DRAMATIS PERSONE.

KING HENRY the Fourth. of

JOHN, Prince of Lancaster, Sons to the King.

WORCESTER,

NORTHUMBERLAND,

HOT-SPUR,

MORTIMER,

Archbishop of YORK, >Enemies to the King.

DOWGLAS,

OWEN GLENDOWER,

Sir RICHARD VERNON,

Sir MICHELL,

'j

Sir WALTER BLUNT, of the King's Party.
JOHN FALSTAFF,

POINS,

CADS-HILL,

PETO,
BARDOLPH,

Companions of Falstaff.

Lady PERCY, Wife to Hotfpur,

Lady MORTIMER, Daughter to Glendower, and Wife to

Mortimer,

Hoftefs QUICKLY.

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

SCENE, ENGLAN D.

THE

FIRST PART

King

ACT I.
ст

THE

K. Henry.

HENRY IV.

O F

S

The Court at LONDON.

Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of West

morland, and others.

SCENE I.

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

broils

To be commenc'd in ftronds afar remote l No more the thirsty 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

A 3

And

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 Chrift,

(Whofe foldier now, under whofe bleffed Cross
We are impreffed, and engag'd to fight)
Forthwith a power of English fhall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb,
To chase these pagans, in thofe holy fields
Over whofe acres walk'd thofe bleffed feet
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter Crofs,
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 Weftmorland,
What yefternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.

Weft, My Liege, this hafte was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge fet down
But yefternight: when all athwart there came
A poft 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 Welshman taken;
A thousand of his people butchered,
Upon whofe dead corps there was fuch mifufe,
Such beaftly fhameless transformation
By thofe Welfbwomen done, as may not be
Without much fhame re-told or fpoken of.

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

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 issue any way.

K. Henry. Here is a dear and trus 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 discomfited, Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights, Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter fee On Holmedon's plains. Of prifoners, 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'st me sad, and mak’f me fin,

Hot-spur took

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 ftreighteft plant,
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride;
Whilft I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and difhonour stain 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,

To

To his own ufe 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 crest of youth against your dignity.

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

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 faid, 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 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'st be so 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 feven ftars, and not by Phoebus, be, that wandring knight so fair. And I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art King-as God fave thy Grace, (Majefty I fhould fay, for grace thou wilt have none.)

P. Henry. What! none?

Fal. No, by my troth, not so much as will ferve 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

of