« ПредишнаНапред »
King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, prince of Wales,
sons to the king.
Prince John of Lancaster,
Earl of Westmoreland,
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.
Sir Richard Vernon.
Sir John Falstaff.
Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to More
timer. 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, und Attendants.
SCENE I. London. A room in the palace.
Enter King Henry, Westmoreland, Sir Walter
Blunt, and others.
King Henry. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-wioded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in strondse afar remote. No more the thirsty Erinnyst 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 iu the intestine shock
• Strands, banks of the sea.
+ The Fury of discord.
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 sepulcher 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 twelve-month old,
And bootless t'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 expediences.
West. My liege, this laste 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,
Aud 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.
• Force, army.
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious
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'dt 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 f 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
In envy that my lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so blest a son:
A son who is the theme of honour's tongue;
• September 14.
+ Covered with dirt of different colours.
# Piled up in a heap.
Amongst a grore, 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 provid,
That some night-tripping fairy had exchang'd
In cradle-clothes our children where they Jay,
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,
Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Which be 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 Worces.
Malevolent to you in all aspects* ;
Which makes him prunet 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, 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.
+ Trim, as birds clean their feathers.