So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenced in strands afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;

Nor more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs

Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And furious close of civil butchery

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way and be no more opposed

Against acquaintance, kindred and allies:

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed 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 engaged to fight,

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;

Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields

Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose now is twelve month old,

And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go:

Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,

What yesternight our council did decree

In forwarding this dear expedience.

My liege, this haste 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;

Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against the irregular and wild Glendower,

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

A thousand of his people butchered;

Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,

Such beastly shameless transformation,

By those Welshwomen done as may not be

Without much shame retold or spoken of.

It seems then that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

This match'd with other did, my gracious lord;

For more uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the north and thus it did import:

On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,

Young Harry Percy and brave Archibald,

That ever-valiant and approved Scot,

At Holmedon met,

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour,

As by discharge of their artillery,

And shape of likelihood, the news was told;

For he that brought them, in the very heat

And pride of their contention did take horse,

Uncertain of the issue any way.

Here is a dear, a true industrious friend,

Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse.

Stain'd with the variation of each soil

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat 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 see

On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took

Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son

To beaten Douglas; and the Earl of Athol,

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith:

And is not this an honourable spoil?

A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

In faith,

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest me sin

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father to so blest a son,

A son who is the theme of honour's tongue;

Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;

Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride:

Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,

See riot and dishonour stain the brow

Of my young Harry. O that it could be proved

That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged

In cradle-clothes 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, coz,

Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,

Which he in this adventure hath surprised,

To his own use he keeps; and sends me word,

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

This is his uncle's teaching; this is Worcester,

Malevolent to you in all aspects;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up

The crest of youth against your dignity.

But I have sent for him to answer this;

And for this cause awhile we must neglect

Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we

Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords:

But come yourself with speed to us again;

For more is to be said and to be done

Than out of anger can be uttered.

I will, my liege.

Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack

and unbuttoning thee after supper and sleeping upon

benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to

demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know.

What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the

day? Unless hours were cups of sack and minutes

capons and clocks the tongues of bawds and dials the

signs of leaping-houses and the blessed sun himself

a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no

reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand

the time of the day.

Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take

purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not

by Phoebus, he,'that wandering knight so fair.' And,

I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God

save thy grace,--majesty I should say, for grace

thou wilt have none,--

What, none?

No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to

prologue to an egg and butter.

Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not

us that are squires of the night's body be called

thieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's

foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the

moon; and let men say we be men of good government,

being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and

chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

Thou sayest well, and it holds well too; for the

fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and

flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is,

by the moon. As, for proof, now: a purse of gold

most resolutely snatched on Monday night and most

dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with

swearing 'Lay by' and spent with crying 'Bring in;'

now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder

and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

By the Lord, thou sayest true, lad. And is not my

hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And

is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and

thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a

buff jerkin?

Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a

time and oft.

Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch;

and where it would not, I have used my credit.

Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent

that thou art heir apparent--But, I prithee, sweet

wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when

thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is

with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do

not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

No; thou shalt.

Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.

Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have

the hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman.

Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my

humour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell

you.

For obtaining of suits?

Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman

hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy

as a gib cat or a lugged bear.

Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.

Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of

Moor-ditch?

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes and art indeed

the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young

prince. But, Hal, I prithee, trouble me no more

with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a

commodity of good names were to be bought. An old

lord of the council rated me the other day in the

street about you, sir, but I marked him not; and yet

he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and

yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.

Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the

streets, and no man regards it.

O, thou hast damnable iteration and art indeed able

to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon

me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew

thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man

should speak truly, little better than one of the

wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give

it over: by the Lord, and I do not, I am a villain:

I'll be damned for never a king's son in

Christendom.

Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?

'Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I'll make one; an I

do not, call me villain and baffle me.

I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying

to purse-taking.

Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis no sin for a

man to labour in his vocation.

Poins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a

match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what

hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the

most omnipotent villain that ever cried 'Stand' to

a true man.

Good morrow, Ned.

Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse?

what says Sir John Sack and Sugar? Jack! how

agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou

soldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira

and a cold capon's leg?

Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have

his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of

proverbs: he will give the devil his due.

Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.

Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.

But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four

o'clock, early at Gadshill! there are pilgrims going

to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders

riding to London with fat purses: I have vizards

for you all; you have horses for yourselves:

Gadshill lies toight in Rochester: I have bespoke

supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it

as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff

your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry

at home and be hanged.

Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not,

I'll hang you for going.

You will, chops?

Hal, wilt thou make one?

Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good

fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood

royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.

Why, that's well said.

Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

By the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king.

I care not.

Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and me alone:

I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure

that he shall go.

Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him

the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may

move and what he hears may be believed, that the

true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false

thief; for the poor abuses of the time want

countenance. Farewell: you shall find me in Eastcheap.

Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, All-hallown summer!

Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us

to-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I cannot

manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto and Gadshill

shall rob those men that we have already waylaid:

yourself and I will not be there; and when they

have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut

this head off from my shoulders.

How shall we part with them in setting forth?

Why, we will set forth before or after them, and

appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at

our pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure

upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have

no sooner achieved, but we'll set upon them.

Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our

horses, by our habits and by every other

appointment, to be ourselves.

Tut! our horses they shall not see: I'll tie them

in the wood; our vizards we will change after we

leave them: and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram

for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.

Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as

true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the

third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll

forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the

incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will

tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at

least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what

extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this

lies the jest.

Well, I'll go with thee: provide us all things

necessary and meet me to-morrow night in Eastcheap;

there I'll sup. Farewell.

Farewell, my lord.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold

The unyoked humour of your idleness:

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world,

That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work;

But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come,

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

So, when this loose behavior I throw off

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am,

By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;

And like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes

Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;

Redeeming time when men think least I will.

My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me; for accordingly

You tread upon my patience: but be sure

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty and to be fear'd, than my condition;

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,

And therefore lost that title of respect

Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.

Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be used on it;

And that same greatness too which our own hands

Have holp to make so portly.

My lord.--

Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eye:

O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,

And majesty might never yet endure

The moody frontier of a servant brow.

You have good leave to leave us: when we need

Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

You were about to speak.

Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied

As is deliver'd to your majesty:

Either envy, therefore, or misprison

Is guilty of this fault and not my son.

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, and trimly dress'd,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd

Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;

He was perfumed 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 talk'd,

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,

To be so pester'd with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answer'd 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,

This villanous salt-petre should be digg'd

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd

So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,

He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answer'd indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

The circumstance consider'd, good my lord,

Whate'er Lord Harry Percy then had said

To such a person and in such a place,

At such a time, with all the rest retold,

May reasonably die and never rise

To do him wrong or any way impeach

What then he said, so he unsay it now.

Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,

But with proviso and exception,

That we at our own charge shall ransom straight

His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;

Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against that great magician, damn'd Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March

Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then,

Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we but treason? and indent with fears,

When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve;

For I shall never hold that man my friend

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost

To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Revolted Mortimer!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war; to prove that true

Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,

Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took

When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,

In single opposition, hand to hand,

He did confound the best part of an hour

In changing hardiment with great Glendower:

Three times they breathed and three times did

they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,

Bloodstained with these valiant combatants.

Never did base and rotten policy

Colour her working with such deadly wounds;

Nor could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly:

Then let not him be slander'd with revolt.

Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him;

He never did encounter with Glendower:

I tell thee,

He durst as well have met the devil alone

As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland,

We licence your departure with your son.

Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.

An if the devil come and roar for them,

I will not send them: I will after straight

And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,

Albeit I make a hazard of my head.

What, drunk with choler? stay and pause awhile:

Here comes your uncle.

Speak of Mortimer!

'Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy, if I do not join with him:

Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high in the air as this unthankful king,

As this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke.

Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.

Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;

And when I urged the ransom once again

Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,

And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim'd

By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

He was; I heard the proclamation:

And then it was when the unhappy king,

--Whose wrongs in us God pardon!--did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he intercepted did return

To be deposed and shortly murdered.

And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth

Live scandalized and foully spoken of.

But soft, I pray you; did King Richard then

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

Heir to the crown?

He did; myself did hear it.

Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,

That wished him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you, that set the crown

Upon the head of this forgetful man

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murderous subornation, shall it be,

That you a world of curses undergo,

Being the agents, or base second means,

The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?

O, pardon me that I descend so low,

To show the line and the predicament

Wherein you range under this subtle king;

Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,

Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

That men of your nobility and power

Did gage them both in an unjust behalf,

As both of you--God pardon it!--have done,

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,

An plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

And shall it in more shame be further spoken,

That you are fool'd, discarded and shook off

By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

No; yet time serves wherein you may redeem

Your banish'd honours and restore yourselves

Into the good thoughts of the world again,

Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt

Of this proud king, who studies day and night

To answer all the debt he owes to you

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths:

Therefore, I say--

Peace, cousin, say no more:

And now I will unclasp a secret book,

And to your quick-conceiving discontents

I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

As to o'er-walk a current roaring loud

On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

If he fall in, good night! or sink or swim:

Send danger from the east unto the west,

So honour cross it from the north to south,

And let them grapple: O, the blood more stirs

To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

Imagination of some great exploit

Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;

So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

Without corrival, all her dignities:

But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

He apprehends a world of figures here,

But not the form of what he should attend.

Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

I cry you mercy.

Those same noble Scots

That are your prisoners,--

I'll keep them all;

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them;

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:

I'll keep them, by this hand.

You start away

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Nay, I will; that's flat:

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;

But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I'll holla 'Mortimer!'

Nay,

I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak

Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him

To keep his anger still in motion.

Hear you, cousin; a word.

All studies here I solemnly defy,

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,

But that I think his father loves him not

And would be glad he met with some mischance,

I would have him poison'd with a pot of ale.

Farewell, kinsman: I'll talk to you

When you are better temper'd to attend.

Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool

Art thou to break into this woman's mood,

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourged with rods,

Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard's time,--what do you call the place?--

A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire;

'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,

His uncle York; where I first bow'd my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,--

'Sblood!--

When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.

At Berkley castle.

You say true:

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

Look,'when his infant fortune came to age,'

And 'gentle Harry Percy,' and 'kind cousin;'

O, the devil take such cozeners! God forgive me!

Good uncle, tell your tale; I have done.

Nay, if you have not, to it again;

We will stay your leisure.

I have done, i' faith.

Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas' son your only mean

For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons

Which I shall send you written, be assured,

Will easily be granted. You, my lord,

Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate, well beloved,

The archbishop.

Of York, is it not?

True; who bears hard

His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.

I speak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know

Is ruminated, plotted and set down,

And only stays but to behold the face

Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

I smell it: upon my life, it will do well.

Before the game is afoot, thou still let'st slip.

Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot;

And then the power of Scotland and of York,

To join with Mortimer, ha?

And so they shall.

In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd.

And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,

To save our heads by raising of a head;

For, bear ourselves as even as we can,

The king will always think him in our debt,

And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,

Till he hath found a time to pay us home:

And see already how he doth begin

To make us strangers to his looks of love.

He does, he does: we'll be revenged on him.

Cousin, farewell: no further go in this

Than I by letters shall direct your course.

When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,

I'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer;

Where you and Douglas and our powers at once,

As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,

Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust.

Uncle, Adieu: O, let the hours be short

Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!

Heigh-ho! an it be not four by the day, I'll be

hanged: Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and

yet our horse not packed. What, ostler!

[Within] Anon, anon.

I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks

in the point; poor jade, is wrung in the withers out

of all cess.

Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that

is the next way to give poor jades the bots: this

house is turned upside down since Robin Ostler died.

Poor fellow, never joyed since the price of oats

rose; it was the death of him.

I think this be the most villanous house in all

London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench.

Like a tench! by the mass, there is ne'er a king

christen could be better bit than I have been since

the first cock.

Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we

leak in your chimney; and your chamber-lie breeds

fleas like a loach.

What, ostler! come away and be hanged!

I have a gammon of bacon and two razors of ginger,

to be delivered as far as Charing-cross.

God's body! the turkeys in my pannier are quite

starved. What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou

never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? An

'twere not as good deed as drink, to break the pate

on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged!

hast thou no faith in thee?

Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?

I think it be two o'clock.

I pray thee lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding

in the stable.

Nay, by God, soft; I know a trick worth two of that, i' faith.

I pray thee, lend me thine.

Ay, when? can'st tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth

he? marry, I'll see thee hanged first.

Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant

thee. Come, neighbour Mugs, we'll call up the

gentleman: they will along with company, for they

have great charge.

What, ho! chamberlain!

[Within] At hand, quoth pick-purse.

That's even as fair as--at hand, quoth the

chamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking

of purses than giving direction doth from labouring;

thou layest the plot how.

Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that

I told you yesternight: there's a franklin in the

wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with

him in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his

company last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one

that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what.

They are up already, and call for eggs and butter;

they will away presently.

Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas'

clerks, I'll give thee this neck.

No, I'll none of it: I pray thee keep that for the

hangman; for I know thou worshippest St. Nicholas

as truly as a man of falsehood may.

What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang,

I'll make a fat pair of gallows; for if I hang, old

Sir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he is no

starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou

dreamest not of, the which for sport sake are

content to do the profession some grace; that would,

if matters should be looked into, for their own

credit sake, make all whole. I am joined with no

foot-land rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers,

none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms;

but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and

great oneyers, such as can hold in, such as will

strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than

drink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zounds,

I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the

commonwealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey

on her, for they ride up and down on her and make

her their boots.

