HOTSPUR.
Of York, is it not?
WORCESTER.
True, who bears hard
His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
And only stays but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
HOTSPUR.
I smell it. Upon my life it will do well.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Before the game is afoot thou still let’st slip.
HOTSPUR.
Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot;
And then the power of Scotland and of York
To join with Mortimer, ha?
WORCESTER.
And so they shall.
HOTSPUR.
In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.
WORCESTER.
And ’tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads by raising of a head;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The King will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home:
And see already how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.
HOTSPUR.
He does, he does, we’ll be revenged on him.
WORCESTER.
Cousin, farewell. No further go in this
Than I by letters shall direct your course.
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,
I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer,
Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.