that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word, honour? What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o'Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it:therefore I'll none of it: Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism. [Exit. SCENE II. The Rebel Camp. Enter WORCESTER and VERNON. Wor. O, no, my nephew must not know, sir,Richard, The liberal kind offer of the king. Ver. "Twere best he did. Wor. Then are we all undone. It is not possible, it cannot be be, The king should keep his word in loving us; It hath the excuse of youth, and heat of blood; A harebrain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen : And, on his father's; we did train him on ; We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all. Ver. Deliver what you will, I'll say, 'tis so. Enter HOTSPUR and DOUGLAS; and Officers and Soldiers behind. Hot. My uncle is return'd :-Deliver up Wor. I told him gently of our grievances, Re-enter DOUGLAS. Doug. Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have thrown A brave defiance in king Henry's teeth, And Westmoreland, that was engag'd, did bear it; Wor. The prince of Wales stepp'd forth before the king,. And, nephew, challeng'd you to single fight. Hot. O, 'would the quarrel lay upon our heads; Spoke your deservings like a chronicle; And chid his truant youth with such a grace, England did never owe so sweet a hope, That he shall shrink under my courtesy. Arm, arm, with speed :-And, fellows, soldiers, friends, Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, here are letters for you. O gentlemen, the time of life is short; Still ending at the arrival of an hour. Enter another Messenger. Mess. My lord, prepare; the king comes on apace. Hot. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale, For I profess not talking: Only this Let each man do his best: and here draw I A sword, whose temper I intend to stain [The Trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt. SCENE III. Plain near SHREWSBURY. Excursions, and Parties fighting. Alarum to the Battle. Then enter DOUGLAS and BLUNT, meeting. Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle thus Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek Upon my head? Doug Know then, my name is Douglas ; And I do haunt thee in the battle thus, Because some tell me that thou art a king. Doug. The lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; And thou shalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford's death. [They fight, and Blunt is slain. Enter HOTSPUR. Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, I never had triumph'd upon a Scot. Doug. All's done, all's won; here breathless lies the king. Hot. Where? Doug. Here. Hot. This, Douglas? no, I know this face full well: A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt: Semblably furnish'd like the king himself. Doug. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes! A borrow'd title hast thou bought too dear. Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king? Hot. The king hath many marching in his coats. Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats; I'll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, Until I meet the king. Up, and away; Hot. Other Alarums. Enter FALSTAFF. [Exeunt. Fal. Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here's no scoring, but upon the pate.-Soft! who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt:-there's honour for you: Here's no vanity!-I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels.-I have led my raggamuffins where they are peppered: there's but three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here? Enter PRINCE HENRY. P. Hen. What, standest thou idle here? lend me thy sword: Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff, Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are unreveng'd: Pr'ythee, lend thy sword. Fal. O Hal, I pr'ythee, give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms, as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure. P. Hen. He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. Lend me thy sword, I pr'y thee. Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Perey be alive, thou get'st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt. P. Hen. Give it me: What, is it in the case? Fal. Ay, Hal; 'tis hot, 'tis hot; there's that will sack a city. [The Prince draws out a Bottle of Sack. F |