SCENE IX.
Enter Hot-spur.
Hot.
If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.
P. Henry.
Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name.
Hot.
My name is Harry Percy.
P. Henry.
Then I see
A very valiant Rebel of that name.
I am the Prince of Wales: and think not, Percy,
To share with me in Glory any more:
Two Stars keep not their motion in one sphere;
Nor can one England brook a double Reign,
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.
Hot.
Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come
To end the one of us; and would to heav'n,
Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!
P. Henry.
I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee;
And all the budding honours on thy crest
I'll crop, to make a garland for my head.
Hot.
I can no longer brook thy vanities.
[Fight.
Enter Falstaff.
Fal.
Well said, Hal; to it, Hal. Nay, you shall
find no boy's play here, I can tell you.
Enter Dowglas, he fights with Falstaff, who falls down
as if he were dead. The Prince kills Percy.
Hot.
1 noteO, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth:
I better brook the loss of brittle life,
Than those proud Titles thou hast won of me;
They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh
But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop. O, I could prophesie,
-- 197 --
But that the earthy and cold hand of death,
Lyes on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust,
And food for—
[Dies.
P. Henry.
Worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well!
Ill-weav'd ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A Kingdom for it was too small a bound:
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough! this earth, that bears thee dead,
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
If thou wert sensible of courtesie,
I should not make so great a show of zeal.
2 noteBut let my favour hide thy mangled face,
And, ev'n in thy behalf, I'll thank my self
For doing these fair Rites of tenderness.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heav'n;
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the Grave,
But not remember'd in thy epitaph.
[He sees Falstaff.
—What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? poor Jack, farewel!
I could have better spar'd a better man.
Oh, I should have a heavy miss of thee,
If I were much in love with Vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a Deer to day,
Though many a dearer in this bloody fray:
Imbowell'd will I see thee by and by,
Till then, in blood by noble Percy lye.
[Exit.
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].
