# paragraphs

plain_text:
[sings]\n    They bore him barefac'd on the bier\n      (Hey non nony, nony, hey nony)\n    And in his grave rain'd many a tear.\nFare you well, my dove!


plain_text:
You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.' O,\nhow the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his\nmaster's daughter.


plain_text:
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love,\nremember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.


plain_text:
There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you,\nand here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays.\nO, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I\nwould give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father\ndied. They say he made a good end.\n[Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.


plain_text:
[sings]\n    And will he not come again?\n    And will he not come again?\n      No, no, he is dead; \n      Go to thy deathbed;\n    He never will come again.\n    His beard was as white as snow,\n    All flaxen was his poll.\n      He is gone, he is gone,\n      And we cast away moan.\n    God 'a'mercy on his soul!\nAnd of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b' wi' you.


plain_text:
Laertes, I must commune with your grief,\nOr you deny me right. Go but apart,\nMake choice of whom your wisest friends you will,\nAnd they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me.\nIf by direct or by collateral hand\nThey find us touch'd, we will our kingdom give,\nOur crown, our life, and all that we call ours,\nTo you in satisfaction; but if not, \nBe you content to lend your patience to us,\nAnd we shall jointly labour with your soul\nTo give it due content.


plain_text:
Let this be so.\nHis means of death, his obscure funeral-\nNo trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones,\nNo noble rite nor formal ostentation,-\nCry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth,\nThat I must call't in question.


plain_text:
Let them come in.\n[Exit Attendant.]\nI do not know from what part of the world\nI should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.


plain_text:
'A shall, sir, an't please him. There's a letter for you,\nsir,- it comes from th' ambassador that was bound for England- if\nyour name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.


plain_text:
[reads the letter] 'Horatio, when thou shalt have overlook'd\nthis, give these fellows some means to the King. They have\nletters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of\nvery warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too\nslow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I\nboarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship; so I\nalone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves\nof mercy; but they knew what they did: I am to do a good turn for\nthem. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou\nto me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have words\nto speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too\nlight for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring\nthee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course\nfor England. Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell.\n'He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.'\nCome, I will give you way for these your letters,\nAnd do't the speedier that you may direct me\nTo him from whom you brought them. Exeunt.


plain_text:
Now must your conscience my acquittance seal,\nAnd You must put me in your heart for friend,\nSith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,\nThat he which hath your noble father slain\nPursued my life.


plain_text:
It well appears. But tell me\nWhy you proceeded not against these feats\nSo crimeful and so capital in nature,\nAs by your safety, wisdom, all things else,\nYou mainly were stirr'd up.


plain_text:
O, for two special reasons,\nWhich may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew'd,\nBut yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother\nLives almost by his looks; and for myself,-\nMy virtue or my plague, be it either which,-\nShe's so conjunctive to my life and soul\nThat, as the star moves not but in his sphere, \nI could not but by her. The other motive\nWhy to a public count I might not go\nIs the great love the general gender bear him,\nWho, dipping all his faults in their affection,\nWould, like the spring that turneth wood to stone,\nConvert his gives to graces; so that my arrows,\nToo slightly timber'd for so loud a wind,\nWould have reverted to my bow again,\nAnd not where I had aim'd them.


plain_text:
And so have I a noble father lost;\nA sister driven into desp'rate terms,\nWhose worth, if praises may go back again,\nStood challenger on mount of all the age\nFor her perfections. But my revenge will come.


plain_text:
Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think\nThat we are made of stuff so flat and dull\nThat we can let our beard be shook with danger,\nAnd think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more.\nI lov'd your father, and we love ourself,\nAnd that, I hope, will teach you to imagine- \n[Enter a Messenger with letters.]\nHow now? What news?


plain_text:
Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not.\nThey were given me by Claudio; he receiv'd them\nOf him that brought them.


plain_text:
Laertes, you shall hear them.\nLeave us.\n[Exit Messenger.]\n[Reads]'High and Mighty,-You shall know I am set naked on your\nkingdom. To-morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes;\nwhen I shall (first asking your pardon thereunto) recount the\noccasion of my sudden and more strange return.                             'HAMLET.'\nWhat should this mean? Are all the rest come back?\nOr is it some abuse, and no such thing? 


plain_text:
I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come!\nIt warms the very sickness in my heart\nThat I shall live and tell him to his teeth,\n'Thus didest thou.'


plain_text:
To thine own peace. If he be now return'd\nAs checking at his voyage, and that he means\nNo more to undertake it, I will work him\nTo exploit now ripe in my device,\nUnder the which he shall not choose but fall;\nAnd for his death no wind shall breathe\nBut even his mother shall uncharge the practice \nAnd call it accident.


plain_text:
It falls right.\nYou have been talk'd of since your travel much,\nAnd that in Hamlet's hearing, for a quality\nWherein they say you shine, Your sum of parts\nDid not together pluck such envy from him\nAs did that one; and that, in my regard,\nOf the unworthiest siege.


plain_text:
A very riband in the cap of youth-\nYet needfull too; for youth no less becomes\nThe light and careless livery that it wears\nThan settled age his sables and his weeds,\nImporting health and graveness. Two months since\nHere was a gentleman of Normandy.\nI have seen myself, and serv'd against, the French,\nAnd they can well on horseback; but this gallant \nHad witchcraft in't. He grew unto his seat,\nAnd to such wondrous doing brought his horse\nAs had he been incorps'd and demi-natur'd\nWith the brave beast. So far he topp'd my thought\nThat I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,\nCome short of what he did.


plain_text:
He made confession of you;\nAnd gave you such a masterly report\nFor art and exercise in your defence,\nAnd for your rapier most especially,\nThat he cried out 'twould be a sight indeed\nIf one could match you. The scrimers of their nation\nHe swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye,\nIf you oppos'd them. Sir, this report of his \nDid Hamlet so envenom with his envy\nThat he could nothing do but wish and beg\nYour sudden coming o'er to play with you.\nNow, out of this-


plain_text:
Laertes, was your father dear to you?\nOr are you like the painting of a sorrow,\nA face without a heart,'


plain_text:
Not that I think you did not love your father;\nBut that I know love is begun by time,\nAnd that I see, in passages of proof,\nTime qualifies the spark and fire of it.\nThere lives within the very flame of love\nA kind of wick or snuff that will abate it;\nAnd nothing is at a like goodness still;\nFor goodness, growing to a plurisy,\nDies in his own too-much. That we would do,\nWe should do when we would; for this 'would' changes,\nAnd hath abatements and delays as many \nAs there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;\nAnd then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh,\nThat hurts by easing. But to the quick o' th' ulcer!\nHamlet comes back. What would you undertake\nTo show yourself your father's son in deed\nMore than in words?


plain_text:
No place indeed should murther sanctuarize;\nRevenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,\nWill you do this? Keep close within your chamber.\nHamlet return'd shall know you are come home.\nWe'll put on those shall praise your excellence\nAnd set a double varnish on the fame\nThe Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together\nAnd wager on your heads. He, being remiss,\nMost generous, and free from all contriving,\nWill not peruse the foils; so that with ease,\nOr with a little shuffling, you may choose\nA sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,\nRequite him for your father. 


plain_text:
I will do't!\nAnd for that purpose I'll anoint my sword.\nI bought an unction of a mountebank,\nSo mortal that, but dip a knife in it,\nWhere it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,\nCollected from all simples that have virtue\nUnder the moon, can save the thing from death\nThis is but scratch'd withal. I'll touch my point\nWith this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,\nIt may be death.


plain_text:
Let's further think of this,\nWeigh what convenience both of time and means\nMay fit us to our shape. If this should fall,\nAnd that our drift look through our bad performance.\n'Twere better not assay'd. Therefore this project\nShould have a back or second, that might hold\nIf this did blast in proof. Soft! let me see.\nWe'll make a solemn wager on your cunnings-\nI ha't!\nWhen in your motion you are hot and dry- \nAs make your bouts more violent to that end-\nAnd that he calls for drink, I'll have prepar'd him\nA chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,\nIf he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,\nOur purpose may hold there.- But stay, what noise,\n[Enter Queen.]\nHow now, sweet queen?


plain_text:
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,\nThat shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.\nThere with fantastic garlands did she come\nOf crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,\nThat liberal shepherds give a grosser name,\nBut our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.\nThere on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds\nClamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, \nWhen down her weedy trophies and herself\nFell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide\nAnd, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;\nWhich time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,\nAs one incapable of her own distress,\nOr like a creature native and indued\nUnto that element; but long it could not be\nTill that her garments, heavy with their drink,\nPull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay\nTo muddy death.


plain_text:
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,\nAnd therefore I forbid my tears; but yet\nIt is our trick; nature her custom holds,\nLet shame say what it will. When these are gone,\nThe woman will be out. Adieu, my lord.\nI have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze\nBut that this folly douts it.      Exit.


plain_text:
Let's follow, Gertrude. \nHow much I had to do to calm his rage I\nNow fear I this will give it start again;\nTherefore let's follow.


plain_text:
I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight.\nThe crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.


plain_text:
It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies\nthe point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act; and an\nact hath three branches-it is to act, to do, and to perform;\nargal, she drown'd herself wittingly.


plain_text:
Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the\nman; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is,\nwill he nill he, he goes- mark you that. But if the water come to\nhim and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not\nguilty of his own death shortens not his own life. 


plain_text:
Will you ha' the truth an't? If this had not been a\ngentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial.


plain_text:
Why, there thou say'st! And the more pity that great folk\nshould have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves\nmore than their even-Christian. Come, my spade! There is no\nancient gentlemen but gard'ners, ditchers, and grave-makers. They\nhold up Adam's profession.


plain_text:
What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture?\nThe Scripture says Adam digg'd. Could he dig without arms? I'll\nput another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the\npurpose, confess thyself-


plain_text:
I like thy wit well, in good faith. The gallows does well.\nBut how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now,\nthou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the\nchurch. Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come!


plain_text:
Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will\nnot mend his pace with beating; and when you are ask'd this\nquestion next, say 'a grave-maker.' The houses he makes lasts\ntill doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of\nliquor.


plain_text:
In youth when I did love, did love,\n   Methought it was very sweet;\n  To contract- O- the time for- a- my behove,\n    O, methought there- a- was nothing- a- meet.


plain_text:
[sings]\n    But age with his stealing steps\n      Hath clawed me in his clutch,\n    And hath shipped me intil the land,\n      As if I had never been such.


plain_text:
That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the\nknave jowls it to the ground,as if 'twere Cain's jawbone, that\ndid the first murther! This might be the pate of a Politician,\nwhich this ass now o'erreaches; one that would circumvent God,\nmight it not?


