And that fame Greatness too, which our own hands Have help'd to make so portly. North. My good lord, K. Henry. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do fee Danger and disobedience in thine eye. O Sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory; And Majefty might never yet endure * The moody frontlet of a fervant brow. You have good leave to leave us. When we need You were about to speak. North. Yes, my good lord. [Exit Worcester. [To Northumberland. Those prisoners in your Highness' name demanded, Were, as he says, not with such strength deny'd Or Envy therefore, or Misprifion, Is guilty of this fault, and not my fon. Hot. My Liege, I did deny no prisoners; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held He gave his nofe: [and took't away again; The moody frontier- -[We should read frontlet, i. e. Forehead. He He queftion'd me: amongst the reft, demanded 1, then all fmarting with my wounds; being gal'd To be fo pefter'd with a popinjay, Out of my Grief, and my impatience, He fhould, or fhould not; for he made me mad, And talk fo like a waiting-gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God fave the mark!) And telling me, the fovereign't thing on earth This villainous falt petre fhould be digg'd Betwixt my love and your high Majefty. Blunt. The circumftance confider'd, good my lord, Whatever Harry Percy then had said, To fuch a perfon, and, in fuch a place, K. Henry. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, But with provifo and exception, That we at our own charge shall ransom ftraight --- let not this report] We should read, his. Against Against the great magician, damn'd Glendower; Hot. Revolted Mortimer? He never did fall off, my fovereign Liege, But by the chance of war; to prove That true, Needs no more but one tongue, for all those wounds, Thofe mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, When on the gentle Severn's fedgy bank, In fingle opposition, hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an hour Upon agreement, of fwift Severn's flood; Colour her working with fuch deadly wounds; Then let him not be flander'd with Revolt. K. Henry. Thou doft belie him, Percy, thou belieft him; He never did encounter with Glendower; He durft as well have met the Devil alone, Art not afham'd? but, firrah, from this hour Send Send me your prifoners with the speedieft means, As will displease you My Lord Northumberland, And tell him fo; for I will ease my heart, North. What, drunk with choler? ftay, and pause a while; Here comes your uncle. Enter Worcester. Hot. Speak of Mortimer ? Yes, I will speak of him; and let my foul As high i'th' Air as this unthankful King, mad. North. Brother, the King hath made your Nephew [To Worcester. Wor. Who ftrook this heat up, after I was gone? Hot. He will, forfooth, have all my prifoners: And when I urg'd the ranfom 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 ev'n at the name of Mortimer. Wor. I cannot blame him; was he not proclaim'd, By Richard that dead is, the next of blood? North. 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 From whence he, intercepted, did return Wor. And for whofe death, we in the world's wide mouth Live scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of. Hot. But foft, I pray you;-did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Mortimer Heir to the Crown? North. He did; myfelf did hear it. Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his coufin King. That wifh'd him on the barren mountains ftarv'd. But shall it be, that you, that fet the Crown Upon the head of this forgetful man, And for his fake wear the detefted blot Of murd'rous Subornation? fhall it be, That you a world of curfes undergo, Being the agents or bafe fecond means, The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather? (O pardon me, that I defcend fo low, To fhew the line and the predicament Wherein you range under this fubtle King) Shall it for fhame be fpoken in thefe days, Or fill up Chronicles in time to come, That men of your Nobility and Power Ingag'd them Both in an unjuft behalf; (As Both of you, God pardon it! have done:) To put down Richard, that fweet lovely Rose, And plant this Thorn, this Canker Bolingbroke? And fhall it in more shame be further spoken, That you are fool'd, discarded, and fhook off By him, for whom these fhames ye underwent? No; yet time ferves, wherein you may redeem Your banish'd Honours, and reftore yourfelves Into the good thoughts of the world again. Revenge the jeering and difdain'd contempt Of this proud King, who ftudies day and night To answer all the debt he owes unto you, Ev`n with the bloody payments of your deaths: Therefore, I far Wor. |