Hot. Well, I am school'd; good manners be your

speed!

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

Re-enter Glendower, with the Ladies.

Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me,My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with you,

She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

Mort. Good father, tell her, that she, and my aunt Percy,

Shall follow in your conduct* speedily.

[Glendower speaks to his daughter in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.

Glend. She's desperate here; a peevish self-will'd harlotry,

One no persuasion can do good upon.

[Lady M. speaks to Mortimer in Welsh. Mort. I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh Which thou pourest down from these swelling hea

vens,

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a parley would I answer thee.

[Lady M. speaks.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that's a feeling disputation:

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learn'd thy language; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division, to her lutet.

Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

[Lady M. speaks again. Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this.

Glend. She bids you

*Guard, escorte.

A compliment to queen Elizabeth.

Upon the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eye-lids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mort. With all my heart I'll sit, and hear her sing:

By that time will our book*, I think, be drawn.
Glend. Do so;

And those musicians that shall play to you,
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence;
Yet straight they shall be here; sit, and attend.

Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: Come, quick, quick; that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose.

Glendower speaks some Welsh words, and then the musick plays.

Hot. Now I perceive, the devil understands Welsh ;

And 'tis no marvel, he's so humorous.

By'r-lady, he's a good musician.

Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh. Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my bracht, howl in Irish.

Lady P. Would'st thou have thy head broken?

Hot. No.

Lady P. Then be still.

Hot. Neither; 'tis a woman's fault.

Lady P. Now God help thee!

* Our paper of conditions.

+ Hound.

Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed.

Lady P. What's that?

Hot. Peace! she sings.

A Welsh SONG sung by Lady M.

Hot. Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.
Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot. Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart, you swear like a comfit-maker's wife! Not you, in good sooth; and, As true as I live; and, As God shall mend me; and, As sure as day:

And giv'st such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,
As if thou never walk'dst further than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady, as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath; and leave in sooth,
And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,

To velvet-guards†, and Sunday-citizens.
Come, sing.

Lady P. I will not sing.

Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tajlor, or be redbreast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so come in when ye will. [Exit. Glend. Come, come, lord Mortimer; you are as

slow,

As hot lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book's drawn: we'll but seal, and then To horse immediately.

Mort.

In Moorfields.

With all my heart.

[Exeunt.

+ Laced velvet, the finery of cockneys.

SCENE II.

London. A room in the palace.

Enter King Henry, Prince of Wales, and Lords. K. Hen. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I,

Must have some conference: But be near at hand, For we shall presently have need of you.

[Exeunt Lords.

I know not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That in his secret doom out of my blood
He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life,

Make me believe,-that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven,
To punish my mis-treadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate, and low desires,

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean at tempts*,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art match'd withal, and grafted to,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood,
And hold their level with thy princely heart?

P. Hen. So please your majesty, I would, I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse,

As well as, I am doubtless, I can purge
Myself of many I am charg'd withal:
Yet such extenuation let me beg,
As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,-

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,-
By smiling pick-thanks† and base newsmongers,
I may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Unworthy undertakings.

+ Officious parasites.

Hath faulty wander'd and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.

K. Hen. God pardon thee!-yet let me wonder,

Harry,

At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger brother is supplied;
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the court and princes of my blood:
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd; and the soul of every man
Prophetically does fore-think thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of meu,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company;
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession*;
And left me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark, nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But, like a comet, I was wonder'd at:

That men would tell their children, This is he:
Others would say,- Where? which is Bolingbroke?
And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dress'd myself in such humility,

That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,

Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,
Even in the presence of the crowned king.
Thus did I keep my person fresh, and new;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,

Ne'er seen, but wonder'd at: and so my state,
Seldom, but sumptuous, showed like a feast;
And won, by rareness, such solemnity.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters, and rash bavin† wits,

True to him that had then possession of the

crown.

+ Brushwood.