SCENE II.
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, sev'n thousand strong,
Is marching hither, with Prince John of Lancaster.
Hot.
No harm; what more?
Ver.
And further, I have learn'd,
The King himself in person hath set forth,
Or hitherwards 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 dast the world aside
And bid it pass?
Ver.
All furnisht, all in arms,
All plum'd like Estridges, that with the wind
2 noteBaited 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;
-- 174 --
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
3 note
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
4 noteHis cuisses 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,
5 noteAnd 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,
And 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 reprisal 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 Pow'r this fourteen days.
-- 175 --
Dowg.
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 Battle reach unto?
Ver.
To thirty thousand.
Hot.
Forty let it be;
My father and Glendower being both away,
The Pow'r of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily:
Dooms-day is near; die all, die merrily.
Dowg.
Talk not of dying, I am out of fear
Of death, or death's hand, for this one half year.
[Exeunt.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
