought to hear you speak again.
K. Henry.
Thy wish was Father, Harry, to that thought:
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
Do'st thou so hunger for my empty Chair,
That thou wilt needs invest thee with my Honours,
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
Thou seek'st the Greatness, that will over-whelm thee:
Stay but a little; for my Cloud of Dignity
Is held from falling, with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop; my Day is dim.
Thou hast stoln that, which after some few hours
Were thine, without offence; and at my death
Thou hast seal'd up my Expectation.
Thy life did manifest, thou lov'dst me not,
And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand Daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,
To stab at half an hour of my frail life.
What! can'st thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone, and dig my Grave thy self,
And bid the merry Bells ring to thy ear,
That thou art Crowned, not that I am dead;
Let all the Tears, that should bedew my Herse,
Be drops of Balm, to sanctifie thy Head:
Only compound me with forgotten dust;
Give that, which gave thee life, unto the Worms:
Pluck down my Officers, break my Decrees;
For now a time is come, to mock at Form.
Henry the Fifth is Crown'd: Up Vanity,
Down Royal State: All you sage Cousellors hence:
And to the English Court, assemble now
From ev'ry Region, Apes of idleness.
Now Neighbour-Confines, purge you of your Scum:
Have you a Ruffian that will swear? drink? dance?
Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit
The oldest sins, the newest kinds of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England shall double gild his trebble guilt.
England shall give him Office, Honour, Might:
For the Fifth Harry, from curb'd Licence plucks
The muzzle of Restraint, and the wild Dog
-- 1273 --
Shall flesh his Tooth in every Innocent.
O my poor Kingdom, sick with civil Blows,
When that my Care could not with-hold thy Riots,
What wilt thou do, when Riot is thy Care?
O, thou wilt be a Wilderness again,
Peopled with Wolves, thy old Inhabitants.
P. Henry.
O pardon me, my Liege,
[Kneeling.
But for my Tears,
The most Impediments unto my Speech,
I had fore-stall'd this dear and deep rebuke,
E'er you, with Grief, had spoke, and I had heard
The course of it so far. There is your Crown,
And he that wears the Crown immortally,
Long guard it yours; if I affect it more,
Than as your Honour, and as your Renown,
Let me no more from this Obedience rise,
Which my most true and inward dutious Spirit
Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending.
Heav'n witness with me, when I here came in,
And found no course of breath within your Majesty,
How cold it struck my Heart. If I do feign,
O let me, in my present wildness, die,
And never live, to shew th'incredulous World,
The noble change that I have purposed.
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
(And dead almost, my Liege, to think you were)
I spake unto the Crown, as having sense,
And thus upbraided it. The care on thee depending,
Hath fed upon the Body of my Father,
Therefore, thou best of Gold art worst of Gold.
Other, less fine in Carrat, is more precious,
Preserving life, in Med'cine potable:
But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd,
Hast eat the Bearer up.
Thus, my Royal Liege,
Accusing it, I put it on my Head,
To try with it, as with an Enemy,
That had before my Face murder'd my Father,
The Quarrel of a true Inheritor:
But if it did infect my Blood with Joy,
Or swell my Thoughts to any strain of Pride,
-- 1274 --
If any Rebel, or vain Spirit of mine,
Did, with the least Affection of a Welcome,
Give entertainment to the might of it,
Let Heav'n for ever keep it from my Head,
And make me as the poorest Vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it.
K. Henry.
O my Son!
Heav'n put it in thy mind to take it hence,
That thou might'st join the more, thy Father's love,
Pleading so wisely, in excuse of it.
Come hither Harry, sit thou by my Bed,
And hear, I think, the very latest Counsel
That ever I shall breath. Heav'n knows, my Son,
By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd-ways
I met this Crown; and I my self know well
How troublesome it sate upon my Head.
To thee, it shall descend with better Quiet,
Better Opinion, better Confirmation:
For all the Soil of the Atchievment goes
With me, into the Earth. It seem'd in me,
But as an Honour snatch'd with boist'rous Hand,
And I had many living, to upbraid
My gain of it, by their Assistances,
Which daily grew to Quarrel, and to Blood-shed,
Wounding supposed Peace. All these bold Fears,
Thou seest, with peril, I have answered:
For all my Reign hath been but as a Scene
Acting that Argument. And now my Death
Changes the Mode: For what in me was purchas'd,
Falls upon thee, in a more fairer sort.
So thou the Garland wear'st successively;
Yet, though thou stand'st more sure, than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green:
And all thy Friends, which thou must make thy Friends,
Have but their Stings, and Teeth, newly taken out;
By whose fell working, I was first advanc'd,
And by whose Power, I well might lodge a Fear
To be again displac'd. Which to avoid,
I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the Holy Land;
-- 1275 --
Lest rest, and lying still, might make them look
Too near unto my State. Therefore, my Marry,
Be it thy Course to busie giddy Minds
With Foreign Quarrels; that Action, hence born out,
May waste the Memory of the former Days.
More would I, but my Lungs are wasted so,
That strength of Speech is utterly deny'd me.
How I came by the Crown, O Heaven forgive:
And grant it may, with thee, in true peace live.
P. Henry.
My gracious Liege:
You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
Then plain and right must my possession be;
Which I, with more, than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the World, will rightfully maintain.
Enter Lord John of Lancaster and Warwick.
K. Henry.
Look, look,
Here comes my John of Lancaster:
Lan.
Health, Peace and Happiness
To my Royal Father:
K. Henry.
Thou bring'st me Happiness, Son John,
But Health, alack, with youthful Wings is flown
From this bare, wither'd Trunk. Upon thy sight
My worldly Business makes a Period.
Where is my Lord of Warwick?
P. Henry.
My Lord of Warwick.
K. Henry.
Doth any Name particular belong
Unto the Lodging, where I first did swoon?
War.
'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble Lord.
K. Henry.
Laud be to Heav'n:
Even there my Life must end.
It hath been prophesy'd to me many Years,
I should not die but in Jerusalem:
Which, vainly, I suppos'd the Holy-Land.
But bear me to that Chamber, there I'll lye:
In that Jerusalem, shall Harry die.
[Exeunt.
-- 1276 --
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
