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
-- 282 --
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 boys
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.
Oh 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,
But that the a noteearthy 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!
I'll-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.
But let my favours hide thy mangled face,
And ev'n in thy behalf, I'll thank my self
-- 283 --
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.
O, 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.
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
