King Henry IV, Part 1

by William Shakespeare

Enter Glendower with the Ladies.

Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me-
My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.
Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with you;
She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.
Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy
Shall follow in your conduct speedily.
Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers
him in the same.
Glend. She is desperate here. A peevish self-will'd harlotry,
One that no persuasion can do good upon.
The Lady speaks in Welsh.
Mort. I understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh
Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens
I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,
In such a Barley should I answer thee.
The Lady again in Welsh.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that's a feeling disputation.
But I will never be a truant, love,
Till I have learnt thy language: for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bow'r,
With ravishing division, to her lute.
Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.
The Lady speaks again in Welsh.
Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this!
Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep
As is the difference betwixt day and night
The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the East.
Mort. With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing.
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.
Glend. Do so,
And those musicians that shall play to you
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,
And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend.
Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down. Come, quick,
quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose.
The music plays.
Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;
And 'tis no marvel, be is so humorous.
By'r Lady, he is a good musician.
Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are
altogether govern'd by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear
the
lady sing in Welsh.
Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head broken?
Hot. No.
Lady P. Then be still.
Hot. Neither! 'Tis a woman's fault.
Lady P. Now God help thee!
Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed.
Lady P. What's that?
Hot. Peace! she sings.
Here the Lady sings a Welsh song.
Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.
Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth.
Hot. Not yours, in good sooth? Heart! you swear like a
comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth!' and 'as true
as I
live!' and 'as God shall mend me!' and 'as sure as day!'
And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths
As if thou ne'er walk'st further than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,
A good mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth'
And such protest of pepper gingerbread
To velvet guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing.
Lady P. I will not sing.
Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor or be redbreast-teacher.
An
the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours;
and so
come in when ye will. Exit.
Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer. You are as slow
As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.
By this our book is drawn; we'll but seal,
And then to horse immediately.
Mort. With all my heart.
Exeunt.

Scene II. London. The Palace.

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others.

King. Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and I
Must have some private conference; but be near at hand,
For we shall presently have need of you.
Exeunt Lords.
I know not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood
He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost in thy passages of life
Make me believe that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven
To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate and low desires,
Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood
And hold their level with thy princely heart?
Prince. So please your Majesty, I would I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse
As well as I am doubtless I can purge
Myself of many I am charged withal.
Yet such extenuation let me beg
As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,
Which oft the ear of greatness needs must bear
By, smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,
I may, for some things true wherein my youth
Hath faulty wand'red and irregular,
And pardon on lily true submission.
King. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing,
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger brother is supplied,
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the court and princes of my blood.
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man
Prophetically do forethink thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company,
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession
And left me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir
But, like a comet, I was wond'red at;
That men would tell their children, 'This is he!'
Others would say, 'Where? Which is Bolingbroke?'
And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
And dress'd myself in such humility
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths
Even in the presence of the crowned King.
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new,
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne'er seen but wond'red at; and so my state,
Seldom but sumptuous, show'd like a feast
And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping King, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state;
Mingled his royalty with cap'ring fools;
Had his great name profaned with their scorns
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push
Of every beardless vain comparative;
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity;
That, being dally swallowed by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So, when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded- seen, but with such eyes
As, sick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze,
Such as is bent on unlike majesty
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;
But rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down,
Slept in his face, and rend'red such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.
And in that very line, Harry, standest thou;
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege
With vile participation. Not an eye
But is aweary of thy common sight,
Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;
Which now doth that I would not have it do-
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,
Be more myself.
King. For all the world,
As thou art to this hour, was Richard then
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh;
And even as I was then is Percy now.
Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the state
Than thou, the shadow of succession;
For of no right, nor colour like to right,
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
Turns head against the lion's armed jaws,
And, Being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on
To bloody battles and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got
Against renowmed Douglas! whose high deeds,
Whose hot incursions and great name in arms
Holds from all soldiers chief majority
And military title capital
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.
Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises
Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once,
Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up
And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
The Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer
Capitulate against us and are up.
But wherefore do I tell these news to thee
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my nearest and dearest enemy'
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
To fight against me under Percy's pay,
To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,
To show how much thou art degenerate.
Prince. Do not think so. You shall not find it so.
And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head
And, in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son,
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it.
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought of Harry chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! For the time will come
That I shall make this Northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call hall to so strict account
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This in the name of God I promise here;
The which if he be pleas'd I shall perform,
I do beseech your Majesty may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.
If not, the end of life cancels all bands,
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.
King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this!
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

Enter Blunt.

How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.
Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word
That Douglas and the English rebels met
The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.
A mighty and a fearful head they are,
If promises be kept oil every hand,
As ever off'red foul play in a state.
King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;
With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;
For this advertisement is five days old.
On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;
On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting
Is Bridgenorth; and, Harry, you shall march
Through Gloucestershire; by which account,
Our business valued, some twelve days hence
Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.
Our hands are full of business. Let's away.
Advantage feeds him fat while men delay. Exeunt.

Scene III. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal. Bardolph, am I not fall'n away vilely since this last
action?
Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me
like
an old lady's loose gown! I am withered like an old apple
John.
Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some
liking.
I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no
strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside
of a
church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse. The
inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath been the
spoil of me.
Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long.
Fal. Why, there is it! Come, sing me a bawdy song; make me
merry. I
was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous
enough: swore little, dic'd not above seven times a week,
went to
a bawdy house not above once in a quarter- of an hour, paid
money
that I borrowed- three or four times, lived well, and in good
compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.
Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out
of
all compass- out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.
Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art
our
admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop- but 'tis in
the
nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.
Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.
Fal. No, I'll be sworn. I make as good use of it as many a man
doth
of a death's-head or a memento mori. I never see thy face but
I
think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple; for there
he
is in his robes, burning, burning. if thou wert any way given
to
virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be 'By this
fire, that's God's angel.' But thou art altogether given
over,
and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of
utter
darkness. When thou ran'st up Gadshill in the night to catch
my
horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or
a
ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a
perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast
saved
me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee
in
the night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack that thou
hast
drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the
dearest
chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of
yours
with fire any time this two-and-thirty years. God reward me
for
it!
Bard. 'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!
Fal. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.