plain_text:
Or of a courtier, which could say 'Good morrow, sweet lord!\nHow dost thou, good lord?' This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that\nprais'd my Lord Such-a-one's horse when he meant to beg it- might\nit not?


plain_text:
Why, e'en so! and now my Lady Worm's, chapless, and knock'd\nabout the mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's fine revolution,\nand we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the\nbreeding but to play at loggets with 'em? Mine ache to think\non't.


plain_text:
[Sings]\n    A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,\n      For and a shrouding sheet;\n    O, a Pit of clay for to be made \n      For such a guest is meet.\n                                 Throws up [another skull].


plain_text:
There's another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer?\nWhere be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures,\nand his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock\nhim about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him\nof his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a\ngreat buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his\nfines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of\nhis fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine\npate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of\nhis purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth\nof a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will\nscarcely lie in this box; and must th' inheritor himself have no\nmore, ha?


plain_text:
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I \nwill speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sirrah?


plain_text:
You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours.\nFor my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine.


plain_text:
Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine. 'Tis for\nthe dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.


plain_text:
How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or\nequivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years\nI have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe \nof the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls\nhis kibe.- How long hast thou been a grave-maker?


plain_text:
Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the\nvery day that young Hamlet was born- he that is mad, and sent\ninto England.


plain_text:
Why, because 'a was mad. 'A shall recover his wits there;\nor, if 'a do not, 'tis no great matter there.


plain_text:
Faith, if 'a be not rotten before 'a die (as we have many\npocky corses now-a-days that will scarce hold the laying in, I\nwill last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last\nyou nine year.


plain_text:
Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade that 'a will\nkeep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of\nyour whoreson dead body. Here's a skull now. This skull hath lien\nyou i' th' earth three-and-twenty years.


plain_text:
A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'A pour'd a flagon of\nRhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's\nskull, the King's jester.


plain_text:
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, \nHoratio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He\nhath borne me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred\nin my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those\nlips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes\nnow? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that\nwere wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your\nown grinning? Quite chap- fall'n? Now get you to my lady's\nchamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this\nfavour she must come. Make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio,\ntell me one thing.


plain_text:
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not\nimagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it\nstopping a bunghole?


plain_text:
No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty\nenough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died,\nAlexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is\nearth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam (whereto he\nwas converted) might they not stop a beer barrel?\nImperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,\nMight stop a hole to keep the wind away.\nO, that that earth which kept the world in awe\nShould patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!\nBut soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King-\nEnter [priests with] a coffin [in funeral procession], King,\n[Queen, Laertes, with Lords attendant.]\nThe Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow?\nAnd with such maimed rites? This doth betoken\nThe corse they follow did with desp'rate hand\nFordo it own life. 'Twas of some estate.\nCouch we awhile, and mark.


plain_text:
Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd\nAs we have warranty. Her death was doubtful;\nAnd, but that great command o'ersways the order,\nShe should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd\nTill the last trumpet. For charitable prayers,\nShards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her.\nYet here she is allow'd her virgin rites,\nHer maiden strewments, and the bringing home\nOf bell and burial.


plain_text:
No more be done.\nWe should profane the service of the dead\nTo sing a requiem and such rest to her\nAs to peace-parted souls.


plain_text:
Lay her i' th' earth;\nAnd from her fair and unpolluted flesh \nMay violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,\nA minist'ring angel shall my sister be\nWhen thou liest howling.


plain_text:
Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.\n[Scatters flowers.]\nI hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife;\nI thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,\nAnd not have strew'd thy grave.


plain_text:
O, treble woe\nFall ten times treble on that cursed head\nWhose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense\nDepriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth awhile,\nTill I have caught her once more in mine arms.\n[Leaps in the grave.]\nNow pile your dust upon the quick and dead\nTill of this flat a mountain you have made\nT' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head\nOf blue Olympus.


plain_text:
[comes forward] What is he whose grief \nBears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow\nConjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand\nLike wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,\nHamlet the Dane.  [Leaps in after Laertes.


plain_text:
Thou pray'st not well.\nI prithee take thy fingers from my throat;\nFor, though I am not splenitive and rash,\nYet have I in me something dangerous,\nWhich let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!


plain_text:
        [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the                                                     grave.]


plain_text:
I lov'd Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers\nCould not (with all their quantity of love)\nMake up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?


plain_text:
'Swounds, show me what thou't do.\nWoo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself?\nWoo't drink up esill? eat a crocodile?\nI'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine?\nTo outface me with leaping in her grave?\nBe buried quick with her, and so will I.\nAnd if thou prate of mountains, let them throw\nMillions of acres on us, till our ground,\nSingeing his pate against the burning zone,\nMake Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,\nI'll rant as well as thou.


plain_text:
This is mere madness;\nAnd thus a while the fit will work on him.\nAnon, as patient as the female dove\nWhen that her golden couplets are disclos'd, \nHis silence will sit drooping.


plain_text:
Hear you, sir!\nWhat is the reason that you use me thus?\nI lov'd you ever. But it is no matter.\nLet Hercules himself do what he may,\nThe cat will mew, and dog will have his day.


plain_text:
I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.\n[Exit Horatio.]\n[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech.\nWe'll put the matter to the present push.-\nGood Gertrude, set some watch over your son.-\nThis grave shall have a living monument.\nAn hour of quiet shortly shall we see;\nTill then in patience our proceeding be.


plain_text:
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting\nThat would not let me sleep. Methought I lay\nWorse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly-\nAnd prais'd be rashness for it; let us know,\nOur indiscretion sometime serves us well\nWhen our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us\nThere's a divinity that shapes our ends,\nRough-hew them how we will-


plain_text:
Up from my cabin,\nMy sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark\nGrop'd I to find out them; had my desire,\nFinger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew\nTo mine own room again; making so bold \n(My fears forgetting manners) to unseal\nTheir grand commission; where I found, Horatio\n(O royal knavery!), an exact command,\nLarded with many several sorts of reasons,\nImporting Denmark's health, and England's too,\nWith, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my life-\nThat, on the supervise, no leisure bated,\nNo, not to stay the finding of the axe,\nMy head should be struck off.


plain_text:
Being thus benetted round with villanies,\nOr I could make a prologue to my brains,\nThey had begun the play. I sat me down;\nDevis'd a new commission; wrote it fair.\nI once did hold it, as our statists do,\nA baseness to write fair, and labour'd much\nHow to forget that learning; but, sir, now \nIt did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know\nTh' effect of what I wrote?


plain_text:
An earnest conjuration from the King,\nAs England was his faithful tributary,\nAs love between them like the palm might flourish,\nAs peace should still her wheaten garland wear\nAnd stand a comma 'tween their amities,\nAnd many such-like as's of great charge,\nThat, on the view and knowing of these contents,\nWithout debatement further, more or less,\nHe should the bearers put to sudden death,\nNot shriving time allow'd.


plain_text:
Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.\nI had my father's signet in my purse,\nWhich was the model of that Danish seal;\nFolded the writ up in the form of th' other,\nSubscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it safely,\nThe changeling never known. Now, the next day \nWas our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent\nThou know'st already.


plain_text:
Why, man, they did make love to this employment!\nThey are not near my conscience; their defeat\nDoes by their own insinuation grow.\n'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes\nBetween the pass and fell incensed points\nOf mighty opposites.


plain_text:
Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon-\nHe that hath kill'd my king, and whor'd my mother;\nPopp'd in between th' election and my hopes;\nThrown out his angle for my proper life,\nAnd with such coz'nage- is't not perfect conscience\nTo quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd\nTo let this canker of our nature come\nIn further evil?


plain_text:
It will be short; the interim is mine,\nAnd a man's life is no more than to say 'one.'\nBut I am very sorry, good Horatio,\nThat to Laertes I forgot myself,\nFor by the image of my cause I see\nThe portraiture of his. I'll court his favours.\nBut sure the bravery of his grief did put me\nInto a tow'ring passion.


plain_text:
[aside to Horatio] Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a\nvice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile. Let a beast be\nlord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess. 'Tis\na chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.


plain_text:
I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your\nbonnet to his right use. 'Tis for the head.


plain_text:
Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as 'twere- I cannot\ntell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that\nhe has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter-


plain_text:
Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is\nnewly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman,\nfull of most excellent differences, of very soft society and\ngreat showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card\nor calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of\nwhat part a gentleman would see.


plain_text:
Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I\nknow, to divide him inventorially would dozy th' arithmetic of\nmemory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail.\nBut, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great\narticle, and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make\ntrue diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else    would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.


plain_text:
I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in\nexcellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.


plain_text:
I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him\nby them, in his meed he's unfellowed.


plain_text:
The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary horses;\nagainst the which he has impon'd, as I take it, six French\nrapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and\nso. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy,\nvery responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of\nvery liberal conceit.


plain_text:
The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could\ncarry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then. \nBut on! Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their\nassigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages: that's the French\nbet against the Danish. Why is this all impon'd, as you call it?


plain_text:
The King, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between\nyourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath\nlaid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial\nif your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.


plain_text:
Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty,\nit is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be\nbrought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose,\nI will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my\nshame and the odd hits.


plain_text:
Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it\nhimself; there are no tongues else for's turn.


plain_text:
He did comply with his dug before he suck'd it. Thus has he,\nand many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes\non, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter-\na kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and\nthrough the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but blow\nthem to their trial-the bubbles are out,


plain_text:
My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who\nbrings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He sends to\nknow if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will\ntake longer time.


plain_text:
I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King's pleasure.\nIf his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided\nI be so able as now.


plain_text:
I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in\ncontinual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not\nthink how ill all's here about my heart. But it is no matter.


plain_text:
If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their\nrepair hither and say you are not fit.


plain_text:
Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in\nthe fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be\nnot to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come:\nthe readiness is all. Since no man knows aught of what he leaves,\nwhat is't to leave betimes? Let be.


plain_text:
Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong;\nBut pardon't, as you are a gentleman.\nThis presence knows,\nAnd you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd\nWith sore distraction. What I have done\nThat might your nature, honour, and exception\nRoughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.\nWas't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet.\nIf Hamlet from himself be taken away,\nAnd when he's not himself does wrong Laertes,\nThen Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it.\nWho does it, then? His madness. If't be so,\nHamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd;\nHis madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.\nSir, in this audience,\nLet my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil\nFree me so far in your most generous thoughts \nThat I have shot my arrow o'er the house\nAnd hurt my brother.


