ACT IV. SCENE I. Yorkshire. Within the Forest of Gaultree  Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, MOWBRAY, HASTINGS, and others    ARCHBISHOP. What is this forest call'd   HASTINGS. 'Tis Gaultree Forest, an't shall please your Grace.   ARCHBISHOP. Here stand, my lords, and send discoverers forth     To know the numbers of our enemies.   HASTINGS. We have sent forth already.   ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis well done.     My friends and brethren in these great affairs,     I must acquaint you that I have receiv'd     New-dated letters from Northumberland;     Their cold intent, tenour, and substance, thus:     Here doth he wish his person, with such powers     As might hold sortance with his quality,     The which he could not levy; whereupon     He is retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes,     To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers     That your attempts may overlive the hazard     And fearful meeting of their opposite.   MOWBRAY. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground     And dash themselves to pieces.                            Enter A MESSENGER    HASTINGS. Now, what news?   MESSENGER. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,     In goodly form comes on the enemy;     And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number     Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.   MOWBRAY. The just proportion that we gave them out.     Let us sway on and face them in the field.                          Enter WESTMORELAND    ARCHBISHOP. What well-appointed leader fronts us here?   MOWBRAY. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.   WESTMORELAND. Health and fair greeting from our general,     The Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.   ARCHBISHOP. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace,     What doth concern your coming.   WESTMORELAND. Then, my lord,     Unto your Grace do I in chief address     The substance of my speech. If that rebellion     Came like itself, in base and abject routs,     Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,     And countenanc'd by boys and beggary-     I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd     In his true, native, and most proper shape,     You, reverend father, and these noble lords,     Had not been here to dress the ugly form     Of base and bloody insurrection     With your fair honours. You, Lord Archbishop,     Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd,     Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,     Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,     Whose white investments figure innocence,     The dove, and very blessed spirit of peace-     Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself     Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,     Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war;     Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,     Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine     To a loud trumpet and a point of war?   ARCHBISHOP. Wherefore do I this? So the question stands.     Briefly to this end: we are all diseas'd     And with our surfeiting and wanton hours     Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,     And we must bleed for it; of which disease     Our late King, Richard, being infected, died.     But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,     I take not on me here as a physician;     Nor do I as an enemy to peace     Troop in the throngs of military men;     But rather show awhile like fearful war     To diet rank minds sick of happiness,     And purge th' obstructions which begin to stop     Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.     I have in equal balance justly weigh'd     What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,     And find our griefs heavier than our offences.     We see which way the stream of time doth run     And are enforc'd from our most quiet there     By the rough torrent of occasion;     And have the summary of all our griefs,     When time shall serve, to show in articles;     Which long ere this we offer'd to the King,     And might by no suit gain our audience:     When we are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs,     We are denied access unto his person,     Even by those men that most have done us wrong.     The dangers of the days but newly gone,     Whose memory is written on the earth     With yet appearing blood, and the examples     Of every minute's instance, present now,     Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms;     Not to break peace, or any branch of it,     But to establish here a peace indeed,     Concurring both in name and quality.   WESTMORELAND. When ever yet was your appeal denied;     Wherein have you been galled by the King;     What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you     That you should seal this lawless bloody book     Of forg'd rebellion with a seal divine,     And consecrate commotion's bitter edge?   ARCHBISHOP. My brother general, the commonwealth,     To brother horn an household cruelty,     I make my quarrel in particular.   WESTMORELAND. There is no need of any such redress;     Or if there were, it not belongs to you.   MOWBRAY. Why not to him in part, and to us all     That feel the bruises of the days before,     And suffer the condition of these times     To lay a heavy and unequal hand     Upon our honours?   WESTMORELAND. O my good Lord Mowbray,     Construe the times to their necessities,     And you shall say, indeed, it is the time,     And not the King, that doth you injuries.     Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,     Either from the King or in the present time,     That you should have an inch of any ground     To build a grief on. Were you not restor'd     To all the Duke of Norfolk's signiories,     Your noble and right well-rememb'red father's?   MOWBRAY. What thing, in honour, had my father lost     That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me?     The King that lov'd him, as the state stood then,     Was force perforce compell'd to banish him,     And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,     Being mounted and both roused in their seats,     Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,     Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,     Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,     And the loud trumpet blowing them together-     Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd     My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,     O, when the King did throw his warder down-     His own life hung upon the staff he threw-     Then threw he down himself, and all their lives     That by indictment and by dint of sword     Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.   