HOTSPUR.
Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down.
Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
LADY PERCY.
Go, ye giddy goose.
[The music plays.]
HOTSPUR.
Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh,
And ’tis no marvel he’s so humorous.
By’r Lady, he’s a good musician.
LADY PERCY.
Then should you be nothing but musical,
For you are altogether governed by humours.
Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.
HOTSPUR.
I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
LADY PERCY.
Wouldst thou have thy head broken?
HOTSPUR.
No.
LADY PERCY.
Then be still.
HOTSPUR.
Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault.