Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of
Westmerland, Sir Walter Blunt, and Falstaffe.
King. How bloodily the Sunne begins to peere
Aboue yon busky hill: the day lookes pale
At his distemperature
Prin. The Southerne winde
Doth play the Trumpet to his purposes,
And by his hollow whistling in the Leaues,
Fortels a Tempest, and a blust'ring day
King. Then with the losers let it sympathize,
For nothing can seeme foule to those that win.
The Trumpet sounds.
Enter Worcester.
King. How now my Lord of Worster? 'Tis not well
That you and I should meet vpon such tearmes,
As now we meet. You haue deceiu'd our trust,
And made vs doffe our easie Robes of Peace,
To crush our old limbes in vngentle Steele:
This is not well, my Lord, this is not well.
What say you to it? Will you againe vnknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred Warre?
And moue in the obedient Orbe againe,
Where you did giue a faire and naturall light,
And be no more an exhall'd Meteor,
A prodigie of Feare, and a Portent
Of broached Mischeefe, to the vnborne Times?
Wor. Heare me, my Liege:
For mine owne part, I could be well content
To entertaine the Lagge-end of my life
With quiet houres: For I do protest,
I haue not sought the day of this dislike
King. You haue not sought it: how comes it then?
Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it
Prin. Peace, Chewet, peace