Then Shakespeare pulls himself up and tries to get into Hotspur's character again by representing to himself the circumstance:
“He writes me here, that inward sickness—
And that his friends by deputation could not
So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet—”
and so forth to the question: “...What say you to it?”
“Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us.
Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopped off:—”
Shakespeare sees that he cannot go on exaggerating the injury—that is not Hotspur's line, is indeed utterly false to Hotspur's nature; and so he tries to stop himself and think of Hotspur:
“And yet, in faith, it's 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 main
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.”
After the first two lines, which Hotspur might have spoken, we have the sophistry of the thinker poetically expressed, and not one word from the hot, high-couraged soldier. Indeed, in the last four lines from the bookish “we read” to the end, we have the gentle poet in love with desperate extremities. The passage must be compared with Othello's—
“Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.”
But at length when Worcester adds fear to danger Hotspur half finds himself:
“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 the kingdom; with his help
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.—
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.”
And this is all. The scene is designed, the situation constructed to show us Hotspur's courage: here, if anywhere, the hot blood should surprise us and make of danger the springboard of leaping hardihood. But this is the best Shakespeare can reach—this fainting, palefaced “Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.” The inadequacy, the feebleness of the whole thing is astounding. Milton had not the courage of the soldier, but he had more than this: he found better words for his Satan after defeat than Shakespeare found for Hotspur before the battle:
“What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield,
And what is else not to be overcome;
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me.”