WESTMORELAND. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.     The Earl of Hereford was reputed then     In England the most valiant gentleman.     Who knows on whom fortune would then have smil'd?     But if your father had been victor there,     He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry;     For all the country, in a general voice,     Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love     Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,     And bless'd and grac'd indeed more than the King.     But this is mere digression from my purpose.     Here come I from our princely general     To know your griefs; to tell you from his Grace     That he will give you audience; and wherein     It shall appear that your demands are just,     You shall enjoy them, everything set off     That might so much as think you enemies.   MOWBRAY. But he hath forc'd us to compel this offer;     And it proceeds from policy, not love.   WESTMORELAND. Mowbray. you overween to take it so.     This offer comes from mercy, not from fear;     For, lo! within a ken our army lies-     Upon mine honour, all too confident     To give admittance to a thought of fear.     Our battle is more full of names than yours,     Our men more perfect in the use of arms,     Our armour all as strong, our cause the best;     Then reason will our hearts should be as good.     Say you not, then, our offer is compell'd.   MOWBRAY. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.   WESTMORELAND. That argues but the shame of your offence:     A rotten case abides no handling.   HASTINGS. Hath the Prince John a full commission,     In very ample virtue of his father,     To hear and absolutely to determine     Of what conditions we shall stand upon?   WESTMORELAND. That is intended in the general's name.     I muse you make so slight a question.   ARCHBISHOP. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule,     For this contains our general grievances.     Each several article herein redress'd,     All members of our cause, both here and hence,     That are insinewed to this action,     Acquitted by a true substantial form,     And present execution of our wills     To us and to our purposes confin'd-     We come within our awful banks again,     And knit our powers to the arm of peace.   WESTMORELAND. This will I show the general. Please you, lords,     In sight of both our battles we may meet;     And either end in peace- which God so frame!-     Or to the place of diff'rence call the swords     Which must decide it.   ARCHBISHOP. My lord, we will do so.          Exit WESTMORELAND   MOWBRAY. There is a thing within my bosom tells me     That no conditions of our peace can stand.   HASTINGS. Fear you not that: if we can make our peace     Upon such large terms and so absolute     As our conditions shall consist upon,     Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.   MOWBRAY. Yea, but our valuation shall be such     That every slight and false-derived cause,     Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason,     Shall to the King taste of this action;     That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,     We shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind     That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff,     And good from bad find no partition.   ARCHBISHOP. No, no, my lord. Note this: the King is weary     Of dainty and such picking grievances;     For he hath found to end one doubt by death     Revives two greater in the heirs of life;     And therefore will he wipe his tables clean,     And keep no tell-tale to his memory     That may repeat and history his los     To new remembrance. For full well he knows     He cannot so precisely weed this land     As his misdoubts present occasion:     His foes are so enrooted with his friends     That, plucking to unfix an enemy,     He doth unfasten so and shake a friend.     So that this land, like an offensive wife     That hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes,     As he is striking, holds his infant up,     And hangs resolv'd correction in the arm     That was uprear'd to execution.   HASTINGS. Besides, the King hath wasted all his rods     On late offenders, that he now doth lack     The very instruments of chastisement;     So that his power, like to a fangless lion,     May offer, but not hold.   ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis very true;     And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal,     If we do now make our atonement well,     Our peace will, like a broken limb united,     Grow stronger for the breaking.   MOWBRAY. Be it so.     Here is return'd my Lord of Westmoreland.                         Re-enter WESTMORELAND    WESTMORELAND. The Prince is here at hand. Pleaseth your lordship     To meet his Grace just distance 'tween our armies?   MOWBRAY. Your Grace of York, in God's name then, set forward.   ARCHBISHOP. Before, and greet his Grace. My lord, we come.                                                           Exeunt     SCENE II. Another part of the forest  Enter, from one side, MOWBRAY, attended; afterwards, the ARCHBISHOP, HASTINGS, and others; from the other side, PRINCE JOHN of LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, OFFICERS, and others    PRINCE JOHN. You are well encount'red here, my cousin Mowbray.     Good day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop;     And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.     My Lord of York, it better show'd with you     When that your flock, assembled by the bell,     Encircled you to hear with reverence     Your exposition on the holy text     Than now to see you here an iron man,     Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,     Turning the word to sword, and life to death.     That man that sits within a monarch's heart     And ripens in the sunshine of his favour,     Would he abuse the countenance of the king,     Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach     In shadow of such greatness! With you, Lord Bishop,     It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken     How deep you were within the books of God?     