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DRAMATIS PERSONË,

KING HENRY tbe Fourtb.
HENRY, Prince of Wales,

Sons to tbe King
John, Prince of Lancaster,
WORCESTER,
NORTHUMBERLAND,
HOT-SPOR,
MORTIMER,
Archbishop of York, > Enemies to the King.
DowGLAS,
OWEN GLENDOWER,
Sir RichARD VERNON,
Sir MICHELL,

j
Sir WALTER BRUNT, } of the King's Party.

John FALSTAFF.
POINS,
SADS-HILL,

Companions of Falstaff.
РЕто, ,
BARDOLPH,
Lady Percy, Wife to Hotspur,
Lady MORTIMER, Daugbter to Glendower, and Wife to

Mortimer,
Hoffefs QUICKLY.
Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers,

Travellers, and Attendants.

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SCĘ NE, ENGLAND.

Τ Η Ε

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ACT I. SCENE I.

The Court at LONDON. Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of West

morland, and others. K. Henry.

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

broils

To be commenc'd in stronds afar remotel No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall dawb 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 arms Which like the meteors of a troubled heav'n, All of one nature, of one substance bşed, Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And

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And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks
March all one way, and be no more oppos di
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies :
The edge of war, like an ill-fheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed Cross
We are impressed, and engag’d to fight)
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb,
To chase these pagans, in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk'd those blefied 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 Westworland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience,

Weft. My Liege, this halte 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 ;
Whofe 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 Wellbman taken;
A thousand of his people butchered,
Upon whose dead corps there was such misuse,
Such beastly shameless transformation
By those Welsh women done, as may not be
Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

K. Henry, It seems then, that the tidings of this broi!
Brake off our business for the holy land.

Weft. This, match 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-spur there

Young

Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon spent a sad and bloody hour :
As by discharge 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 issue any way.

K. Henry. Here is a dear and trug industrious friend,
Sir Walter

Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon, and this feat 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 fee
On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hot-Spur took
Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son
Unto the beaten Dowglas, and the Earls
Of Atbol, Murry, Angus, and Menteith,
And is not this an honourable spoil ?
A gallant prize ? ha, cousin, is it not ?

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

me fin,
In envy that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so bleft a son ;
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 dishonour ftain the brow
Of my young Harry. O could it be provid,
That some night-tripping Fairy had exchang'd,
In cradle-cloaths, our children where they lay,
And callid mine Percy, his Plantagenet ;
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine,
But let him from my thoughts, What think you, coulin,
Of this young Percy's pride ? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surpriz’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 Worceber,
Malevolent to you in all aspects ;
Which makes him plume himself, and bristle up
The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Henry. But I have sent for him to answer this;
And for this cause a while we must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next, our council we
Will hold at Windsor, fo inform the Lords:
But come your self 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.

[Exeunt.
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 fo fat-witted with drinking old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and Reeping upon benches in the afternoon, that thou hast 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-houses, and the blessed Sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colour'd taffata; I see no reason why thon should't 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 Phoebus, be, that wandring knight so fair. And I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art King--as God save thy Grace, (Majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none.)

P. Henry. What! none ?

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

P. Henry. 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 call'd thieves

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