Henry IV, Part I

London. The palace.

Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.

King

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; No 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.

London. An apartment of the Prince’s.

Enter the Prince of Wales and Falstaff.

Falstaff

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

Prince

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.

Falstaff

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—

Prince

What, none?

Falstaff

No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to prologue to an egg and butter.

Prince

Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

Falstaff

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.

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, 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 villainous 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.

Enter Lady Percy.

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

Lady

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.

Hotspur

What, ho!

Enter Servant.

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

Servant

Mortimer

Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

Glendower

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hotspur

Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?

Glendower

Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command The devil.

Hotspur

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil By telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil. If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Mortimer

Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

Glendower

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

Hotspur

Home without boots, and in foul weather too! How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name?

Glendower

Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta’en?