plain_text:
I am satisfied in nature,\nWhose motive in this case should stir me most\nTo my revenge. But in my terms of honour\nI stand aloof, and will no reconcilement\nTill by some elder masters of known honour\nI have a voice and precedent of peace\nTo keep my name ungor'd. But till that time\nI do receive your offer'd love like love,\nAnd will not wrong it.


plain_text:
I'll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance\nYour skill shall, like a star i' th' darkest night,\nStick fiery off indeed.


plain_text:
Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.\nIf Hamlet give the first or second hit,\nOr quit in answer of the third exchange,\nLet all the battlements their ordnance fire;\nThe King shall drink to Hamlet's better breath,\nAnd in the cup an union shall he throw\nRicher than that which four successive kings\nIn Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups;\nAnd let the kettle to the trumpet speak,\nThe trumpet to the cannoneer without, \nThe cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth,\n'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.' Come, begin.\nAnd you the judges, bear a wary eye.


plain_text:
Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;\nHere's to thy health.\n[Drum; trumpets sound; a piece goes off [within].]\nGive him the cup.


plain_text:
He's fat, and scant of breath.\nHere, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. \nThe Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.


plain_text:
Come for the third, Laertes! You but dally.\nPray you pass with your best violence;\nI am afeard you make a wanton of me.


plain_text:
           [Laertes wounds Hamlet; then] in scuffling, they change rapiers, [and Hamlet wounds Laertes].


plain_text:
It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain;\nNo medicine in the world can do thee good.\nIn thee there is not half an hour of life.\nThe treacherous instrument is in thy hand,\nUnbated and envenom'd. The foul practice\nHath turn'd itself on me. Lo, here I lie,\nNever to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd.\nI can no more. The King, the King's to blame. 


plain_text:
Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane,\nDrink off this potion! Is thy union here?\nFollow my mother.             King dies.


plain_text:
He is justly serv'd.\nIt is a poison temper'd by himself.\nExchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet.\nMine and my father's death come not upon thee,\nNor thine on me!                                       Dies.


plain_text:
Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.\nI am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!\nYou that look pale and tremble at this chance,\nThat are but mutes or audience to this act,\nHad I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death,\nIs strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you-\nBut let it be. Horatio, I am dead;\nThou liv'st; report me and my cause aright \nTo the unsatisfied.


plain_text:
As th'art a man,\nGive me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't.\nO good Horatio, what a wounded name\n(Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me!\nIf thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,\nAbsent thee from felicity awhile,\nAnd in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,\nTo tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within.]\nWhat warlike noise is this?


plain_text:
Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,\nTo the ambassadors of England gives\nThis warlike volley.


plain_text:
O, I die, Horatio!\nThe potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit.\nI cannot live to hear the news from England,\nBut I do prophesy th' election lights \nOn Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.\nSo tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less,\nWhich have solicited- the rest is silence. Dies.


plain_text:
Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,\nAnd flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!\n[March within.]\nWhy does the drum come hither?\nEnter Fortinbras and English Ambassadors, with Drum, Colours, and Attendants.


plain_text:
This quarry cries on havoc. O proud Death,\nWhat feast is toward in thine eternal cell\nThat thou so many princes at a shot\nSo bloodily hast struck.


plain_text:
The sight is dismal;\nAnd our affairs from England come too late. \nThe ears are senseless that should give us hearing\nTo tell him his commandment is fulfill'd\nThat Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.\nWhere should we have our thanks?


plain_text:
Not from his mouth,\nHad it th' ability of life to thank you.\nHe never gave commandment for their death.\nBut since, so jump upon this bloody question,\nYou from the Polack wars, and you from England,\nAre here arriv'd, give order that these bodies\nHigh on a stage be placed to the view;\nAnd let me speak to the yet unknowing world\nHow these things came about. So shall you hear\nOf carnal, bloody and unnatural acts;\nOf accidental judgments, casual slaughters;\nOf deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause;\nAnd, in this upshot, purposes mistook\nFall'n on th' inventors' heads. All this can I\nTruly deliver.


plain_text:
Let us haste to hear it, \nAnd call the noblest to the audience.\nFor me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune.\nI have some rights of memory in this kingdom\nWhich now, to claim my vantage doth invite me.


plain_text:
Of that I shall have also cause to speak,\nAnd from his mouth whose voice will draw on more.\nBut let this same be presently perform'd,\nEven while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance\nOn plots and errors happen.


plain_text:
Let four captains\nBear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage;\nFor he was likely, had he been put on,\nTo have prov'd most royally; and for his passage\nThe soldiers' music and the rites of war\nSpeak loudly for him.\nTake up the bodies. Such a sight as this\nBecomes the field but here shows much amiss.\nGo, bid the soldiers shoot.


plain_text:
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,\nFind we a time for frighted peace to pant,\nAnd breathe short-winded accents of new broils\nTo be commenced in strands afar remote.\nNo more the thirsty entrance of this soil\nShall daub her lips with her own children's blood;\nNor more shall trenching war channel her fields,\nNor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs\nOf hostile paces: those opposed eyes,\nWhich, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,\nAll of one nature, of one substance bred,\nDid lately meet in the intestine shock\nAnd furious close of civil butchery\nShall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,\nMarch all one way and be no more opposed\nAgainst acquaintance, kindred and allies:\nThe edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,\nNo more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,\nAs far as to the sepulchre of Christ,\nWhose soldier now, under whose blessed cross\nWe are impressed and engaged to fight,\nForthwith a power of English shall we levy;\nWhose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb\nTo chase these pagans in those holy fields\nOver whose acres walk'd those blessed feet\nWhich fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd\nFor our advantage on the bitter cross.\nBut this our purpose now is twelve month old,\nAnd bootless 'tis to tell you we will go:\nTherefore we meet not now. Then let me hear\nOf you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,\nWhat yesternight our council did decree\nIn forwarding this dear expedience.


plain_text:
My liege, this haste was hot in question,\nAnd many limits of the charge set down\nBut yesternight: when all athwart there came\nA post from Wales loaden with heavy news;\nWhose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,\nLeading the men of Herefordshire to fight\nAgainst the irregular and wild Glendower,\nWas by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,\nA thousand of his people butchered;\nUpon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,\nSuch beastly shameless transformation,\nBy those Welshwomen done as may not be\nWithout much shame retold or spoken of.


plain_text:
This match'd with other did, my gracious lord;\nFor more uneven and unwelcome news\nCame from the north and thus it did import:\nOn Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,\nYoung Harry Percy and brave Archibald,\nThat ever-valiant and approved Scot,\nAt Holmedon met,\nWhere they did spend a sad and bloody hour,\nAs by discharge of their artillery,\nAnd shape of likelihood, the news was told;\nFor he that brought them, in the very heat\nAnd pride of their contention did take horse,\nUncertain of the issue any way.


plain_text:
Here is a dear, a true industrious friend,\nSir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse.\nStain'd with the variation of each soil\nBetwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;\nAnd he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.\nThe Earl of Douglas is discomfited:\nTen thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights,\nBalk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see\nOn Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took\nMordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son\nTo beaten Douglas; and the Earl of Athol,\nOf Murray, Angus, and Menteith:\nAnd is not this an honourable spoil?\nA gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?


plain_text:
Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest me sin\nIn envy that my Lord Northumberland\nShould be the father to so blest a son,\nA son who is the theme of honour's tongue;\nAmongst a grove, the very straightest plant;\nWho is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride:\nWhilst I, by looking on the praise of him,\nSee riot and dishonour stain the brow\nOf my young Harry. O that it could be proved\nThat some night-tripping fairy had exchanged\nIn cradle-clothes our children where they lay,\nAnd call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet!\nThen would I have his Harry, and he mine.\nBut let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,\nOf this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,\nWhich he in this adventure hath surprised,\nTo his own use he keeps; and sends me word,\nI shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.


plain_text:
This is his uncle's teaching; this is Worcester,\nMalevolent to you in all aspects;\nWhich makes him prune himself, and bristle up\nThe crest of youth against your dignity.


plain_text:
But I have sent for him to answer this;\nAnd for this cause awhile we must neglect\nOur holy purpose to Jerusalem.\nCousin, on Wednesday next our council we\nWill hold at Windsor; so inform the lords:\nBut come yourself with speed to us again;\nFor more is to be said and to be done\nThan out of anger can be uttered.


plain_text:
Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack\nand unbuttoning thee after supper and sleeping upon\nbenches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to\ndemand that truly which thou wouldst truly know.\nWhat a devil hast thou to do with the time of the\nday? Unless hours were cups of sack and minutes\ncapons and clocks the tongues of bawds and dials the\nsigns of leaping-houses and the blessed sun himself\na fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no\nreason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand\nthe time of the day.


plain_text:
Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take\npurses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not\nby Phoebus, he,'that wandering knight so fair.' And,\nI prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God\nsave thy grace,--majesty I should say, for grace\nthou wilt have none,--


plain_text:
Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not\nus that are squires of the night's body be called\nthieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's\nforesters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the\nmoon; and let men say we be men of good government,\nbeing governed, as the sea is, by our noble and\nchaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.


plain_text:
Thou sayest well, and it holds well too; for the\nfortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and\nflow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is,\nby the moon. As, for proof, now: a purse of gold\nmost resolutely snatched on Monday night and most\ndissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with\nswearing 'Lay by' and spent with crying 'Bring in;'\nnow in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder\nand by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.


plain_text:
As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And\nis not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?


plain_text:
How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and\nthy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a\nbuff jerkin?


plain_text:
Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch;\nand where it would not, I have used my credit.


plain_text:
Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent\nthat thou art heir apparent--But, I prithee, sweet\nwag, shall there be gallows standing in England when\nthou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is\nwith the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do\nnot thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.


plain_text:
Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have\nthe hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman.


plain_text:
Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my\nhumour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell\nyou.


plain_text:
Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman\nhath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy\nas a gib cat or a lugged bear.


plain_text:
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes and art indeed\nthe most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young\nprince. But, Hal, I prithee, trouble me no more\nwith vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a\ncommodity of good names were to be bought. An old\nlord of the council rated me the other day in the\nstreet about you, sir, but I marked him not; and yet\nhe talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and\nyet he talked wisely, and in the street too.


plain_text:
O, thou hast damnable iteration and art indeed able\nto corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon\nme, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew\nthee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man\nshould speak truly, little better than one of the\nwicked. I must give over this life, and I will give\nit over: by the Lord, and I do not, I am a villain:\nI'll be damned for never a king's son in\nChristendom.


plain_text:
Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis no sin for a\nman to labour in his vocation.\n[Enter POINS]\nPoins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a\nmatch. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what\nhole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the\nmost omnipotent villain that ever cried 'Stand' to\na true man.