What, the commonwealth their boots? will she hold

out water in foul way?

She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We

steal as in a castle, cocksure; we have the receipt

of fern-seed, we walk invisible.

Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to

the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.

Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our

purchase, as I am a true man.

Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

Go to; 'homo' is a common name to all men. Bid the

ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell,

you muddy knave.

Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed Falstaff's

horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.

Stand close.

Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! what a brawling dost

thou keep!

Where's Poins, Hal?

He is walked up to the top of the hill: I'll go seek him.

I am accursed to rob in that thief's company: the

rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know

not where. If I travel but four foot by the squier

further afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt

not but to die a fair death for all this, if I

'scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have

forsworn his company hourly any time this two and

twenty years, and yet I am bewitched with the

rogue's company. If the rascal hath not given me

medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged; it

could not be else: I have drunk medicines. Poins!

Hal! a plague upon you both! Bardolph! Peto!

I'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere

not as good a deed as drink, to turn true man and to

leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that

ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven

ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me;

and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough:

a plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!

Whew! A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you

rogues; give me my horse, and be hanged!

Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down; lay thine ear close

to the ground and list if thou canst hear the tread

of travellers.

Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down?

'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot

again for all the coin in thy father's exchequer.

What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse,

good king's son.

Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler?

Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent

garters! If I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I

have not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy

tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison: when a jest

is so forward, and afoot too! I hate it.

Stand.

So I do, against my will.

O, 'tis our setter: I know his voice. Bardolph,

what news?

Case ye, case ye; on with your vizards: there 's

money of the king's coming down the hill; 'tis going

to the king's exchequer.

You lie, ye rogue; 'tis going to the king's tavern.

There's enough to make us all.

To be hanged.

Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane;

Ned Poins and I will walk lower: if they 'scape

from your encounter, then they light on us.

How many be there of them?

Some eight or ten.

'Zounds, will they not rob us?

What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather;

but yet no coward, Hal.

Well, we leave that to the proof.

Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge:

when thou needest him, there thou shalt find him.

Farewell, and stand fast.

Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged.

Ned, where are our disguises?

Here, hard by: stand close.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I:

every man to his business.

Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead our horses down

the hill; we'll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs.

Stand!

Jesus bless us!

Strike; down with them; cut the villains' throats:

ah! whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they

hate us youth: down with them: fleece them.

O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever!

Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye

fat chuffs: I would your store were here! On,

bacons, on! What, ye knaves! young men must live.

You are Grand-jurors, are ye? we'll jure ye, 'faith.

The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou

and I rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it

would be argument for a week, laughter for a month

and a good jest for ever.

Stand close; I hear them coming.

Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse

before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two

arrant cowards, there's no equity stirring: there's

no more valour in that Poins than in a wild-duck.

Your money!

Villains!

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:

The thieves are all scatter'd and possess'd with fear

So strongly that they dare not meet each other;

Each takes his fellow for an officer.

Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death,

And lards the lean earth as he walks along:

Were 't not for laughing, I should pity him.

How the rogue roar'd!

'But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well

contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear

your house.' He could be contented: why is he not,

then? In respect of the love he bears our house:

he shows in this, he loves his own barn better than

he loves our house. Let me see some more. 'The

purpose you undertake is dangerous;'--why, that's

certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to

drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this

nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 'The

purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you

have named uncertain; the time itself unsorted; and

your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so

great an opposition.' Say you so, say you so? I say

unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and

you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord,

our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our

friends true and constant: a good plot, good

friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot,

very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is

this! Why, my lord of York commends the plot and the

general course of action. 'Zounds, an I were now by

this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan.

Is there not my father, my uncle and myself? lord

Edmund Mortimer, My lord of York and Owen Glendower?

is there not besides the Douglas? have I not all

their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the

next month? and are they not some of them set

forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an

infidel! Ha! you shall see now in very sincerity

of fear and cold heart, will he to the king and lay

open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself

and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of

skim milk with so honourable an action! Hang him!

let him tell the king: we are prepared. I will set

forward toight.

How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.

O, my good lord, why are you thus alone?

For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?

Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee

Thy stomach, pleasure and thy golden sleep?

Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,

And start so often when thou sit'st alone?

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;

And given my treasures and my rights of thee

To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd,

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars;

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;

Cry 'Courage! to the field!' And thou hast talk'd

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners' ransom and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight.