To us the speaker in His parliament,     To us th' imagin'd voice of God himself,     The very opener and intelligencer     Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven,     And our dull workings. O, who shall believe     But you misuse the reverence of your place,     Employ the countenance and grace of heav'n     As a false favourite doth his prince's name,     In deeds dishonourable? You have ta'en up,     Under the counterfeited zeal of God,     The subjects of His substitute, my father,     And both against the peace of heaven and him     Have here up-swarm'd them.   ARCHBISHOP. Good my Lord of Lancaster,     I am not here against your father's peace;     But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland,     The time misord'red doth, in common sense,     Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form     To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace     The parcels and particulars of our grief,     The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the court,     Whereon this hydra son of war is born;     Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep     With grant of our most just and right desires;     And true obedience, of this madness cur'd,     Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.   MOWBRAY. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes     To the last man.   HASTINGS. And though we here fall down,     We have supplies to second our attempt.     If they miscarry, theirs shall second them;     And so success of mischief shall be born,     And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up     Whiles England shall have generation.   PRINCE JOHN. YOU are too shallow, Hastings, much to shallow,     To sound the bottom of the after-times.   WESTMORELAND. Pleaseth your Grace to answer them directly     How far forth you do like their articles.   PRINCE JOHN. I like them all and do allow them well;     And swear here, by the honour of my blood,     My father's purposes have been mistook;     And some about him have too lavishly     Wrested his meaning and authority.     My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd;     Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you,     Discharge your powers unto their several counties,     As we will ours; and here, between the armies,     Let's drink together friendly and embrace,     That all their eyes may bear those tokens home     Of our restored love and amity.   ARCHBISHOP. I take your princely word for these redresses.   PRINCE JOHN. I give it you, and will maintain my word;     And thereupon I drink unto your Grace.   HASTINGS. Go, Captain, and deliver to the army     This news of peace. Let them have pay, and part.     I know it will please them. Hie thee, Captain.                                                     Exit Officer   ARCHBISHOP. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland.   WESTMORELAND. I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains     I have bestow'd to breed this present peace,     You would drink freely; but my love to ye     Shall show itself more openly hereafter.   ARCHBISHOP. I do not doubt you.   WESTMORELAND. I am glad of it.     Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.   MOWBRAY. You wish me health in very happy season,     For I am on the sudden something ill.   ARCHBISHOP. Against ill chances men are ever merry;     But heaviness foreruns the good event.   WESTMORELAND. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow     Serves to say thus, 'Some good thing comes to-morrow.'   ARCHBISHOP. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.   MOWBRAY. So much the worse, if your own rule be true.                                                  [Shouts within]   PRINCE JOHN. The word of peace is rend'red. Hark, how they shout!   MOWBRAY. This had been cheerful after victory.   ARCHBISHOP. A peace is of the nature of a conquest;     For then both parties nobly are subdu'd,     And neither party loser.   PRINCE JOHN. Go, my lord,     And let our army be discharged too.                                                Exit WESTMORELAND     And, good my lord, so please you let our trains     March by us, that we may peruse the men     We should have cop'd withal.   ARCHBISHOP. Go, good Lord Hastings,     And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by.                                                    Exit HASTINGS   PRINCE JOHN. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.                        Re-enter WESTMORELAND      Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?   WESTMORELAND. The leaders, having charge from you to stand,     Will not go off until they hear you speak.   PRINCE JOHN. They know their duties.                          Re-enter HASTINGS    HASTINGS. My lord, our army is dispers'd already.     Like youthful steers unyok'd, they take their courses     East, west, north, south; or like a school broke up,     Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place.   WESTMORELAND. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which     I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason;     And you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,     Of capital treason I attach you both.   MOWBRAY. Is this proceeding just and honourable?   WESTMORELAND. Is your assembly so?   ARCHBISHOP. Will you thus break your faith?   PRINCE JOHN. I pawn'd thee none:     I promis'd you redress of these same grievances     Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,     I will perform with a most Christian care.     But for you, rebels- look to taste the due     Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours.     Most shallowly did you these arms commence,     Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.     Strike up our drums, pursue the scatt'red stray.     God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day.     Some guard these traitors to the block of death,     Treason's true bed and yielder-up of breath.          Exeunt     SCENE III. Another part of the forest  Alarum; excursions. Enter FALSTAFF and COLVILLE, meeting    FALSTAFF. What's your name, sir? Of what condition are you, and of     what place, I pray?   COLVILLE. I am a knight sir; and my name is Colville of the Dale.   FALSTAFF. Well then, Colville is your name, a knight is your     degree, and your place the Dale. Colville shall still be your     name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place- a place     deep enough; so shall you be still Colville of the Dale.   COLVILLE. Are not you Sir John Falstaff?   FALSTAFF. As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do you yield,     sir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the drops     of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death; therefore rouse up     fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.   COLVILLE. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought     yield me.   