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IT, coufin, Percy; fit, good coufin Hotspur; For, by that name, as oft as Lancaster Doth fpeak of you, his cheek looks pale! and with A rifing figh, he wifheth you in heav'n.

Hor. And you in hell, as often as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

GLEN. I blame him not at my nativity, The front of heaven was full of fiery fhapes, Of burning creffets: know that, at my birth, The frame and the foundation of the earth Shook like a coward.

HOT. So it would have done

At the fame season if your mother's cat

Had kitten'd, though yourself had ne'er been born.
GLEN. I fay, the earth did shake when I was born.
HOT. I fay, the earth then was not of my mind;
If you fuppofe, as fearing you, it shook.

GLEN. The heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did


Hor. O, then the earth fhook to fee the heav'ns on fire, And not in fear of your nativity.

Difeafed nature oftentimes breaks forth


In ftrange eruptions; and the teeming earth

Is with a kind of colick pinch'd and vex'd,
By the imprisoning of unruly wind
Within her womb; which for enlargement ftriving,
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down
High tow'rs and mofs-grown fteeples. At your birth,


Our grandam earth, with this diftemperature,
In paffion fhook.

GLEN. Coufin, of many men

I do not bear thefe croffings: give me leave
To tell you once again, that at my birth
The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes;
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were ftrangely clam'rous in the frighted fields:
Thefe figns have mark'd me extraordinary,
And all the courfes of my life do fhew,
I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipt in with the fea,

That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,

Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me?

And bring him out, that is but woman's fon,

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,

Or hold me pace in deep experiments.

HOT. I think there is no man speaks better Welch.
GLEN. I can speak English, Lord, as well as you,
For I was train'd up in the English court:
Where, being young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty, lovely well,
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament;
A virtue that was never feen in you.

Hor. Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my heart,

I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!

Than one of these same metre-ballad mongers!

I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree,
And that would nothing fet my teeth on edge,
Nothing fo much as mincing poetry;
'Tis like the forc'd gait of a fhuffling nag,

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GLEN. And I can call fpirits from the vafty deep.
HOT. Why, fo can I, or fo can any mạn :'
But will they come when you do call for them?

GLEN. Why, I can teach thee to command the devil. HOT. And I can teach thee, coz, to fhame the devil, By telling truth; Tell truth and shame the devil.---

If thou haft pow'r to raise him, bring him hither, And I'll be fworn, I've pow'r to fhame him hence. Oh, while you live, Tell truth and fhame the devil.




"BUT for mine own part, my Lord, I could be well

contented to be there, in refpect of the love I bear

your house." He could be contented to be there; why is he not then?" In respect of the love he bears our house!” He fhews in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our houfe. Let me fee fome more. "The purpose you un, dertake is dangerous." Why, that is certain: it is dangerous to take a cold, to fleep, to drink : but I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower fafety. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the "friends you have named uncertain, the time itfelf unfort"ed, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoife of "fo great an oppofition." Say you fo, fay you fo? I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you He. What a lack-brain is this? By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and conftant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frofty-fpirited rogue

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this is? Why, my Lord of York commends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rafcal, I could brain him with his Lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not, befides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of next month? and are there not fome of them fet forward already? What a Pagan rascal is this! an infidel. Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a difh of skimmed milk with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will fet forward to-night.




How many thousands of my pooreft fubjects


Are at this hour afleep! O gentle Sleep, Nature's foft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,
And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness!

Why rather, Sleep, lay'ft thou in fmoaky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,

And hufh'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with founds of fweetest melody?
O thou dull god, why lay'ft thou with the vile
In loathfome beds, and leav'ft the kingly couch,

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A watch

A watch-cafe to a common larum-bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy maft,
Seal up the fhip's-boy's eyes, and rock his brains,
In cradle of the rude imperious furge;

And in the vifitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the flipp'ry shrouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes:
Canft thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose
To the wet fea-boy in an hour fo rude;
And, in the calmeft and the ftillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy lowly clown;
Uneafy lies the head that wears a crown.

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P. HENRY. I NEVER thought to hear you speak again. K. HENRY. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.

I ftay too long by thee, I weary thee.
Doft thou fo hunger for my empty chair,

That thou wilt needs inveft thee with my honours,
Before thy hour be ripe! O foolish youth!

Thou feek'ft the greatness that will overwhelm thee.

Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity

Is held from falling with so weak a wind,

That it will quickly drop; my day is dim.
Thou haft ftol'n that, which after fome few hours,


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