plain_text:
Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse?\nwhat says Sir John Sack and Sugar? Jack! how\nagrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou\nsoldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira\nand a cold capon's leg?


plain_text:
Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have\nhis bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of\nproverbs: he will give the devil his due.


plain_text:
But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four\no'clock, early at Gadshill! there are pilgrims going\nto Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders\nriding to London with fat purses: I have vizards\nfor you all; you have horses for yourselves:\nGadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have bespoke\nsupper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it\nas secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff\nyour purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry\nat home and be hanged.


plain_text:
There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good\nfellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood\nroyal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.


plain_text:
Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and me alone:\nI will lay him down such reasons for this adventure\nthat he shall go.


plain_text:
Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him\nthe ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may\nmove and what he hears may be believed, that the\ntrue prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false\nthief; for the poor abuses of the time want\ncountenance. Farewell: you shall find me in Eastcheap.


plain_text:
Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us\nto-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I cannot\nmanage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto and Gadshill\nshall rob those men that we have already waylaid:\nyourself and I will not be there; and when they\nhave the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut\nthis head off from my shoulders.


plain_text:
Why, we will set forth before or after them, and\nappoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at\nour pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure\nupon the exploit themselves; which they shall have\nno sooner achieved, but we'll set upon them.


plain_text:
Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our\nhorses, by our habits and by every other\nappointment, to be ourselves.


plain_text:
Tut! our horses they shall not see: I'll tie them\nin the wood; our vizards we will change after we\nleave them: and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram\nfor the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.


plain_text:
Well, for two of them, I know them to be as\ntrue-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the\nthird, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll\nforswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the\nincomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will\ntell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at\nleast, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what\nextremities he endured; and in the reproof of this\nlies the jest.


plain_text:
Well, I'll go with thee: provide us all things\nnecessary and meet me to-morrow night in Eastcheap;\nthere I'll sup. Farewell.


plain_text:
I know you all, and will awhile uphold\nThe unyoked humour of your idleness:\nYet herein will I imitate the sun,\nWho doth permit the base contagious clouds\nTo smother up his beauty from the world,\nThat, when he please again to be himself,\nBeing wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,\nBy breaking through the foul and ugly mists\nOf vapours that did seem to strangle him.\nIf all the year were playing holidays,\nTo sport would be as tedious as to work;\nBut when they seldom come, they wish'd for come,\nAnd nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.\nSo, when this loose behavior I throw off\nAnd pay the debt I never promised,\nBy how much better than my word I am,\nBy so much shall I falsify men's hopes;\nAnd like bright metal on a sullen ground,\nMy reformation, glittering o'er my fault,\nShall show more goodly and attract more eyes\nThan that which hath no foil to set it off.\nI'll so offend, to make offence a skill;\nRedeeming time when men think least I will.


plain_text:
My blood hath been too cold and temperate,\nUnapt to stir at these indignities,\nAnd you have found me; for accordingly\nYou tread upon my patience: but be sure\nI will from henceforth rather be myself,\nMighty and to be fear'd, than my condition;\nWhich hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,\nAnd therefore lost that title of respect\nWhich the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.


plain_text:
Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves\nThe scourge of greatness to be used on it;\nAnd that same greatness too which our own hands\nHave holp to make so portly.


plain_text:
Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see\nDanger and disobedience in thine eye:\nO, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,\nAnd majesty might never yet endure\nThe moody frontier of a servant brow.\nYou have good leave to leave us: when we need\nYour use and counsel, we shall send for you.\n[Exit Worcester]\nYou were about to speak.\n[To North]


plain_text:
Yea, my good lord.\nThose prisoners in your highness' name demanded,\nWhich Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,\nWere, as he says, not with such strength denied\nAs is deliver'd to your majesty:\nEither envy, therefore, or misprison\nIs guilty of this fault and not my son.


plain_text:
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.\nBut I remember, when the fight was done,\nWhen I was dry with rage and extreme toil,\nBreathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,\nCame there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress'd,\nFresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd\nShow'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;\nHe was perfumed like a milliner;\nAnd 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held\nA pouncet-box, which ever and anon\nHe gave his nose and took't away again;\nWho therewith angry, when it next came there,\nTook it in snuff; and still he smiled and talk'd,\nAnd as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,\nHe call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,\nTo bring a slovenly unhandsome corse\nBetwixt the wind and his nobility.\nWith many holiday and lady terms\nHe question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded\nMy prisoners in your majesty's behalf.\nI then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,\nTo be so pester'd with a popinjay,\nOut of my grief and my impatience,\nAnswer'd neglectingly I know not what,\nHe should or he should not; for he made me mad\nTo see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet\nAnd talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman\nOf guns and drums and wounds,--God save the mark!--\nAnd telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth\nWas parmaceti for an inward bruise;\nAnd that it was great pity, so it was,\nThis villanous salt-petre should be digg'd\nOut of the bowels of the harmless earth,\nWhich many a good tall fellow had destroy'd\nSo cowardly; and but for these vile guns,\nHe would himself have been a soldier.\nThis bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,\nI answer'd indirectly, as I said;\nAnd I beseech you, let not his report\nCome current for an accusation\nBetwixt my love and your high majesty.


plain_text:
The circumstance consider'd, good my lord,\nWhate'er Lord Harry Percy then had said\nTo such a person and in such a place,\nAt such a time, with all the rest retold,\nMay reasonably die and never rise\nTo do him wrong or any way impeach\nWhat then he said, so he unsay it now.


plain_text:
Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,\nBut with proviso and exception,\nThat we at our own charge shall ransom straight\nHis brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;\nWho, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd\nThe lives of those that he did lead to fight\nAgainst that great magician, damn'd Glendower,\nWhose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March\nHath lately married. Shall our coffers, then,\nBe emptied to redeem a traitor home?\nShall we but treason? and indent with fears,\nWhen they have lost and forfeited themselves?\nNo, on the barren mountains let him starve;\nFor I shall never hold that man my friend\nWhose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost\nTo ransom home revolted Mortimer.


plain_text:
Revolted Mortimer!\nHe never did fall off, my sovereign liege,\nBut by the chance of war; to prove that true\nNeeds no more but one tongue for all those wounds,\nThose mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took\nWhen on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,\nIn single opposition, hand to hand,\nHe did confound the best part of an hour\nIn changing hardiment with great Glendower:\nThree times they breathed and three times did\nthey drink,\nUpon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;\nWho then, affrighted with their bloody looks,\nRan fearfully among the trembling reeds,\nAnd hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,\nBloodstained with these valiant combatants.\nNever did base and rotten policy\nColour her working with such deadly wounds;\nNor could the noble Mortimer\nReceive so many, and all willingly:\nThen let not him be slander'd with revolt.


plain_text:
Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him;\nHe never did encounter with Glendower:\nI tell thee,\nHe durst as well have met the devil alone\nAs Owen Glendower for an enemy.\nArt thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth\nLet me not hear you speak of Mortimer:\nSend me your prisoners with the speediest means,\nOr you shall hear in such a kind from me\nAs will displease you. My Lord Northumberland,\nWe licence your departure with your son.\nSend us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.


plain_text:
An if the devil come and roar for them,\nI will not send them: I will after straight\nAnd tell him so; for I will ease my heart,\nAlbeit I make a hazard of my head.


plain_text:
Speak of Mortimer!\n'Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul\nWant mercy, if I do not join with him:\nYea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,\nAnd shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,\nBut I will lift the down-trod Mortimer\nAs high in the air as this unthankful king,\nAs this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke.


plain_text:
He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;\nAnd when I urged the ransom once again\nOf my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,\nAnd on my face he turn'd an eye of death,\nTrembling even at the name of Mortimer.


plain_text:
He was; I heard the proclamation:\nAnd then it was when the unhappy king,\n--Whose wrongs in us God pardon!--did set forth\nUpon his Irish expedition;\nFrom whence he intercepted did return\nTo be deposed and shortly murdered.


plain_text:
But soft, I pray you; did King Richard then\nProclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer\nHeir to the crown?


plain_text:
Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,\nThat wished him on the barren mountains starve.\nBut shall it be that you, that set the crown\nUpon the head of this forgetful man\nAnd for his sake wear the detested blot\nOf murderous subornation, shall it be,\nThat you a world of curses undergo,\nBeing the agents, or base second means,\nThe cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?\nO, pardon me that I descend so low,\nTo show the line and the predicament\nWherein you range under this subtle king;\nShall it for shame be spoken in these days,\nOr fill up chronicles in time to come,\nThat men of your nobility and power\nDid gage them both in an unjust behalf,\nAs both of you--God pardon it!--have done,\nTo put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,\nAn plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?\nAnd shall it in more shame be further spoken,\nThat you are fool'd, discarded and shook off\nBy him for whom these shames ye underwent?\nNo; yet time serves wherein you may redeem\nYour banish'd honours and restore yourselves\nInto the good thoughts of the world again,\nRevenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt\nOf this proud king, who studies day and night\nTo answer all the debt he owes to you\nEven with the bloody payment of your deaths:\nTherefore, I say--


plain_text:
Peace, cousin, say no more:\nAnd now I will unclasp a secret book,\nAnd to your quick-conceiving discontents\nI'll read you matter deep and dangerous,\nAs full of peril and adventurous spirit\nAs to o'er-walk a current roaring loud\nOn the unsteadfast footing of a spear.


plain_text:
If he fall in, good night! or sink or swim:\nSend danger from the east unto the west,\nSo honour cross it from the north to south,\nAnd let them grapple: O, the blood more stirs\nTo rouse a lion than to start a hare!


plain_text:
By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,\nTo pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,\nOr dive into the bottom of the deep,\nWhere fathom-line could never touch the ground,\nAnd pluck up drowned honour by the locks;\nSo he that doth redeem her thence might wear\nWithout corrival, all her dignities:\nBut out upon this half-faced fellowship!


plain_text:
He apprehends a world of figures here,\nBut not the form of what he should attend.\nGood cousin, give me audience for a while.


plain_text:
I'll keep them all;\nBy God, he shall not have a Scot of them;\nNo, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:\nI'll keep them, by this hand.


plain_text:
Nay, I will; that's flat:\nHe said he would not ransom Mortimer;\nForbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;\nBut I will find him when he lies asleep,\nAnd in his ear I'll holla 'Mortimer!'\nNay,\nI'll have a starling shall be taught to speak\nNothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him\nTo keep his anger still in motion.


plain_text:
All studies here I solemnly defy,\nSave how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:\nAnd that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,\nBut that I think his father loves him not\nAnd would be glad he met with some mischance,\nI would have him poison'd with a pot of ale.


plain_text:
Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool\nArt thou to break into this woman's mood,\nTying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!


