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KING HENRY the Fourth.

HENRY, Prince of Wales,

JOHN, Prince of Lancaster, Sons to the King.





Archbishop of YORK,






>Enemies to the King.

Sir WALTER BLUNT, of the King's Party.






Companions of Falftaff.

Lady PERCY, Wife to Hotspur,

Lady MORTIMER, Daughter to Glendower, and Wife to


Hoftefs QUICKLY.

Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers,
Travellers, and Attendants.



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The Court at LONDON.

Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmorland, and others.

K. Henry.


O fhaken as we are, fo wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new

To be commenc'd in ftronds afar remote l

No more the thirfty entrance of this foil

Shall dawb her lips with her own children's blood :
No more fhall trenching War channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hoftile paces. Thofe oppofed arms
Which like the meteors of a troubled heav'n,
All of one nature, of one fubftance bred,
Did lately meet in the inteftine fhock

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And furious clofe of civil butchery,
Shall now in mutual well-befeeming ranks
March all one way, and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-fheathed knife,
No more fhall cut his mafter. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the fepulchre of Christ,

(Whofe foldier now, under whofe bleffed Cross
We are impreffed, and engag'd to fight)
Forthwith a power of English fhall we levy;
Whofe arms were moulded in their mother's womb,
To chafe these pagans, in those holy fields
Over whofe acres walk'd thofe bleffed 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 bootlefs 'tis to tell you we will go :
Therefore we meet not now, Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle coufin Westmorland,
What yefternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.

Weft, My Liege, this hafte was hot in queftion,
And many limits of the charge fet down
But yefternight: when all athwart there came
A poft from Wales, loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against th' irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken;
A thousand of his people butchered,

Upon whofe dead corps there was fuch mifufe,
Such beaftly fhameless transformation
By thofe Welfwomen done, as may not be
Without much fhame re-told or spoken of.

K. Henry, It feems then, that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the holy land.

Weft. This, matcht with other like, my gracious Lord

Farther uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the North, and thus it did import.
On holy-rood day, the gallant Hot-fpur there


Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon spent a fad and bloody hour:
As by difcharge of their artillery,

And shape of likelihood, the news was told";
For he that brought it, in the very heat
And pride of their contention, did take horse,
Uncertain of the iffue any way.

K. Henry. Here is a dear and true induftrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each foil

Betwixt that Holmedon, and this feat of ours:
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The Earl of Douglas is difcomfited,

Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights,
Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter fee
On Holmedon's plains. Of prifoners, Hot-spur took
Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest fon
Unto the beaten Dowglas, and the Earls
Of Athol, Murry, Angus, and Menteith,
And is not this an honourable spoil?
A gallant prize? ha, coufin, is it not?

Weft. In faith, a conqueft for a Prince to boast of.
K. Henry. Yea, there thou mak'ft me fad, and mak't
me fin,

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father of fo bleft a fon;

A fon, who is the theam of honour's tongue,
Amongst a grove the very streightest plant,
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride;
Whilft I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and difhonour ftain the brow
Of my young Harry. O could it be prov'd,
That fome night-tripping Fairy had exchang'd,
In cradle-cloaths, our children where they lay,
And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet;
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.

But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coufin,
Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath furpriz❜d,


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To his own use he keeps, and fends me word
I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

Weft. This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,
Malevolent to you in all afpects;

Which makes him plume himself, and bristle up
The creft of youth against your dignity.

K. Henry. But I have fent for him to answer this;
And for this caufe a while we must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerufalem.

Coufin, on Wednesday next, our council we
Will hold at Windfor, fo inform the Lords:
But come your felf with speed to us again;
For more is to be said, and to be done,
Than out of anger can be uttered.

Weft. I will, my Liege.


SCENE II. An Apartment of the Prince's. Enter Henry Prince of Wales, and Sir John Falstaff. Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

P. Henry. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking old fack, and unbuttoning thee after fupper, and fleeping upon benches in the afternoon, that thou haft forgotten to demand that truly, which thou would'st truly know. What a devil haft thou to do with the time of the day? unless hours were cups of fack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the figns of leaping-houfes, and the bleffed Sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colour'd taffata; I fee no reason why thou should'ft be fo fuperfluous, to demand the time of the day.

Fal. Indeed you come near me now, Hal. For we that take purfes, go by the moon and seven stars, and not by Phoebus, be, that wandring knight fo fair. And I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art King-as God fave thy Grace, (Majefty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none.)

P. Henry. What! none ?

Fal. No, by my troth, not fo much as will ferve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

P. Henry. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly. Fal. Marry then, fweet wag, when thou art King, let not us that are squires of the night's body, be call'd thieves


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