SCENE III.-Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, as King; PERCY, and other Lords.

Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty son? "Tis full three months since I did see him last: If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to Heaven, my lords, he might be found:
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions-
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to support
So dissolute a crew.

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,

And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford. Boling. And what said the gallant?

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the stews, And from the common'st creature pluck a glove, And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Boling. As dissolute as desperate: yet through both
I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Which elder days may happily bring forth.
But who comes here?

[Exeunt PERCY and Lords. What is the matter with our cousin now? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels.

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.

Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault?

If but the first, how heinous ere it be,
To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.

York. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.

tore it from the traitor's bosom, king;
Fear and not love, begets his penitence:
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart
Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!
O loyal father of a treacherous son!

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy passages
Hath held his current, and defil'd himself'
Thy overflow of good converts to bad;
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse
This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd;
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping father's gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,
Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies;
Thou kill'st me in his life, giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
Duch. [Within.] What ho, my liege! for
Heaven's sake let me in.

Boling. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door: A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Boling. Our scene is alter'd.-- from a serious thing
And now chang'd to "The Beggar and the King."'
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;
I know she's come to pray for your foul sin.

More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests sound;
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter DUCHESS.

Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted man;
Love, loving not itself, none other can.
York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make
here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
Duch. Sweet York, be patient.

gentle liege.
Boling. Rise up, good aunt.
Duch.

[Drawing.

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.
Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe.
Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;
Thou hast no cause to fear.

York. [Within] Open the door, secure, foolhardy king;

Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.
[BOLINGBROKE opens the door.
Enter YORK.

Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak;
Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know

The treason that my haste forbids me show.
Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise
past:

I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederato with my hand.

Hear me, [Kneels.

Not yet, I thee beseech: And never see day that the happy sees, Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy, By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. Aum. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee. [Kneels. [Kneels. [Ill mayest thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!] Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face; His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:

York. Against them both my true joints bended be.

Say-pardon, king: let pity teach thee how :
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for kings' mouths so meet.
York. Speak it in French, king: say, pardonnez

moy.

Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That sett'st the word itself against the word!
Speak, pardon, as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:
Or, in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear;
That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do
pierce,

Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
Duch.
I do not sue to stand,
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.
Boling. I pardon him, as Heaven shall pardon me.
Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;
Twice saying pardon doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.
Boling.

I pardon him.

Duch.

With all my heart

A god on earth thou art.

As thus,-Come, little ones; and then again,-
It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.
Thoughts tending to ambition they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame
That many have, and others must sit there.
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortunes on the back
Of such as have before endur'd the like.
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: Sometimes am I a king.
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: Then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and by-and-by,
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing:-But, whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleas'd till he be eas'd

the abbot,

With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle, help to order several powers
To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewell,-and cousin, too, adieu:
Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son;-I pray Heaven
make thee new.
[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-Enter EXTON and a Servant. Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?

"Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear ?" Was it rot so?

K. Rich. I have been studying how to compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And. for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,

! cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world;
In humours like the people of this world,

For no thought is contented. The better sort,-
As thoughts of things divine,-are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the faith itself
Against the faith:

Ha, ha! keep time:-How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they ja
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outwardwatch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sounds that tell what hour it is
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart
Which is the bell: So sighs, and tears, and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours:- but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock,
This music mads me, let it sound no more;
For, though it have holpe madmen to their wits
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that brings it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Enter GROOM

Groom. Hail, royal prince!
K. Rich.
Thanks, noble pees;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food, to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king, When thou wert king; who, travelling towards

York,

SCENE I.-London.

Bir MICHAEL, a friend of the Archbishop.
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 Eastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

A Room in the Palace.

Enter King HENRY, WESTMORELAND, Sir WALTER BLUNT, and others.

K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time 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 entrance 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.herefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ (Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engag'd to fight), Forth with 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 hot in question, 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,
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 corpses 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 like, my gra

cious lord.

For more uneven and unwelcome news
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 they 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 earl of Fife, and eldest son
To beaten Douglas; and the Earl 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.*

mak'st me sin,

In envy that my lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so bless'd a son:

A son, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
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 be mine.
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,
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
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 to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next, our council we
Will hold at Windsor; and 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.

[Exeunt.

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 benchies after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? unless hours were cups of ck, 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 Phobus,-he, that wandering knight so fair. And I prithee, 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 t an egg and butter.

P. Hen. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's beauty; let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon. And let men say, we be men of good government; being governed as the sea is, by our

the sea is, by the moon. As for proof. Now, a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing-lay by; and spent with crying-bring in: now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder: and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

Fal. Thou say 'st true, lad. And is not my

hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

P. Hen. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

Fal. How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

P. Hen. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Fal. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

P. Hen. Did ever call for thee to pay thy part? Fal. No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

P.Hen. Yea, and elsewhere,so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not I have used mycredit. Ful. Yea, and so used it, that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent, -But, I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

P. Hen. No; thou shalt.

Fal. Shall I? O rare! I'll be a brave judge. P. Hen. Thou judgest false already; I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour, as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.

P. Hen. For obtaining of suits?

Ful. Yea, for obtaining of suits: whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. I am as melancholy as a gib cat, or a lugged bear.

P. Hen. Or an old lion; or a lover's lute.

Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. P. Ilen. What say'st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?

Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes; and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascallest, sweet young prince. But Hal, I prithee trouble me no more with vanity. I would thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought! An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir; but I marked him not: and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not: and yet he talked wisely

and in the street too

P. Hen. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration: and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm unto me, Hal,-God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now I am, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; an I do not, I am a villain; I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.