plain_text:
Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourged with rods,\nNettled and stung with pismires, when I hear\nOf this vile politician, Bolingbroke.\nIn Richard's time,--what do you call the place?--\nA plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire;\n'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,\nHis uncle York; where I first bow'd my knee\nUnto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,--\n'Sblood!--\nWhen you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.


plain_text:
You say true:\nWhy, what a candy deal of courtesy\nThis fawning greyhound then did proffer me!\nLook,'when his infant fortune came to age,'\nAnd 'gentle Harry Percy,' and 'kind cousin;'\nO, the devil take such cozeners! God forgive me!\nGood uncle, tell your tale; I have done.


plain_text:
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.\nDeliver them up without their ransom straight,\nAnd make the Douglas' son your only mean\nFor powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons\nWhich I shall send you written, be assured,\nWill easily be granted. You, my lord,\n[To Northumberland]\nYour son in Scotland being thus employ'd,\nShall secretly into the bosom creep\nOf that same noble prelate, well beloved,\nThe archbishop.


plain_text:
True; who bears hard\nHis brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.\nI speak not this in estimation,\nAs what I think might be, but what I know\nIs ruminated, plotted and set down,\nAnd only stays but to behold the face\nOf that occasion that shall bring it on.


plain_text:
Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot;\nAnd then the power of Scotland and of York,\nTo join with Mortimer, ha?


plain_text:
And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,\nTo save our heads by raising of a head;\nFor, bear ourselves as even as we can,\nThe king will always think him in our debt,\nAnd think we think ourselves unsatisfied,\nTill he hath found a time to pay us home:\nAnd see already how he doth begin\nTo make us strangers to his looks of love.


plain_text:
Cousin, farewell: no further go in this\nThan I by letters shall direct your course.\nWhen time is ripe, which will be suddenly,\nI'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer;\nWhere you and Douglas and our powers at once,\nAs I will fashion it, shall happily meet,\nTo bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,\nWhich now we hold at much uncertainty.


plain_text:
Heigh-ho! an it be not four by the day, I'll be\nhanged: Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and\nyet our horse not packed. What, ostler!


plain_text:
I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks\nin the point; poor jade, is wrung in the withers out\nof all cess.


plain_text:
Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that\nis the next way to give poor jades the bots: this\nhouse is turned upside down since Robin Ostler died.


plain_text:
Like a tench! by the mass, there is ne'er a king\nchristen could be better bit than I have been since\nthe first cock.


plain_text:
Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we\nleak in your chimney; and your chamber-lie breeds\nfleas like a loach.


plain_text:
God's body! the turkeys in my pannier are quite\nstarved. What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou\nnever an eye in thy head? canst not hear? An\n'twere not as good deed as drink, to break the pate\non thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged!\nhast thou no faith in thee?


plain_text:
Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant\nthee. Come, neighbour Mugs, we'll call up the\ngentleman: they will along with company, for they\nhave great charge.


plain_text:
That's even as fair as--at hand, quoth the\nchamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking\nof purses than giving direction doth from labouring;\nthou layest the plot how.


plain_text:
Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that\nI told you yesternight: there's a franklin in the\nwild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with\nhim in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his\ncompany last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one\nthat hath abundance of charge too, God knows what.\nThey are up already, and call for eggs and butter;\nthey will away presently.


plain_text:
No, I'll none of it: I pray thee keep that for the\nhangman; for I know thou worshippest St. Nicholas\nas truly as a man of falsehood may.


plain_text:
What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang,\nI'll make a fat pair of gallows; for if I hang, old\nSir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he is no\nstarveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou\ndreamest not of, the which for sport sake are\ncontent to do the profession some grace; that would,\nif matters should be looked into, for their own\ncredit sake, make all whole. I am joined with no\nfoot-land rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers,\nnone of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms;\nbut with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and\ngreat oneyers, such as can hold in, such as will\nstrike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than\ndrink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zounds,\nI lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the\ncommonwealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey\non her, for they ride up and down on her and make\nher their boots.


plain_text:
She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We\nsteal as in a castle, cocksure; we have the receipt\nof fern-seed, we walk invisible.


plain_text:
Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to\nthe night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.


plain_text:
Go to; 'homo' is a common name to all men. Bid the\nostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell,\nyou muddy knave.


plain_text:
I am accursed to rob in that thief's company: the\nrascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know\nnot where. If I travel but four foot by the squier\nfurther afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt\nnot but to die a fair death for all this, if I\n'scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have\nforsworn his company hourly any time this two and\ntwenty years, and yet I am bewitched with the\nrogue's company. If the rascal hath not given me\nmedicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged; it\ncould not be else: I have drunk medicines. Poins!\nHal! a plague upon you both! Bardolph! Peto!\nI'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere\nnot as good a deed as drink, to turn true man and to\nleave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that\never chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven\nground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me;\nand the stony-hearted villains know it well enough:\na plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!\n[They whistle]\nWhew! A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you\nrogues; give me my horse, and be hanged!


plain_text:
Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down; lay thine ear close\nto the ground and list if thou canst hear the tread\nof travellers.


plain_text:
Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down?\n'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot\nagain for all the coin in thy father's exchequer.\nWhat a plague mean ye to colt me thus?


plain_text:
Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent\ngarters! If I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I\nhave not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy\ntunes, let a cup of sack be my poison: when a jest\nis so forward, and afoot too! I hate it.


plain_text:
O, 'tis our setter: I know his voice. Bardolph,\nwhat news?\nmoney of the king's coming down the hill; 'tis going\nto the king's exchequer.


plain_text:
Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane;\nNed Poins and I will walk lower: if they 'scape\nfrom your encounter, then they light on us.


plain_text:
Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge:\nwhen thou needest him, there thou shalt find him.\nFarewell, and stand fast.


plain_text:
Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead our horses down\nthe hill; we'll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs.


plain_text:
Strike; down with them; cut the villains' throats:\nah! whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they\nhate us youth: down with them: fleece them.


plain_text:
Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye\nfat chuffs: I would your store were here! On,\nbacons, on! What, ye knaves! young men must live.\nYou are Grand-jurors, are ye? we'll jure ye, 'faith.


plain_text:
The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou\nand I rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it\nwould be argument for a week, laughter for a month\nand a good jest for ever.


plain_text:
Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse\nbefore day. An the Prince and Poins be not two\narrant cowards, there's no equity stirring: there's\nno more valour in that Poins than in a wild-duck.


plain_text:
Villains!\n[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon\nthem; they all run away; and Falstaff, after a blow\nor two, runs away too, leaving the booty behind them]


plain_text:
Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:\nThe thieves are all scatter'd and possess'd with fear\nSo strongly that they dare not meet each other;\nEach takes his fellow for an officer.\nAway, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death,\nAnd lards the lean earth as he walks along:\nWere 't not for laughing, I should pity him.


plain_text:
'But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well\ncontented to be there, in respect of the love I bear\nyour house.' He could be contented: why is he not,\nthen? In respect of the love he bears our house:\nhe shows in this, he loves his own barn better than\nhe loves our house. Let me see some more. 'The\npurpose you undertake is dangerous;'--why, that's\ncertain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to\ndrink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this\nnettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 'The\npurpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you\nhave named uncertain; the time itself unsorted; and\nyour whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so\ngreat an opposition.' Say you so, say you so? I say\nunto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and\nyou lie.  What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord,\nour plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our\nfriends true and constant: a good plot, good\nfriends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot,\nvery good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is\nthis! Why, my lord of York commends the plot and the\ngeneral course of action. 'Zounds, an I were now by\nthis rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan.\nIs there not my father, my uncle and myself? lord\nEdmund Mortimer, My lord of York and Owen Glendower?\nis there not besides the Douglas? have I not all\ntheir letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the\nnext month? and are they not some of them set\nforward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an\ninfidel! Ha! you shall see now in very sincerity\nof fear and cold heart, will he to the king and lay\nopen all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself\nand go to buffets, for moving such a dish of\nskim milk with so honourable an action! Hang him!\nlet him tell the king: we are prepared. I will set\nforward to-night.\n[Enter LADY PERCY]\nHow now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.


plain_text:
O, my good lord, why are you thus alone?\nFor what offence have I this fortnight been\nA banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?\nTell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee\nThy stomach, pleasure and thy golden sleep?\nWhy dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,\nAnd start so often when thou sit'st alone?\nWhy hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;\nAnd given my treasures and my rights of thee\nTo thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?\nIn thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd,\nAnd heard thee murmur tales of iron wars;\nSpeak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;\nCry 'Courage! to the field!' And thou hast talk'd\nOf sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,\nOf palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,\nOf basilisks, of cannon, culverin,\nOf prisoners' ransom and of soldiers slain,\nAnd all the currents of a heady fight.\nThy spirit within thee hath been so at war\nAnd thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,\nThat beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow\nLike bubbles in a late-disturbed stream;\nAnd in thy face strange motions have appear'd,\nSuch as we see when men restrain their breath\nOn some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?\nSome heavy business hath my lord in hand,\nAnd I must know it, else he loves me not.


plain_text:
That roan shall by my throne.\nWell, I will back him straight: O esperance!\nBid Butler lead him forth into the park.


plain_text:
Out, you mad-headed ape!\nA weasel hath not such a deal of spleen\nAs you are toss'd with. In faith,\nI'll know your business, Harry, that I will.\nI fear my brother Mortimer doth stir\nAbout his title, and hath sent for you\nTo line his enterprise: but if you go,--


plain_text:
Come, come, you paraquito, answer me\nDirectly unto this question that I ask:\nIn faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry,\nAn if thou wilt not tell me all things true.


plain_text:
Away,\nAway, you trifler! Love! I love thee not,\nI care not for thee, Kate: this is no world\nTo play with mammets and to tilt with lips:\nWe must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns,\nAnd pass them current too. God's me, my horse!\nWhat say'st thou, Kate? what would'st thou\nhave with me?


plain_text:
Do you not love me? do you not, indeed?\nWell, do not then; for since you love me not,\nI will not love myself. Do you not love me?\nNay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.


plain_text:
Come, wilt thou see me ride?\nAnd when I am on horseback, I will swear\nI love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate;\nI must not have you henceforth question me\nWhither I go, nor reason whereabout:\nWhither I must, I must; and, to conclude,\nThis evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.\nI know you wise, but yet no farther wise\nThan Harry Percy's wife: constant you are,\nBut yet a woman: and for secrecy,\nNo lady closer; for I well believe\nThou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;\nAnd so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.


plain_text:
Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:\nWhither I go, thither shall you go too;\nTo-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.\nWill this content you, Kate?


