William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Hotspur.—My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,

Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;

He was perfumèd like a milliner;

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took’t away again;—

Who therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff:—and still he smiled and talked;

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest demanded

My prisoners, in your majesty’s behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,

To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered neglectingly, I know not what;

He should, or he should not;—for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save the mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth

Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

That villanous saltpetre should be digged

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed

So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,

He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answered indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation,

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.