The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury. |
|
Enter HOTSPUR, WORCESTER, and DOUGLAS. |
Hot. Well said, my noble Scot: if speaking truth |
In this fine age were not thought flattery, |
Such attribution should the Douglas have, |
As not a soldier of this season's stamp |
Should go so general current through the world. |
By God, I cannot flatter; do defy |
The tongues of soothers; but a braver place |
In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. |
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord. |
Doug. Thou art the king of honour: |
No man so potent breathes upon the ground |
But I will beard him. |
Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. |
|
Enter a Messenger, with letters. |
What letters hast thou there? [To DOUGLAS.] |
I can but thank you. |
Mess. These letters come from your father. |
Hot. Letters from him! why comes he not himself? |
Mess. He cannot come, my lord: he's grievous sick. |
Hot. 'Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick |
In such a justling time? Who leads his power? |
Under whose government come they along? |
Mess. His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord. |
Wor. I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed? |
Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth; |
And at the time of my departure thence |
He was much fear'd by his physicians. |
Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole |
Ere he by sickness had been visited: |
His health was never better worth than now. |
Hot. Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect |
The very life-blood of our enterprise; |
'Tis catching hither, even to our camp. |
He writes me here, that inward sickness—— |
And that his friends by deputation could not |
So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet |
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust |
On any soul remov'd but on his own. |
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, |
That with our small conjunction we should on, |
To see how fortune is dispos'd to us; |
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, |
Because the king is certainly possess'd |
Of all our purposes. What say you to it? |
Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us. |
Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off: |
And yet, in faith, 'tis not; his present want |
Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good |
To set the exact wealth of all our states |
All at one cast? to set so rich a main |
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? |
It were not good; for therein should we read |
The very bottom and the soul of hope, |
The very list, the very utmost bound |
Of all our fortunes. |
Doug. Faith, and so we should; |
Where now remains a sweet reversion: |
We may boldly spend upon the hope of what |
Is to come in: |
A comfort of retirement lives in this. |
Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, |
If that the devil and mischance look big |
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. |
Wor. But yet, I would your father had been here. |
The quality and hair of our attempt |
Brooks no division. It will be thought |
By some, that know not why he is away, |
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike |
Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence. |
And think how such an apprehension |
May turn the tide of fearful faction |
And breed a kind of question in our cause; |
For well you know we of the offering side |
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, |
And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence |
The eye of reason may pry in upon us: |
This absence of your father's draws a curtain, |
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear |
Before not dreamt of. |
Hot. You strain too far. |
I rather of his absence make this use: |
It lends a lustre and more great opinion, |
A larger dare to our great enterprise, |
Than if the earl were here; for men must think, |
If we without his help, can make a head |
To push against the kingdom, with his help |
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down. |
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole. |
Doug. As heart can think: there is not such a word |
Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear. |
|
Enter SIR RICHARD VERNON. |
Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul. |
Ver. 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? |
Ver. And further, I have learn'd, |
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, |
The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, |
And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside, |
And bid it pass? |
Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms, |
All plum'd like estridges that wing the wind, |
Baited like eagles having lately bath'd, |
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. |
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, |
His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, |
Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury, |
And vaulted with such ease into his seat, |
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, |
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus |
And witch the world with noble horsemanship. |
Hot. No more, no more: worse than the sun in March |
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come; |
They come like sacrifices in their trim, |
And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war |
All hot and bleeding will we offer them: |
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit |
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire |
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh |
And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse, |
Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt |
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales: |
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse, |
Meet and ne'er part till one drop down a corse. |
O! that Glendower were come. |
Ver. There is more news: |
I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along, |
He cannot draw his power these fourteen days. |
Doug. That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet. |
Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. |
Hot. What may the king's whole battle reach unto? |
Ver. To thirty thousand. |
Hot. Forty let it be: |
My father and Glendower being both away, |
The powers of us may serve so great a day. |
Come, let us take a muster speedily: |
Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily. |
Doug. Talk not of dying: I am out of fear |
Of death or death's hand for this one half year. [Exeunt. |
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