plain_text:
With three or four loggerheads amongst three or four\nscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very\nbase-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother\nto a leash of drawers; and can call them all by\ntheir christen names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis.\nThey take it already upon their salvation, that\nthough I be but the prince of Wales, yet I am king\nof courtesy; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack,\nlike Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a\ngood boy, by the Lord, so they call me, and when I\nam king of England, I shall command all the good\nlads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dyeing\nscarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they\ncry  'hem!' and bid you play it off. To conclude, I\nam so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour,\nthat I can drink with any tinker in his own language\nduring my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost\nmuch honour, that thou wert not with me in this sweet\naction. But, sweet Ned,--to sweeten which name of\nNed, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped\neven now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that\nnever spake other English in his life than 'Eight\nshillings and sixpence' and 'You are welcome,' with\nthis shrill addition, 'Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint\nof bastard in the Half-Moon,' or so. But, Ned, to\ndrive away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee,\ndo thou stand in some by-room, while I question my\npuny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar; and do\nthou never leave calling 'Francis,' that his tale\nto me may be nothing but 'Anon.' Step aside, and\nI'll show thee a precedent.


plain_text:
Five year! by'r lady, a long lease for the clinking\nof pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant\nas to play the coward with thy indenture and show it\na fair pair of heels and run from it?


plain_text:
Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis;\nor, Francis, o' Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when\nthou wilt. But, Francis!


plain_text:
Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal-button,\nnot-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,\nsmooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,--


plain_text:
Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink;\nfor look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet\nwill sully: in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.


plain_text:
Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call?\n[Here they both call him; the drawer stands amazed,\nnot knowing which way to go]


plain_text:
What, standest thou still, and hearest such a\ncalling? Look to the guests within.\n[Exit Francis]\nMy lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, are\nat the door: shall I let them in?


plain_text:
As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what\ncunning match have you made with this jest of the\ndrawer? come, what's the issue?


plain_text:
I am now of all humours that have showed themselves\nhumours since the old days of goodman Adam to the\npupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.\n[Re-enter FRANCIS]\nWhat's o'clock, Francis?


plain_text:
That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a\nparrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is\nupstairs and downstairs; his eloquence the parcel of\na reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the\nHotspur of the north; he that kills me some six or\nseven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his\nhands, and says to his wife 'Fie upon this quiet\nlife! I want work.' 'O my sweet Harry,' says she,\n'how many hast thou killed to-day?' 'Give my roan\nhorse a drench,' says he; and answers 'Some\nfourteen,' an hour after; 'a trifle, a trifle.' I\nprithee, call in Falstaff: I'll play Percy, and\nthat damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his\nwife. 'Rivo!' says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.


plain_text:
A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too!\nmarry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I\nlead this life long, I'll sew nether stocks and mend\nthem and foot them too. A plague of all cowards!\nGive me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant?


plain_text:
Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter?\npitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale\nof the sun's! if thou didst, then behold that compound.


plain_text:
You rogue, here's lime in this sack too: there is\nnothing but roguery to be found in villanous man:\nyet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime\nin it. A villanous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack;\ndie when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be\nnot forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a\nshotten herring. There live not three good men\nunhanged in England; and one of them is fat and\ngrows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say.\nI would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any\nthing. A plague of all cowards, I say still.


plain_text:
A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy\nkingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy\nsubjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese,\nI'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales!


plain_text:
I call thee coward! I'll see thee damned ere I call\nthee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I\ncould run as fast as thou canst. You are straight\nenough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your\nback: call you that backing of your friends? A\nplague upon such backing! give me them that will\nface me. Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I\ndrunk to-day.


plain_text:
I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a\ndozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by\nmiracle. I am eight times thrust through the\ndoublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut\nthrough and through; my sword hacked like a\nhand-saw--ecce signum! I never dealt better since\nI was a man: all would not do. A plague of all\ncowards! Let them speak: if they speak more or\nless than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.


plain_text:
All! I know not what you call all; but if I fought\nnot with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if\nthere were not two or three and fifty upon poor old\nJack, then am I no two-legged creature.


plain_text:
Nay, that's past praying for: I have peppered two\nof them; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues\nin buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell\nthee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou\nknowest my old ward; here I lay and thus I bore my\npoint. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me--


plain_text:
These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at\nme. I made me no more ado but took all their seven\npoints in my target, thus.


plain_text:
Began to give me ground: but I followed me close,\ncame in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of\nthe eleven I paid.


plain_text:
But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten\nknaves in Kendal green came at my back and let drive\nat me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst\nnot see thy hand.


plain_text:
These lies are like their father that begets them;\ngross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou\nclay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou\nwhoreson, obscene, grease tallow-catch,--


plain_text:
Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal\ngreen, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy\nhand? come, tell us your reason: what sayest thou to this?


plain_text:
What, upon compulsion? 'Zounds, an I were at the\nstrappado, or all the racks in the world, I would\nnot tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on\ncompulsion! If reasons were as plentiful as\nblackberries, I would give no man a reason upon\ncompulsion, I.


plain_text:
I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine\ncoward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker,\nthis huge hill of flesh,--


plain_text:
'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried\nneat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O\nfor breath to utter what is like thee! you\ntailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile\nstanding-tuck,--


plain_text:
Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and\nwhen thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons,\nhear me speak but this.


plain_text:
We two saw you four set on four and bound them, and\nwere masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain\ntale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you\nfour; and, with a word, out-faced you from your\nprize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in\nthe house: and, Falstaff, you carried your guts\naway as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared\nfor mercy and still run and roared, as ever I heard\nbull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword\nas thou hast done, and then say it was in fight!\nWhat trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst\nthou now find out to hide thee from this open and\napparent shame?


plain_text:
By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye.\nWhy, hear you, my masters: was it for me to kill the\nheir-apparent? should I turn upon the true prince?\nwhy, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but\nbeware instinct; the lion will not touch the true\nprince. Instinct is a great matter; I was now a\ncoward on instinct. I shall think the better of\nmyself and thee during my life; I for a valiant\nlion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord,\nlads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap\nto the doors: watch to-night, pray to-morrow.\nGallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles\nof good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be\nmerry? shall we have a play extempore?


plain_text:
Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at\ndoor would speak with you: he says he comes from\nyour father.


plain_text:
Now, sirs: by'r lady, you fought fair; so did you,\nPeto; so did you, Bardolph: you are lions too, you\nran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true\nprince; no, fie!


plain_text:
Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and said he would\nswear truth out of England but he would make you\nbelieve it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like.


plain_text:
Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to\nmake them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments\nwith it and swear it was the blood of true men. I\ndid that I did not this seven year before, I blushed\nto hear his monstrous devices.


plain_text:
O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years\nago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since\nthou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and\nsword on thy side, and yet thou rannest away: what\ninstinct hadst thou for it?


plain_text:
No, if rightly taken, halter.\n[Re-enter FALSTAFF]\nHere comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.\nHow now, my sweet creature of bombast!\nHow long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?


plain_text:
My own knee! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was\nnot an eagle's talon in the waist; I could have\ncrept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of\nsighing and grief! it blows a man up like a\nbladder. There's villanous news abroad: here was\nSir John Bracy from your father; you must to the\ncourt in the morning. That same mad fellow of the\nnorth, Percy, and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the\nbastinado and made Lucifer cuckold and swore the\ndevil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh\nhook--what a plague call you him?


plain_text:
Owen, Owen, the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer,\nand old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of\nScots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hill\nperpendicular,--


plain_text:
I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too,\nand one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more:\nWorcester is stolen away to-night; thy father's\nbeard is turned white with the news: you may buy\nland now as cheap as stinking mackerel.


plain_text:
Why, then, it is like, if there come a hot June and\nthis civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads\nas they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds.


plain_text:
By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like we\nshall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal,\nart not thou horrible afeard? thou being\nheir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three\nsuch enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that\nspirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou\nnot horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at\nit?


plain_text:
Well, thou wert be horribly chid tomorrow when thou\ncomest to thy father: if thou love me, practise an answer.


plain_text:
Thy state is taken for a joined-stool, thy golden\nsceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich\ncrown for a pitiful bald crown!


plain_text:
Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee,\nnow shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to\nmake my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have\nwept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it\nin King Cambyses' vein.


plain_text:
Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.\nHarry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy\ntime, but also how thou art accompanied: for though\nthe camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster\nit grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the\nsooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have\npartly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion,\nbut chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye and a\nfoolish-hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant\nme. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point;\nwhy, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall\nthe blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat\nblackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall\nthe sun of England prove a thief and take purses? a\nquestion to be asked. There is a thing, Harry,\nwhich thou hast often heard of and it is known to\nmany in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch,\nas ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth\nthe company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not\nspeak to thee in drink but in tears, not in\npleasure but in passion, not in words only, but in\nwoes also: and yet there is a virtuous man whom I\nhave often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.


plain_text:
A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a\ncheerful look, a pleasing eye and a most noble\ncarriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or,\nby'r lady, inclining to three score; and now I\nremember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man\nshould be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry,\nI see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be\nknown by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then,\nperemptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that\nFalstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell\nme now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast\nthou been this month?


plain_text:
Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely, so\nmajestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by\nthe heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter's hare.


plain_text:
Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look\non me. Thou art violently carried away from grace:\nthere is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an\nold fat man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why\ndost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that\nbolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel\nof dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed\ncloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with\nthe pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that\ngrey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in\nyears? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and\ndrink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a\ncapon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft?\nwherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villanous,\nbut in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?


plain_text:
But to say I know more harm in him than in myself,\nwere to say more than I know. That he is old, the\nmore the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but\nthat he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster,\nthat I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault,\nGod help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a\nsin, then many an old host that I know is damned: if\nto be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine\nare to be loved. No, my good lord; banish Peto,\nbanish Bardolph, banish Poins: but for sweet Jack\nFalstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff,\nvaliant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant,\nbeing, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him\nthy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's\ncompany: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.


plain_text:
The sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they\nare come to search the house. Shall I let them in?


plain_text:
Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of\ngold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad,\nwithout seeming so.


plain_text:
I deny your major: if you will deny the sheriff,\nso; if not, let him enter: if I become not a cart\nas well as another man, a plague on my bringing up!\nI hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.


plain_text:
Go, hide thee behind the arras: the rest walk up\nabove. Now, my masters, for a true face and good\nconscience.


plain_text:
Call in the sheriff.\n[Exeunt all except PRINCE HENRY and PETO]\n[Enter Sheriff and the Carrier]\nNow, master sheriff, what is your will with me?


