London. The Palace. | |
| |
Enter KING HENRY, WESTMORELAND, and Others. | |
| K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, | |
| Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, | 4 |
| And breathe short-winded accents of new broils | |
| To be commence’d in stronds afar remote. | |
| No more the thirsty entrance of this soil | |
| Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood; | 8 |
| No more shall trenching war channel her fields, | |
| Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs | |
| Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, | |
| Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, | 12 |
| 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, | 16 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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, | 24 |
| Whose arms were moulded in their mother’s 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 | 28 |
| 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 | 32 |
| Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, | |
| What yesternight our council did decree | |
| In forwarding this dear expedience. | |
| West. My liege, this haste was hot in question, | 36 |
| And many limits of the charge set down | |
| But yesternight; when all athwart there came | |
| A post from Wales loaden with heavy news; | |
| Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer, | 40 |
| 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; | 44 |
| Upon whose dead corpse’ there was such misuse, | |
| Such beastly shameless transformation | |
| By those Welshwomen done, as may not be | |
| Without much shame re-told or spoken of. | 48 |
| 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 like, my gracious lord; | |
| For more uneven and unwelcome news | 52 |
| 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, | 56 |
| At Holmedon met, | |
| Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour; | |
| As by discharge of their artillery, | |
| And shape of likelihood, the news was told; | 60 |
| 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, | 64 |
| 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. | 68 |
| 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 | 72 |
| 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? | 76 |
| 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 | 80 |
| In envy that my Lord Northumberland | |
| Should be the father to so blest a son, | |
| A son who is the theme of honour’s tongue; | |
| Amongst a grove the very straightest plant; | 84 |
| 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 | 88 |
| 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. | 92 |
| But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz, | |
| Of this young Percy’s pride? the prisoners, | |
| Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d, | |
| To his own use he keeps, and sends me word, | 96 |
| I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife. | |
| West. This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester, | |
| Malevolent to you in all aspects; | |
| Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up | 100 |
| The crest of youth against your dignity. | |
| K. Hen. But I have sent for him to answer this; | |
| And for this cause a while we must neglect | |
| Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. | 104 |
| 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 | 108 |
| Than out of anger can be uttered. | |
| West. I will, my liege. [Exeunt. | |