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war

And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow

Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream;

And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,

Such as we see when men restrain their breath

On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

What, ho!

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

He is, my lord, an hour ago.

Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

It is, my lord.

That roan shall by my throne.

Well, I will back him straight: O esperance!

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

But hear you, my lord.

What say'st thou, my lady?

What is it carries you away?

Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

Out, you mad-headed ape!

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

As you are toss'd with. In faith,

I'll know your business, Harry, that I will.

I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir

About his title, and hath sent for you

To line his enterprise: but if you go,--

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me

Directly unto this question that I ask:

In faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

Away,

Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not,

I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world

To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:

We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns,

And pass them current too. God's me, my horse!

What say'st thou, Kate? what would'st thou

have with me?

Do you not love me? do you not, indeed?

Well, do not then; for since you love me not,

I will not love myself. Do you not love me?

Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.

Come, wilt thou see me ride?

And when I am on horseback, I will swear

I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate;

I must not have you henceforth question me

Whither I go, nor reason whereabout:

Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,

This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.

I know you wise, but yet no farther wise

Than Harry Percy's wife: constant you are,

But yet a woman: and for secrecy,

No lady closer; for I well believe

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;

And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

How! so far?

Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:

Whither I go, thither shall you go too;

Today will I set forth, to-morrow you.

Will this content you, Kate?

It must of force.

Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room, and lend me

thy hand to laugh a little.

Where hast been, Hal?

With three or four loggerheads amongst three or four

score hogsheads. I have sounded the very

base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother

to a leash of drawers; and can call them all by

their christen names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis.

They take it already upon their salvation, that

though I be but the prince of Wales, yet I am king

of courtesy; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack,

like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a

good boy, by the Lord, so they call me, and when I

am king of England, I shall command all the good

lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dyeing

scarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they

cry 'hem!' and bid you play it off. To conclude, I

am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour,

that I can drink with any tinker in his own language

during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost

much honour, that thou wert not with me in this sweet

action. But, sweet Ned,--to sweeten which name of

Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped

even now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that

never spake other English in his life than 'Eight

shillings and sixpence' and 'You are welcome,' with

this shrill addition, 'Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint

of bastard in the Half-Moon,' or so. But, Ned, to

drive away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee,

do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my

puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar; and do

thou never leave calling 'Francis,' that his tale

to me may be nothing but 'Anon.' Step aside, and

I'll show thee a precedent.

Francis!

Thou art perfect.

Francis!

Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph.

Come hither, Francis.

My lord?

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Forsooth, five years, and as much as to--

[Within] Francis!

Anon, anon, sir.

Five year! by'r lady, a long lease for the clinking

of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant

as to play the coward with thy indenture and show it

a fair pair of heels and run from it?

O Lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in

England, I could find in my heart.

[Within] Francis!

Anon, sir.

How old art thou, Francis?

Let me see--about Michaelmas next I shall be--

[Within] Francis!

Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord.

Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou

gavest me,'twas a pennyworth, wast't not?

O Lord, I would it had been two!

I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me

when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

[Within] Francis!

Anon, anon.

Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis;

or, Francis, o' Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when

thou wilt. But, Francis!

My lord?

Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal-button,

not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,

smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,--

O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink;

for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet

will sully: in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.

What, sir?

[Within] Francis!

Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call?

What, standest thou still, and hearest such a

calling? Look to the guests within.

My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, are

at the door: shall I let them in?

Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.

Poins!

Anon, anon, sir.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at

the door: shall we be merry?

As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what

cunning match have you made with this jest of the

drawer? come, what's the issue?

I am now of all humours that have showed themselves

humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the

pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.

What's o'clock, Francis?

Anon, anon, sir.

That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a

parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is

upstairs and downstairs; his eloquence the parcel of

a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the

Hotspur of the north; he that kills me some six or

seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his

hands, and says to his wife 'Fie upon this quiet

life! I want work.' 'O my sweet Harry,' says she,

'how many hast thou killed today?' 'Give my roan

horse a drench,' says he; and answers 'Some

fourteen,' an hour after; 'a trifle, a trifle.' I

prithee, call in Falstaff: I'll play Percy, and

that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his

wife. 'Rivo!' says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.

Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been?

A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too!

marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I

lead this life long, I'll sew nether stocks and mend

them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards!

Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant?

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter?

pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale

of the sun's! if thou didst, then behold that compound.

You rogue, here's lime in this sack too: there is

nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man:

yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime

in it. A villanous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack;

die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be

not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a

shotten herring. There live not three good men

unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and

grows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say.

