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King Henry IV.
Henry, Prince of Wales,
Prince John of Lancaster, )

Sons to the King :
Earl of Westmoreland,

Friends to the King. Sir Walter Blunt, Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland: Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his Son. Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. Scroop, Archbishop of York. Archibald, Earl of Douglas. Owen Glendower. Sir Richard Vernon. Sir John Falstaff., Poins. Gadshill. Peto. Bardolph. Lady Percy, Wife to Hotspur, and Sister to Mortimer. Lady Mortimer, Daughter to Glendower, and Wife to

Mortimer. Mrs. Quickly, Hostess of a Tavern in Fastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Curriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

SCENE, England.


SCENE I. LONDON. A Room in the Palace.


TER BLUNT, and others. K. Henry. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a lime for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote. No more the thirsty Erinnys of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood; No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces : those opposed eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery, Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks, March all one way; and be no more oppos’d Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies :

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engag’d to fight),
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers womb
To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd
For our advantage, on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose is a twelvemonth old,
And bootless'tis to tell you—we will go;
Therefore we meet not now :—Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience,

West. My liege, this haste was not in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight : when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales, loaden with beavy news;
Whose worst was,-that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
And a thousand of his people butchered:
Upon whose dead corps there was such misuse,
Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done, as may not be,
Without much shame, re-told or spoken of.

K. Hen. It seems then, that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious For more uneven and unwelcome news [lord; Came from the north, and thus it did import. On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there, Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald, That ever-valiant and approved Scot, At Holmedon met, Where did spend a sad and bloody hour;


As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told ;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

K. Hen. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The earl of Douglas is discomfited ;
Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood, did sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains : Of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake, the earl of Fife, and eldest son
To beaten Douglas ; and the earls of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honourable spoil ?
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

West. In faith, It is a conquest for a prince to boast of. K. Hen. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st

me sin

my lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so blest a son:
A son, who is the theme of honour's tongne ;
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride:
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
of my young Harry. O, that it could be prov'd,
That some night-tripping fairy had exchang'd
In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,
And call'd mine-Percy, his—Plantagenet!
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.
But let him from my thoughts :—What think you,
of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d,
To bis own use he keeps; and sends me word,
I shall have none but Mordake, earl of Fife.

In envy


West. This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,
Malevolent to you in all aspects;
Which makes him prune hímself, and bristle up
The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Hen. But I have sent for him to answer this;
And, for this cause, awhile we must neglect
Our holy purpose lo Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we
Will hold at Windsor, so inform the lords :
But come yourself with speed to us again ;
For more is to be said, and to be done,
Than out of anger can be uttered.
West. I will, my liege.


SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter HENRY Prince of Wales, and FALSTAFF.
Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad ?

P. Hen. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What the devil hast thou to do with the time of the day ? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffata; I see no reason, why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day. Fal. Indeed, you come near me, now,

Hal : for we, that take purses, go by the moon and seven stars; and not by Phoebus,-he, that wandering knight so fair. And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art king,—as, God save thy grace (majesty, I should say; for grace thou wilt have none),

P. Hen. What, none?

Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

P. Hen. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly. Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king,

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