plain_text:
The man, I do assure you, is not here;\nFor I myself at this time have employ'd him.\nAnd, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee\nThat I will, by to-morrow dinner-time,\nSend him to answer thee, or any man,\nFor any thing he shall be charged withal:\nAnd so let me entreat you leave the house.


plain_text:
Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.\n[He searcheth his pockets, and findeth certain papers]\nWhat hast thou found?


plain_text:
[Reads]  Item, A capon,. . 2s. 2d.\nItem, Sauce,. . . 4d.\nItem, Sack, two gallons, 5s. 8d.\nItem, Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d.\nItem, Bread,        ob.


plain_text:
O monstrous! but one half-penny-worth of bread to\nthis intolerable deal of sack! What there is else,\nkeep close; we'll read it at more advantage: there\nlet him sleep till day. I'll to the court in the\nmorning. We must all to the wars, and thy place\nshall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a\ncharge of foot; and I know his death will be a\nmarch of twelve-score. The money shall be paid\nback again with advantage. Be with me betimes in\nthe morning; and so, good morrow, Peto.


plain_text:
Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,\nWill you sit down?\nAnd uncle Worcester: a plague upon it!\nI have forgot the map.


plain_text:
No, here it is.\nSit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur,\nFor by that name as oft as Lancaster\nDoth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and with\nA rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven.


plain_text:
I cannot blame him: at my nativity\nThe front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,\nOf burning cressets; and at my birth\nThe frame and huge foundation of the earth\nShaked like a coward.


plain_text:
Why, so it would have done at the same season, if\nyour mother's cat had but kittened, though yourself\nhad never been born.


plain_text:
O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,\nAnd not in fear of your nativity.\nDiseased nature oftentimes breaks forth\nIn strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth\nIs with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd\nBy the imprisoning of unruly wind\nWithin her womb; which, for enlargement striving,\nShakes the old beldam earth and topples down\nSteeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth\nOur grandam earth, having this distemperature,\nIn passion shook.


plain_text:
Cousin, of many men\nI do not bear these crossings. Give me leave\nTo tell you once again that at my birth\nThe front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,\nThe goats ran from the mountains, and the herds\nWere strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.\nThese signs have mark'd me extraordinary;\nAnd all the courses of my life do show\nI am not in the roll of common men.\nWhere is he living, clipp'd in with the sea\nThat chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,\nWhich calls me pupil, or hath read to me?\nAnd bring him out that is but woman's son\nCan trace me in the tedious ways of art\nAnd hold me pace in deep experiments.


plain_text:
And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil\nBy telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil.\nIf thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,\nAnd I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.\nO, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!


plain_text:
Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head\nAgainst my power; thrice from the banks of Wye\nAnd sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him\nBootless home and weather-beaten back.


plain_text:
The archdeacon hath divided it\nInto three limits very equally:\nEngland, from Trent and Severn hitherto,\nBy south and east is to my part assign'd:\nAll westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,\nAnd all the fertile land within that bound,\nTo Owen Glendower: and, dear coz, to you\nThe remnant northward, lying off from Trent.\nAnd our indentures tripartite are drawn;\nWhich being sealed interchangeably,\nA business that this night may execute,\nTo-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I\nAnd my good Lord of Worcester will set forth\nTo meet your father and the Scottish power,\nAs is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.\nMy father Glendower is not ready yet,\nNot shall we need his help these fourteen days.\nWithin that space you may have drawn together\nYour tenants, friends and neighbouring gentlemen.


plain_text:
A shorter time shall send me to you, lords:\nAnd in my conduct shall your ladies come;\nFrom whom you now must steal and take no leave,\nFor there will be a world of water shed\nUpon the parting of your wives and you.


plain_text:
Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,\nIn quantity equals not one of yours:\nSee how this river comes me cranking in,\nAnd cuts me from the best of all my land\nA huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.\nI'll have the current in this place damm'd up;\nAnd here the smug and silver Trent shall run\nIn a new channel, fair and evenly;\nIt shall not wind with such a deep indent,\nTo rob me of so rich a bottom here.


plain_text:
Yea, but\nMark how he bears his course, and runs me up\nWith like advantage on the other side;\nGelding the opposed continent as much\nAs on the other side it takes from you.


plain_text:
Yea, but a little charge will trench him here\nAnd on this north side win this cape of land;\nAnd then he runs straight and even.


plain_text:
I can speak English, lord, as well as you;\nFor I was train'd up in the English court;\nWhere, being but young, I framed to the harp\nMany an English ditty lovely well\nAnd gave the tongue a helpful ornament,\nA virtue that was never seen in you.


plain_text:
Marry,\nAnd I am glad of it with all my heart:\nI had rather be a kitten and cry mew\nThan one of these same metre ballad-mongers;\nI had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd,\nOr a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree;\nAnd that would set my teeth nothing on edge,\nNothing so much as mincing poetry:\n'Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.


plain_text:
I do not care: I'll give thrice so much land\nTo any well-deserving friend;\nBut in the way of bargain, mark ye me,\nI'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.\nAre the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?


plain_text:
The moon shines fair; you may away by night:\nI'll haste the writer and withal\nBreak with your wives of your departure hence:\nI am afraid my daughter will run mad,\nSo much she doteth on her Mortimer.


plain_text:
I cannot choose: sometime he angers me\nWith telling me of the mouldwarp and the ant,\nOf the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,\nAnd of a dragon and a finless fish,\nA clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven,\nA couching lion and a ramping cat,\nAnd such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff\nAs puts me from my faith. I tell you what;\nHe held me last night at least nine hours\nIn reckoning up the several devils' names\nThat were his lackeys: I cried 'hum,' and 'well, go to,'\nBut mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious\nAs a tired horse, a railing wife;\nWorse than a smoky house: I had rather live\nWith cheese and garlic in a windmill, far,\nThan feed on cates and have him talk to me\nIn any summer-house in Christendom.


plain_text:
In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,\nExceedingly well read, and profited\nIn strange concealments, valiant as a lion\nAnd as wondrous affable and as bountiful\nAs mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?\nHe holds your temper in a high respect\nAnd curbs himself even of his natural scope\nWhen you come 'cross his humour; faith, he does:\nI warrant you, that man is not alive\nMight so have tempted him as you have done,\nWithout the taste of danger and reproof:\nBut do not use it oft, let me entreat you.


plain_text:
In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame;\nAnd since your coming hither have done enough\nTo put him quite beside his patience.\nYou must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault:\nThough sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood,--\nAnd that's the dearest grace it renders you,--\nYet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,\nDefect of manners, want of government,\nPride, haughtiness, opinion and disdain:\nThe least of which haunting a nobleman\nLoseth men's hearts and leaves behind a stain\nUpon the beauty of all parts besides,\nBeguiling them of commendation.


plain_text:
I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh\nWhich thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens\nI am too perfect in; and, but for shame,\nIn such a parley should I answer thee.\n[The lady speaks again in Welsh]\nI understand thy kisses and thou mine,\nAnd that's a feeling disputation:\nBut I will never be a truant, love,\nTill I have learned thy language; for thy tongue\nMakes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,\nSung by a fair queen in a summer's bower,\nWith ravishing division, to her lute.


plain_text:
She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down\nAnd rest your gentle head upon her lap,\nAnd she will sing the song that pleaseth you\nAnd on your eyelids crown the god of sleep.\nCharming your blood with pleasing heaviness,\nMaking such difference 'twixt wake and sleep\nAs is the difference betwixt day and night\nThe hour before the heavenly-harness'd team\nBegins his golden progress in the east.


plain_text:
Do so;\nAnd those musicians that shall play to you\nHang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,\nAnd straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.


plain_text:
Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;\nAnd 'tis no marvel he is so humorous.\nBy'r lady, he is a good musician.


plain_text:
Then should you be nothing but musical for you are\naltogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief,\nand hear the lady sing in Welsh.


plain_text:
Not yours, in good sooth! Heart! you swear like a\ncomfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth,' and\n'as true as I live,' and 'as God shall mend me,' and\n'as sure as day,'\nAnd givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,\nAs if thou never walk'st further than Finsbury.\nSwear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,\nA good mouth-filling oath, and leave 'in sooth,'\nAnd such protest of pepper-gingerbread,\nTo velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens.\nCome, sing.


plain_text:
'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be red-breast\nteacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away\nwithin these two hours; and so, come in when ye will.


plain_text:
Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow\nAs hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.\nBy this our book is drawn; we'll but seal,\nAnd then to horse immediately.


plain_text:
Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I\nMust have some private conference; but be near at hand,\nFor we shall presently have need of you.\n[Exeunt Lords]\nI know not whether God will have it so,\nFor some displeasing service I have done,\nThat, in his secret doom, out of my blood\nHe'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;\nBut thou dost in thy passages of life\nMake me believe that thou art only mark'd\nFor the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven\nTo punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,\nCould such inordinate and low desires,\nSuch poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,\nSuch barren pleasures, rude society,\nAs thou art match'd withal and grafted to,\nAccompany the greatness of thy blood\nAnd hold their level with thy princely heart?


plain_text:
So please your majesty, I would I could\nQuit all offences with as clear excuse\nAs well as I am doubtless I can purge\nMyself of many I am charged withal:\nYet such extenuation let me beg,\nAs, in reproof of many tales devised,\nwhich oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,\nBy smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,\nI may, for some things true, wherein my youth\nHath faulty wander'd and irregular,\nFind pardon on my true submission.