I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any

thing. A plague of all cowards, I say still.

How now, wool-sack! what mutter you?

A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy

kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy

subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese,

I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales!

Why, you whoreson round man, what's the matter?

Are not you a coward? answer me to that: and Poins there?

'Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the

Lord, I'll stab thee.

I call thee coward! I'll see thee damned ere I call

thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I

could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight

enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your

back: call you that backing of your friends? A

plague upon such backing! give me them that will

face me. Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I

drunk today.

O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou

drunkest last.

All's one for that.

A plague of all cowards, still say I.

What's the matter?

What's the matter! there be four of us here have

ta'en a thousand pound this day morning.

Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Where is it! taken from us it is: a hundred upon

poor four of us.

What, a hundred, man?

I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a

dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by

miracle. I am eight times thrust through the

doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut

through and through; my sword hacked like a

hand-saw--ecce signum! I never dealt better since

I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all

cowards! Let them speak: if they speak more or

less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.

Speak, sirs; how was it?

We four set upon some dozen--

Sixteen at least, my lord.

And bound them.

No, no, they were not bound.

You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I

am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us--

And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

What, fought you with them all?

All! I know not what you call all; but if I fought

not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if

there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old

Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

Nay, that's past praying for: I have peppered two

of them; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues

in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell

thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou

knowest my old ward; here I lay and thus I bore my

point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me--

What, four? thou saidst but two even now.

Four, Hal; I told thee four.

Ay, ay, he said four.

These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at

me. I made me no more ado but took all their seven

points in my target, thus.

Seven? why, there were but four even now.

In buckram?

Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

Prithee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.

Dost thou hear me, Hal?

Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine

in buckram that I told thee of--

So, two more already.

Their points being broken,--

Down fell their hose.

Began to give me ground: but I followed me close,

came in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of

the eleven I paid.

O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten

knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let drive

at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst

not see thy hand.

These lies are like their father that begets them;

gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou

clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou

whoreson, obscene, grease tallow-catch,--

What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth

the truth?

Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal

green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy

hand? come, tell us your reason: what sayest thou to this?

Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

What, upon compulsion? 'Zounds, an I were at the

strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would

not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on

compulsion! If reasons were as plentiful as

blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon

compulsion, I.

I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine

coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker,

this huge hill of flesh,--

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried

neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O

for breath to utter what is like thee! you

tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile

standing-tuck,--

Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and

when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons,

hear me speak but this.

Mark, Jack.

We two saw you four set on four and bound them, and

were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain

tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you

four; and, with a word, out-faced you from your

prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in

the house: and, Falstaff, you carried your guts

away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared

for mercy and still run and roared, as ever I heard

bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword

as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight!

What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst

thou now find out to hide thee from this open and

apparent shame?

Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now?

By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye.

Why, hear you, my masters: was it for me to kill the

heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true prince?

why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but

beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true

prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was now a

coward on instinct. I shall think the better of

myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant

lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord,

lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap

to the doors: watch toight, pray to-morrow.

Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles

of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be

merry? shall we have a play extempore?

Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.

Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!

O Jesu, my lord the prince!

How now, my lady the hostess! what sayest thou to

me?

Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at

door would speak with you: he says he comes from

your father.

Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and

send him back again to my mother.

What manner of man is he?

An old man.

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall

I give him his answer?

Prithee, do, Jack.

'Faith, and I'll send him packing.

Now, sirs: by'r lady, you fought fair; so did you,

Peto; so did you, Bardolph: you are lions too, you

ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true

prince; no, fie!

'Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

'Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's

sword so hacked?

Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and said he would

swear truth out of England but he would make you

believe it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like.

Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to

make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments

with it and swear it was the blood of true men. I

did that I did not this seven year before, I blushed

to hear his monstrous devices.

O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years

ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since

thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and

sword on thy side, and yet thou rannest away: what

instinct hadst thou for it?

My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold

these exhalations?

I do.

What think you they portend?

Hot livers and cold purses.

Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

No, if rightly taken, halter.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.

How now, my sweet creature of bombast!

How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?

My own knee! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was

not an eagle's talon in the waist; I could have

crept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of

sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a

bladder. There's villanous news abroad: here was

Sir John Bracy from your father; you must to the

court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the

north, Percy, and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the

bastinado and made Lucifer cuckold and swore the

devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh

hook--what a plague call you him?

O, Glendower.

Owen, Owen, the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer,

and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of

Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hill

perpendicular,--