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HOTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul. | |
| VERNON. ’Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. | |
| The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, | |
| Is marching hitherwards; with him, Prince John. | |
| HOT. No harm; what more? | 5 |
| VER. And further, I have learned, | |
| The King himself in person is set forth, | |
| Or hitherwards intended speedily, | |
| With strong and mighty preparation. | |
| HOT. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, | 10 |
| The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales, | |
| And his comrades that daffed the world aside, | |
| And bid it pass? | |
| VER. All furnished, all in arms; | |
| All plumed like estridges, that wing the wind, | 15 |
| Baited like eagles having lately bathed; | |
| Glittering in golden coats like images; | |
| As full of spirit as the month of May, | |
| And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; | |
| Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. | 20 |
| I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, | |
| His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed, | |
| Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, | |
| And vaulted with such ease into his seat, | |
| As if an angel dropped down from the clouds, | 25 |
| To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, | |
| And witch the world with noble horsemanship. * * * * * | |
| KING HENRY. How bloodily the sun begins to peer | |
| Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale | |
| At his distemperature. | 30 |
| PRINCE HENRY. The southern wind | |
| Doth play the trumpet to his purposes; | |
| And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, | |
| Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. | |
| K. HEN. Then with the losers let it sympathize; | 35 |
| For nothing can seem foul to those that win. * * * * * | |
| HOT. O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth. | |
| I better brook the loss of brittle life | |
| Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; | |
| They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh.— | 40 |
| But Thought ’s the slave of Life, and Life Time’s fool; | |
| And Time that takes survey of all the world | |
| Must have a stop. Oh! I could prophesy, | |
| But that the earthy and cold hand of Death | |
| Lies on my tongue.—No, Percy, thou art dust, | 45 |
| And food for— [Dies. | |
| P. HEN. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart!— | |
| Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! | |
| When that this body did contain a spirit, | |
| A kingdom for it was too small a bound; | 50 |
| But now, two paces of the vilest earth | |
| Is room enough. This earth, that bears thee dead, | |
| Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. | |
| If thou wert sensible of courtesy, | |
| I should not make so dear a show of zeal.— | 55 |
| But let my favors hide thy mangled face; | |
| And, even in thy behalf, I ’ll thank myself | |
| For doing these fair rites of tenderness. | |
| Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! | |
| Thy ignomy sleep with thee in the grave, | 60 |
| But not remembered in thy epitaph!— | |
| |
He sees FALSTAFF on the ground. What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh | |
| Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! | |
| I could have better spared a better man.— | |
| Oh! I should have a heavy miss of thee, | 65 |
| If I were much in love with vanity. | |
| Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, | |
| Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. | |
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