FALSTAFF. I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine;     and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name.     An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most     active fellow in Europe. My womb, my womb, my womb undoes me.     Here comes our general.              Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND,                             BLUNT, and others    PRINCE JOHN. The heat is past; follow no further now.     Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland.                                                Exit WESTMORELAND     Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?     When everything is ended, then you come.     These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,     One time or other break some gallows' back.   FALSTAFF. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never     knew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you     think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I, in my poor and     old motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither with     the very extremest inch of possibility; I have found'red nine     score and odd posts; and here, travel tainted as I am, have, in     my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colville of the     Dale,a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that?     He saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say with the hook-nos'd     fellow of Rome-I came, saw, and overcame.   PRINCE JOHN. It was more of his courtesy than your deserving.   FALSTAFF. I know not. Here he is, and here I yield him; and I     beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this day's     deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad     else, with mine own picture on the top on't, Colville kissing my     foot; to the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all     show like gilt twopences to me, and I, in the clear sky of fame,     o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the     element, which show like pins' heads to her, believe not the word     of the noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.   PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too heavy to mount.   FALSTAFF. Let it shine, then.   PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too thick to shine.   FALSTAFF. Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good,     and call it what you will.   PRINCE JOHN. Is thy name Colville?   COLVILLE. It is, my lord.   PRINCE JOHN. A famous rebel art thou, Colville.   FALSTAFF. And a famous true subject took him.   COLVILLE. I am, my lord, but as my betters are     That led me hither. Had they been rul'd by me,     You should have won them dearer than you have.   FALSTAFF. I know not how they sold themselves; but thou, like a     kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for     thee.                         Re-enter WESTMORELAND    PRINCE JOHN. Now, have you left pursuit?   WESTMORELAND. Retreat is made, and execution stay'd.   PRINCE JOHN. Send Colville, with his confederates,     To York, to present execution.     Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure.                                          Exeunt BLUNT and others     And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords.     I hear the King my father is sore sick.     Our news shall go before us to his Majesty,     Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him     And we with sober speed will follow you.   FALSTAFF. My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through     Gloucestershire; and, when you come to court, stand my good lord,     pray, in your good report.   PRINCE JOHN. Fare you well, Falstaff. I, in my condition,     Shall better speak of you than you deserve.                                          Exeunt all but FALSTAFF   FALSTAFF. I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your     dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not     love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh- but that's no marvel;     he drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come     to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and     making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male     green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They     are generally fools and cowards-which some of us should be too,     but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold     operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all     the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it     apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and     delectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue,     which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of     your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood; which before,     cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the     badge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it,     and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes. It     illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the     rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital     commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their     captain, the heart, who, great and puff'd up with this retinue,     doth any deed of courage- and this valour comes of sherris. So     that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets     it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil     till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes     it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did     naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and     bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent     endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris,     that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons,     the first humane principle I would teach them should be to     forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.                             Enter BARDOLPH      How now, Bardolph!   BARDOLPH. The army is discharged all and gone.   FALSTAFF. Let them go. I'll through Gloucestershire, and there will     I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I have him already     temp'ring between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal     with him. Come away.                                  Exeunt     SCENE IV. Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber  Enter the KING, PRINCE THOMAS OF CLARENCE, PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, and others    KING. