Mort.
This is the deadly spight that angers me,
My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

Glend.
My daughter weeps, she will not part with you,
She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

Mort.
Good father, tell her, she and my aunt Percy
Shall follow in your conduct speedily, [Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.

Glend.
She's desp'rate here: a peevish self-will'd harlotry,
That no persuasion can do good upon. [The Lady speaks in Welsh.

Mort.
I understand thy looks; that pretty Welsh,
Which thou pow'r'st down from those two swelling heavens,
I am too perfect in: and but for shame,
In such a parly should I answer thee. [The Lady again in Welsh.

Mort.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that's a feeble disputation:
But I will never be a truant, love,
'Till I have learn'd thy language: for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair Queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division to her lute.

Glend.
Nay, if thou melt, then will she run mad. [The Lady speaks again in Welsh.

Mort.
O, I am ignorance it self in this.

Glend.
She bids you,
All on the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eye-lids crown the God of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;
Making such diff'rence betwixt wake and sleep,
As is the diff'rence betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heav'nly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mort.
With all my heart I'll sit, and hear her sing:
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

Glend.
Do so;
And those musicians that shall play to you,
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence;
Yet strait they shall be here: sit, and attend.

Hot.

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady.

Go, ye giddy goose.

Hot.

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh, and 'tis no marvel he is so humorous: by'rlady he's a good musician.

Lady.

Then would you be nothing but musical, for you are altogether govern'd by humours: lie still ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

Hot.

I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

Lady.
Would'st have thy head broken?

Hot.
No.

Lady.
Then be still.

Hot.
Neither, 'tis a woman's fault.

Lady.
Now God help thee.

Hot.
To the Welsh lady's bed.

Lady.
What's that?

Hot.
Peace, she sings. [Here the Lady sings a Welsh song.
Come, I'll have your song too.

Lady.
Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot.

Not yours, in good sooth! you swear like a comfit-maker's wife, not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I love; and, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day: and givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths, as if thou never walk'dst further than Finsbury.

Lady.
I will not sing.

Hot.

'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be Robin-Red-Breast teacher: if the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours: and so come in, when ye will.

Glend.
Come, come, lord Mortimer, you are as slow,
As hot lord Percy is on fire to go.
By this, our book is drawn: we will but seal,
And then to horse immediately.

Mort.
With all my heart. [Exeunt.

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