DOUGLAS.
Thou art the king of honour.
No man so potent breathes upon the ground
But I will beard him.
HOTSPUR.
Do so, and ’tis well.
Enter a Messenger with letters.
What letters hast thou there? I can but thank you.
MESSENGER.
These letters come from your father.
HOTSPUR.
Letters from him! Why comes he not himself?
MESSENGER.
He cannot come, my lord, he is grievous sick.
HOTSPUR.
Zounds, how has he the leisure to be sick
In such a justling time? Who leads his power?
Under whose government come they along?
MESSENGER.
His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord.
WORCESTER.
I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?