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end     To this debate that bleedeth at our doors,     We will our youth lead on to higher fields,     And draw no swords but what are sanctified.     Our navy is address'd, our power connected,     Our substitutes in absence well invested,     And everything lies level to our wish.     Only we want a little personal strength;     And pause us till these rebels, now afoot,     Come underneath the yoke of government.   WARWICK. Both which we doubt not but your Majesty     Shall soon enjoy.   KING. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester,     Where is the Prince your brother?   PRINCE HUMPHREY. I think he's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.   KING. And how accompanied?   PRINCE HUMPHREY. I do not know, my lord.   KING. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?   PRINCE HUMPHREY. No, my good lord, he is in presence here.   CLARENCE. What would my lord and father?   KING. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.     How chance thou art not with the Prince thy brother?     He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas.     Thou hast a better place in his affection     Than all thy brothers; cherish it, my boy,     And noble offices thou mayst effect     Of mediation, after I am dead,     Between his greatness and thy other brethren.     Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love,     Nor lose the good advantage of his grace     By seeming cold or careless of his will;     For he is gracious if he be observ'd.     He hath a tear for pity and a hand     Open as day for melting charity;     Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he is flint;     As humorous as winter, and as sudden     As flaws congealed in the spring of day.     His temper, therefore, must be well observ'd.     Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,     When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth;     But, being moody, give him line and scope     Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,     Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,     And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends,     A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,     That the united vessel of their blood,     Mingled with venom of suggestion-     As, force perforce, the age will pour it in-     Shall never leak, though it do work as strong     As aconitum or rash gunpowder.   CLARENCE. I shall observe him with all care and love.   KING. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?   CLARENCE. He is not there to-day; he dines in London.   KING. And how accompanied? Canst thou tell that?   CLARENCE. With Poins, and other his continual followers.   KING. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;     And he, the noble image of my youth,     Is overspread with them; therefore my grief     Stretches itself beyond the hour of death.     The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape,     In forms imaginary, th'unguided days     And rotten times that you shall look upon     When I am sleeping with my ancestors.     For when his headstrong riot hath no curb,     When rage and hot blood are his counsellors     When means and lavish manners meet together,     O, with what wings shall his affections fly     Towards fronting peril and oppos'd decay!   WARWICK. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite.     The Prince but studies his companions     Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language,     'Tis needful that the most immodest word     Be look'd upon and learnt; which once attain'd,     Your Highness knows, comes to no further use     But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,     The Prince will, in the perfectness of time,     Cast off his followers; and their memory     Shall as a pattern or a measure live     By which his Grace must mete the lives of other,     Turning past evils to advantages.   KING. 'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb     In the dead carrion.                        Enter WESTMORELAND      Who's here? Westmoreland?   WESTMORELAND. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness     Added to that that am to deliver!     Prince John, your son, doth kiss your Grace's hand.     Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all,     Are brought to the correction of your law.     There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd,     But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.     The manner how this action hath been borne     Here at more leisure may your Highness read,     With every course in his particular.   KING. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,     Which ever in the haunch of winter sings     The lifting up of day.                          Enter HARCOURT      Look here's more news.   HARCOURT. From enemies heaven keep your Majesty;     And, when they stand against you, may they fall     As those that I am come to tell you of!     The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph,     With a great power of English and of Scots,     Are by the shrieve of Yorkshire overthrown.     The manner and true order of the fight     This packet, please it you, contains at large.   KING. And wherefore should these good news make me sick?     Will Fortune never come with both hands full,     But write her fair words still in foulest letters?     She either gives a stomach and no food-     Such are the poor, in health- or else a feast,     And takes away the stomach- such are the rich     That have abundance and enjoy it not.     I should rejoice now at this happy news;     And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.     O me! come near me now I am much ill.   PRINCE HUMPHREY. Comfort, your Majesty!   CLARENCE. O my royal father!   WESTMORELAND. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up.   WARWICK. Be patient, Princes; you do know these fits     Are with his Highness very ordinary.     Stand from him, give him air; he'll straight be well.   CLARENCE. No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs.     Th' incessant care and labour of his mind     Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in     So thin that life looks through, and will break out.   PRINCE HUMPHREY. The people fear me; for they do observe     Unfather'd heirs and loathly births of nature.     The seasons change their manners, as the year     Had found some months asleep, and leapt them over.   CLARENCE. The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between;     And the old folk, Time's doting chronicles,     Say it did so a little time before     That our great grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died.   WARWICK. Speak lower, Princes, for the King recovers.   PRINCE HUMPHREY. This apoplexy will certain be his end.   KING. I pray you take me up, and bear me hence     Into some other chamber. Softly, pray.                Exeunt     SCENE V. Westminster. Another chamber  The KING lying on a bed; CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, and others in attendance    KING. Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;     Unless some dull and favourable hand     Will whisper music to my weary spirit.   WARWICK. Call for the music in the other room.   KING. Set me the crown upon my pillow here.   CLARENCE. His eye is hollow, and he changes much.   WARWICK. Less noise! less noise!                          Enter PRINCE HENRY    PRINCE. Who saw the Duke of Clarence?   CLARENCE. I am here, brother, full of heaviness.   PRINCE. How now! Rain within doors, and none abroad!     How doth the King?   PRINCE HUMPHREY. Exceeding ill.   PRINCE. Heard he the good news yet? Tell it him.   PRINCE HUMPHREY. He alt'red much upon the hearing it.   PRINCE. If he be sick with joy, he'll recover without physic.   WARWICK. Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet Prince, speak low;     The King your father is dispos'd to sleep.   CLARENCE. Let us withdraw into the other room.   WARWICK. Will't please your Grace to go along with us?   PRINCE. No; I will sit and watch here by the King.                                        Exeunt all but the PRINCE     Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,     Being so troublesome a bedfellow?     O polish'd perturbation! golden care!     That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide     To many a watchful night! Sleep with it now!     Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet     As he whose brow with homely biggen bound     Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!     When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit     Like a rich armour worn in heat of day     That scald'st with safety. By his gates of breath     There lies a downy feather which stirs not.     Did he suspire, that light and weightless down     Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father!     This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep     That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd     So many English kings. Thy due from me     Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood     Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,     Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously.     My due from thee is this imperial crown,     Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,     Derives itself to me.  [Putting on the crown]  Lo where it sits-     Which God shall guard; and put the world's whole strength     Into one giant arm, it shall not force     This lineal honour from me. This from thee     Will I to mine leave as 'tis left to me.                Exit   KING. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!             Re-enter WARWICK, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE    CLARENCE. Doth the King call?   WARWICK. What would your Majesty? How fares your Grace?   KING. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?   CLARENCE. We left the Prince my brother here, my liege,     Who undertook to sit and watch by you.   KING. The Prince of Wales! Where is he? Let me see him.     He is not here.   WARWICK. This door is open; he is gone this way.   PRINCE HUMPHREY. He came not through the chamber where we stay'd.   KING. Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?   WARWICK. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.   KING. The Prince hath ta'en it hence. Go, seek him out.     Is he so hasty that he doth suppose     My sleep my death?     Find him, my lord of Warwick; chide him hither.                                                     Exit WARWICK     This part of his conjoins with my disease     And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are!     How quickly nature falls into revolt     When gold becomes her object!     For this the foolish over-careful fathers     Have broke their sleep with thoughts,     Their brains with care, their bones with industry;     For this they have engrossed and pil'd up     The cank'red heaps of strange-achieved gold;     For this they have been thoughtful to invest     Their sons with arts and martial exercises;     When, like the bee, tolling from every flower     The virtuous sweets,     Our thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd,     We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,     Are murd'red for our pains. This bitter taste     Yields his engrossments to the ending father.                           Re-enter WARWICK      Now where is he that will not stay so long     Till his friend sickness hath determin'd me?   WARWICK. My lord, I found the Prince in the next room,     Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,     With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow,     That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood,     Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife     With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.   KING. But wherefore did he take away the crown?                          Re-enter PRINCE HENRY      Lo where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.     Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.                           Exeunt all but the KING and the PRINCE   PRINCE. I never thought to hear you speak again.   KING. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.     I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.     Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair     That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours     Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!     Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.     Stay but a little, for my cloud of dignity     Is held from falling with so weak a wind     That it will quickly drop; my day is dim.     Thou hast stol'n that which, after some few hours,     Were thine without offense; and at my death     Thou hast seal'd up my expectation.     Thy life did manifest thou lov'dst me not,     And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it.     Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,     Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,     To stab at half an hour of my life.     What, canst thou not forbear me half an hour?     Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself;     And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear     That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.     Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse     Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head;     Only compound me with forgotten dust;     Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.     Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;     For now a time is come to mock at form-     Harry the Fifth is crown'd. Up, vanity:     Down, royal state. All you sage counsellors, hence.     And to the English court assemble now,     From every region, apes of idleness.     Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum.     Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,     Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit     The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?     Be happy, he will trouble you no more.     England shall double gild his treble guilt;     England shall give him office, honour, might;     For the fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks     The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog     Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.     O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!     When that my care could not withhold thy riots,     What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?     O, thou wilt be a wilderness again.     Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!   PRINCE. O, pardon me, my liege! But for my tears,     The moist impediments unto my speech,     I had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke     Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard     The course of it so far. There is your crown,     And he that wears the crown immortally     Long guard it yours!  [Kneeling]  If I affect it more     Than as your honour and as your renown,     Let me no more from this obedience rise,     Which my most inward true and duteous spirit     Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending!     God witness with me, when I here came in     And found no course of breath within your Majesty,     How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign,     O, let me in my present wildness die,     And never live to show th' incredulous world     The noble change that I have purposed!     Coming to look on you, thinking you dead-     And dead almost, my liege, to think you were-     I spake unto this crown as having sense,     And thus upbraided it: 'The care on thee depending     Hath fed upon the body of my father;     Therefore thou best of gold art worst of gold.     Other, less fine in carat, is more precious,     Preserving life in med'cine potable;     But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd,     Hast eat thy bearer up.' Thus, my most royal liege,     Accusing it, I put it on my head,     To try with it- as with an enemy     That had before my face murd'red my father-     The quarrel of a true inheritor.     But if it did infect my blood with joy,     Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride;     If any rebel or vain spirit of mine     Did with the least affection of a welcome     Give entertainment to the might of it,     Let God for ever keep it from my head,     And make me as the poorest vassal is,     That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!   KING. O my son,     God put it in thy mind to take it hence,     That thou mightst win the more thy father's love,     Pleading so wisely in excuse of it!     Come hither, Harry; sit thou by my bed,     And hear, I think, the very latest counsel     That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,     By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways     I met this crown; and I myself know well     How troublesome it sat upon my head:     To thee it shall descend with better quiet,     Better opinion, better confirmation;     For all the soil of the achievement goes     With me into the earth. It seem'd in me     But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand;     And I had many living to upbraid     My gain of it by their assistances;     Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,     Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears     Thou seest with peril I have answered;     For all my reign hath been but as a scene     Acting that argument. And now my death     Changes the mood; for what in me was purchas'd     Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort;     So thou the garland wear'st successively.     Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do,     Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;     And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,     Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;     By whose fell working I was first advanc'd,     And by whose power I well might lodge a fear     To be again displac'd; which to avoid,     I cut them off; and had a purpose now     To lead out many to the Holy Land,     Lest rest and lying still might make them look     Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,     Be it thy course to busy giddy minds     With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out,     May waste the memory of the former days.     More would I, but my lungs are wasted so     That strength of speech is utterly denied me.     How I came by the crown, O God, forgive;     And grant it may with thee in true peace live!   PRINCE. My gracious liege,     You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;     Then plain and right must my possession be;     Which I with more than with a common pain     'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.         Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WARWICK, LORDS, and others    KING. Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster.   PRINCE JOHN. Health, peace, and happiness, to my royal father!   KING. Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John;     But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown     From this bare wither'd trunk. Upon thy sight     My worldly business makes a period.     Where is my Lord of Warwick?   PRINCE. My Lord of Warwick!   KING. Doth any name particular belong     Unto the lodging where I first did swoon?   WARWICK. 'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord.   KING. Laud be to God! Even there my life must end.     It hath been prophesied to me many years,     I should not die but in Jerusalem;     Which vainly I suppos'd the Holy Land.     But bear me to that chamber; there I'll lie;     In that Jerusalem shall Harry die.                    Exeunt