ACT IV. Scene I. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury.  Enter Harry 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, I 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.                       Enter one with letters.    Hot. Do so, and 'tis well.-     What letters hast thou there?- I can but thank you.   Messenger. These letters come from your father.   Hot. Letters from him? Why comes he not himself?   Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is 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 bears 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 lifeblood 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; no 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, it is 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 man     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 off'ring 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 a 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 with the wind     Bated 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 feathered 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.     that Glendower were come!   Ver. There is more news.     I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,     He cannot draw his power this 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.     Scene II. A public road near Coventry.  Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.    Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of     sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton Co'fil'     to-night.   Bard. Will you give me money, Captain?   Fal. Lay out, lay out.   Bald. This bottle makes an angel.   Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty,     take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto     meet me at town's end.   Bard. I Will, Captain. Farewell.                         Exit.   Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a sous'd gurnet. I     have misused the King's press damnably. I have got in exchange of     a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I     press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire me     out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the     banes- such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lieve hear the     devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than     a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I press'd me none but such     toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than     pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my     whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants,     gentlemen of companies- slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the     painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and     such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust     serving-men, younger sons to Younger brothers, revolted tapsters,     and ostlers trade-fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a long     peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old fac'd     ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have     bought out their services that you would think that I had a     hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from     swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me     on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and     press'd the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll     not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the     villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on;     for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a     shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two     napkins tack'd together and thrown over the shoulders like a     herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth,     stol'n from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper     of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on     every hedge.                Enter the Prince and the Lord of Westmoreland.    Prince. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?   Fal. What, Hal? How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in     Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I     thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.   West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and     you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell     you, looks for us all. We must away all, to-night.   Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.   Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already     made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that     come after?   Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.   Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals.   Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for     powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal     men, mortal men.   West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare-     too beggarly.   Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know, not where they had that; and     for their bareness, I am surd they never learn'd that of me.   Prince. No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the     ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy 's already in the     field. Exit.   Fal. What, is the King encamp'd?   West. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long.                                                          [Exit.]   Fal. Well,     To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast     Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.                  Exit.     Scene III. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury.  Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, Vernon.    Hot. We'll fight with him to-night.   Wor. It may not be.   Doug. You give him then advantage.   Ver. Not a whit.   Hot. Why say you so? Looks he no for supply?   Ver. So do we.   Hot. His is certain, ours 's doubtful.   Wor. Good cousin, be advis'd; stir not to-night.   Ver. Do not, my lord.   Doug. You do not counsel well.     You speak it out of fear and cold heart.   Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas. By my life-     And I dare well maintain it with my life-     If well-respected honour bid me on     I hold as little counsel with weak fear     As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives.     Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle     Which of us fears.   Doug. Yea, or to-night.   Ver. Content.   Hot. To-night, say I.     Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much,     Being men of such great leading as you are,     That you foresee not what impediments     Drag back our expedition. Certain horse     Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up.     Your uncle Worcester's horse came but to-day;     And now their pride and mettle is asleep,     Their courage with hard labour tame and dull,     That not a horse is half the half of himself.   Hot. So are the horses of the enemy,     In general journey-bated and brought low.     The better part of ours are full of rest.   Wor. The number of the King exceedeth ours.     For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in.                The trumpet sounds a parley.                   Enter Sir Walter Blunt.    Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the King,     If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.   Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt, and would to God     You were of our determination!     Some of us love you well; and even those some     Envy your great deservings and good name,     Because you are not of our quality,     But stand against us like an enemy.   Blunt. And God defend but still I should stand so,     So long as out of limit and true rule     You stand against anointed majesty!     But to my charge. The King hath sent to know     The nature of your griefs; and whereupon     You conjure from the breast of civil peace     Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land     Audacious cruelty. If that the King     Have any way your good deserts forgot,     Which he confesseth to be manifold,     He bids you name your griefs, and with all speed     You shall have your desires with interest,     And pardon absolute for yourself and these     Herein misled by your suggestion.   Hot. The King is kind; and well we know the King     Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.     My father and my uncle and myself     Did give him that same royalty he wears;     And when he was not six-and-twenty strong,     Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low,     A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home,     My father gave him welcome to the shore;     And when he heard him swear and vow to God     He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,     To sue his livery and beg his peace,     With tears of innocency and terms of zeal,     My father, in kind heart and pity mov'd,     Swore him assistance, and performed it too.     Now, when the lords and barons of the realm     Perceiv'd Northumberland did lean to him,     The more and less came in with cap and knee;     Met him on boroughs, cities, villages,     Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,     Laid gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths,     Give him their heirs as pages, followed him     Even at the heels in golden multitudes.     He presently, as greatness knows itself,     Steps me a little higher than his vow     Made to my father, while his blood was poor,     Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh;     And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform     Some certain edicts and some strait decrees     That lie too heavy on the commonwealth;     Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep     Over his country's wrongs; and by this face,     This seeming brow of justice, did he win     The hearts of all that he did angle for;     Proceeded further- cut me off the heads     Of all the favourites that the absent King     In deputation left behind him here     When he was personal in the Irish war.     But. Tut! I came not to hear this.   Hot. Then to the point.     In short time after lie depos'd the King;     Soon after that depriv'd him of his life;     And in the neck of that task'd the whole state;     To make that worse, suff'red his kinsman March     (Who is, if every owner were well placid,     Indeed his king) to be engag'd in Wales,     There without ransom to lie forfeited;     Disgrac'd me in my happy victories,     Sought to entrap me by intelligence;     Rated mine uncle from the Council board;     In rage dismiss'd my father from the court;     Broke an oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong;     And in conclusion drove us to seek out     This head of safety, and withal to pry     Into his title, the which we find     Too indirect for long continuance.   Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the King?   Hot. Not so, Sir Walter. We'll withdraw awhile.     Go to the King; and let there be impawn'd     Some surety for a safe return again,     And In the morning early shall mine uncle     Bring him our purposes; and so farewell.   Blunt. I would you would accept of grace and love.   Hot. And may be so we shall.   Blunt. Pray God you do.                                                          Exeunt.     Scene IV. York. The Archbishop's Palace.  Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.    Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief     With winged haste to the Lord Marshal;     This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest     To whom they are directed. If you knew     How much they do import, you would make haste.   Sir M. My good lord,     I guess their tenour.   Arch. Like enough you do.     To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day     Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men     Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury,     As I am truly given to understand,     The King with mighty and quick-raised power     Meets with Lord Harry; and I fear, Sir Michael,     What with the sickness of Northumberland,     Whose power was in the first proportion,     And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence,     Who with them was a rated sinew too     And comes not in, overrul'd by prophecies-     I fear the power of Percy is too weak     To wage an instant trial with the King.   Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not fear;     There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer.   Arch. No, Mortimer is not there.   Sir M. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,     And there is my Lord of Worcester, and a head     Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.   Arch. And so there is; but yet the King hath drawn     The special head of all the land together-     The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,     The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt,     And many moe corrivals and dear men     Of estimation and command in arms.   Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well oppos'd.   Arch. I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to fear;     And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed.     For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King     Dismiss his power, he means to visit us,     For he hath heard of our confederacy,     And 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him.     Therefore make haste. I must go write again     To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.                                                          Exeunt.