plain_text:
God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,\nAt thy affections, which do hold a wing\nQuite from the flight of all thy ancestors.\nThy place in council thou hast rudely lost.\nWhich by thy younger brother is supplied,\nAnd art almost an alien to the hearts\nOf all the court and princes of my blood:\nThe hope and expectation of thy time\nIs ruin'd, and the soul of every man\nProphetically doth forethink thy fall.\nHad I so lavish of my presence been,\nSo common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,\nSo stale and cheap to vulgar company,\nOpinion, that did help me to the crown,\nHad still kept loyal to possession\nAnd left me in reputeless banishment,\nA fellow of no mark nor likelihood.\nBy being seldom seen, I could not stir\nBut like a comet I was wonder'd at;\nThat men would tell their children 'This is he;'\nOthers would say 'Where, which is Bolingbroke?'\nAnd then I stole all courtesy from heaven,\nAnd dress'd myself in such humility\nThat I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,\nLoud shouts and salutations from their mouths,\nEven in the presence of the crowned king.\nThus did I keep my person fresh and new;\nMy presence, like a robe pontifical,\nNe'er seen but wonder'd at: and so my state,\nSeldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast\nAnd won by rareness such solemnity.\nThe skipping king, he ambled up and down\nWith shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,\nSoon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,\nMingled his royalty with capering fools,\nHad his great name profaned with their scorns\nAnd gave his countenance, against his name,\nTo laugh at gibing boys and stand the push\nOf every beardless vain comparative,\nGrew a companion to the common streets,\nEnfeoff'd himself to popularity;\nThat, being daily swallow'd by men's eyes,\nThey surfeited with honey and began\nTo loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little\nMore than a little is by much too much.\nSo when he had occasion to be seen,\nHe was but as the cuckoo is in June,\nHeard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes\nAs, sick and blunted with community,\nAfford no extraordinary gaze,\nSuch as is bent on sun-like majesty\nWhen it shines seldom in admiring eyes;\nBut rather drowzed and hung their eyelids down,\nSlept in his face and render'd such aspect\nAs cloudy men use to their adversaries,\nBeing with his presence glutted, gorged and full.\nAnd in that very line, Harry, standest thou;\nFor thou has lost thy princely privilege\nWith vile participation: not an eye\nBut is a-weary of thy common sight,\nSave mine, which hath desired to see thee more;\nWhich now doth that I would not have it do,\nMake blind itself with foolish tenderness.


plain_text:
For all the world\nAs thou art to this hour was Richard then\nWhen I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh,\nAnd even as I was then is Percy now.\nNow, by my sceptre and my soul to boot,\nHe hath more worthy interest to the state\nThan thou the shadow of succession;\nFor of no right, nor colour like to right,\nHe doth fill fields with harness in the realm,\nTurns head against the lion's armed jaws,\nAnd, being no more in debt to years than thou,\nLeads ancient lords and reverend bishops on\nTo bloody battles and to bruising arms.\nWhat never-dying honour hath he got\nAgainst renowned Douglas! whose high deeds,\nWhose hot incursions and great name in arms\nHolds from all soldiers chief majority\nAnd military title capital\nThrough all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ:\nThrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,\nThis infant warrior, in his enterprises\nDiscomfited great Douglas, ta'en him once,\nEnlarged him and made a friend of him,\nTo fill the mouth of deep defiance up\nAnd shake the peace and safety of our throne.\nAnd what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,\nThe Archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,\nCapitulate against us and are up.\nBut wherefore do I tell these news to thee?\nWhy, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,\nWhich art my near'st and dearest enemy?\nThou that art like enough, through vassal fear,\nBase inclination and the start of spleen\nTo fight against me under Percy's pay,\nTo dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,\nTo show how much thou art degenerate.


plain_text:
Do not think so; you shall not find it so:\nAnd God forgive them that so much have sway'd\nYour majesty's good thoughts away from me!\nI will redeem all this on Percy's head\nAnd in the closing of some glorious day\nBe bold to tell you that I am your son;\nWhen I will wear a garment all of blood\nAnd stain my favours in a bloody mask,\nWhich, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it:\nAnd that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,\nThat this same child of honour and renown,\nThis gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,\nAnd your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.\nFor every honour sitting on his helm,\nWould they were multitudes, and on my head\nMy shames redoubled! for the time will come,\nThat I shall make this northern youth exchange\nHis glorious deeds for my indignities.\nPercy is but my factor, good my lord,\nTo engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;\nAnd I will call him to so strict account,\nThat he shall render every glory up,\nYea, even the slightest worship of his time,\nOr I will tear the reckoning from his heart.\nThis, in the name of God, I promise here:\nThe which if He be pleased I shall perform,\nI do beseech your majesty may salve\nThe long-grown wounds of my intemperance:\nIf not, the end of life cancels all bands;\nAnd I will die a hundred thousand deaths\nEre break the smallest parcel of this vow.


plain_text:
A hundred thousand rebels die in this:\nThou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.\n[Enter BLUNT]\nHow now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.


plain_text:
So hath the business that I come to speak of.\nLord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word\nThat Douglas and the English rebels met\nThe eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury\nA mighty and a fearful head they are,\nIf promises be kept on every hand,\nAs ever offer'd foul play in the state.


plain_text:
The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;\nWith him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;\nFor this advertisement is five days old:\nOn Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;\nOn Thursday we ourselves will march: our meeting\nIs Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you shall march\nThrough Gloucestershire; by which account,\nOur business valued, some twelve days hence\nOur general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.\nOur hands are full of business: let's away;\nAdvantage feeds him fat, while men delay.


plain_text:
Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last\naction? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why my\nskin hangs about me like an like an old lady's loose\ngown; I am withered like an old apple-john. Well,\nI'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some\nliking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I\nshall have no strength to repent. An I have not\nforgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I\nam a peppercorn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a\nchurch! Company, villanous company, hath been the\nspoil of me.


plain_text:
Why, there is it: come sing me a bawdy song; make\nme merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman\nneed to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not\nabove seven times a week; went to a bawdy-house once\nin a quarter--of an hour; paid money that I\nborrowed, three of four times; lived well and in\ngood compass: and now I live out of all order, out\nof all compass.


plain_text:
Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs\nbe out of all compass, out of all reasonable\ncompass, Sir John.


plain_text:
Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life:\nthou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in\nthe poop, but 'tis in the nose of thee; thou art the\nKnight of the Burning Lamp.


plain_text:
No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many\na man doth of a Death's-head or a memento mori: I\nnever see thy face but I think upon hell-fire and\nDives that lived in purple; for there he is in his\nrobes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way\ngiven to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath\nshould be 'By this fire, that's God's angel:' but\nthou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but\nfor the light in thy face, the son of utter\ndarkness. When thou rannest up Gadshill in the\nnight to catch my horse, if I did not think thou\nhadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire,\nthere's no purchase in money. O, thou art a\nperpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light!\nThou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and\ntorches, walking with thee in the night betwixt\ntavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast\ndrunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap\nat the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have\nmaintained that salamander of yours with fire any\ntime this two and thirty years; God reward me for\nit!


plain_text:
God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burned.\n[Enter Hostess]\nHow now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you inquired\nyet who picked my pocket?


plain_text:
Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you\nthink I keep thieves in my house? I have searched,\nI have inquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy\nby boy, servant by servant: the tithe of a hair\nwas never lost in my house before.


plain_text:
Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved and lost many\na hair; and I'll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go\nto, you are a woman, go.


plain_text:
No, Sir John; You do not know me, Sir John. I know\nyou, Sir John: you owe me money, Sir John; and now\nyou pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought\nyou a dozen of shirts to your back.


plain_text:
Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to\nbakers' wives, and they have made bolters of them.


plain_text:
Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight\nshillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir\nJohn, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent\nyou, four and twenty pound.


plain_text:
How! poor? look upon his face; what call you rich?\nlet them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks:\nIll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker\nof me? shall I not take mine case in mine inn but I\nshall have my pocket picked? I have lost a\nseal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.


plain_text:
How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup: 'sblood, an\nhe were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he\nwould say so.\n[Enter PRINCE HENRY and PETO, marching, and FALSTAFF\nmeets them playing on his truncheon like a life]\nHow now, lad! is the wind in that door, i' faith?\nmust we all march?


plain_text:
The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras\nand had my pocket picked: this house is turned\nbawdy-house; they pick pockets.


plain_text:
Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of\nforty pound apiece, and a seal-ring of my\ngrandfather's.


plain_text:
So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your\ngrace say so: and, my lord, he speaks most vilely\nof you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is; and said\nhe would cudgel you.


plain_text:
There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed\nprune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn\nfox; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the\ndeputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing,\ngo


plain_text:
I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou\nshouldst know it; I am an honest man's wife: and,\nsetting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to\ncall me so.


plain_text:
Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare:\nbut as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the\nroaring of a lion's whelp.


plain_text:
The king is to be feared as the lion: dost thou\nthink I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay, an\nI do, I pray God my girdle break.


plain_text:
O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy\nknees! But, sirrah, there's no room for faith,\ntruth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all\nfilled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest\nwoman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whoreson,\nimpudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in\nthy pocket but tavern-reckonings, memorandums of\nbawdy-houses, and one poor penny-worth of\nsugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if thy pocket\nwere enriched with any other injuries but these, I\nam a villain: and yet you will stand to if; you will\nnot pocket up wrong: art thou not ashamed?


plain_text:
Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest in the state of\ninnocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack\nFalstaff do in the days of villany? Thou seest I\nhave more flesh than another man, and therefore more\nfrailty. You confess then, you picked my pocket?


plain_text:
Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready breakfast;\nlove thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy\nguests: thou shalt find me tractable to any honest\nreason: thou seest I am pacified still. Nay,\nprithee, be gone.\n[Exit Hostess]\nNow Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery,\nlad, how is that answered?


plain_text:
I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find\none that can steal well? O for a fine thief, of the\nage of two and twenty or thereabouts! I am\nheinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for\nthese rebels, they offend none but the virtuous: I\nlaud them, I praise them.


plain_text:
Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, to my\nbrother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.\n[Exit Bardolph]\nGo, Peto, to horse, to horse; for thou and I have\nthirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.\n[Exit Peto]\nJack, meet me to-morrow in the temple hall at two\no'clock in the afternoon.\nThere shalt thou know thy charge; and there receive\nMoney and order for their furniture.\nThe land is burning; Percy stands on high;\nAnd either we or they must lower lie.


plain_text:
Well said, my noble Scot: if speaking truth\nIn this fine age were not thought flattery,\nSuch attribution should the Douglas have,\nAs not a soldier of this season's stamp\nShould go so general current through the world.\nBy God, I cannot flatter; I do defy\nThe tongues of soothers; but a braver place\nIn my heart's love hath no man than yourself:\nNay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.


plain_text:
Do so, and 'tis well.\n[Enter a Messenger with letters]\nWhat letters hast thou there?--I can but thank you.


plain_text:
'Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick\nIn such a rustling time? Who leads his power?\nUnder whose government come they along?


plain_text:
He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth;\nAnd at the time of my departure thence\nHe was much fear'd by his physicians.


plain_text:
I would the state of time had first been whole\nEre he by sickness had been visited:\nHis health was never better worth than now.


plain_text:
Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect\nThe very life-blood of our enterprise;\n'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.\nHe writes me here, that inward sickness--\nAnd that his friends by deputation could not\nSo soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet\nTo lay so dangerous and dear a trust\nOn any soul removed but on his own.\nYet doth he give us bold advertisement,\nThat with our small conjunction we should on,\nTo see how fortune is disposed to us;\nFor, as he writes, there is no quailing now.\nBecause the king is certainly possess'd\nOf all our purposes. What say you to it?


plain_text:
A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off:\nAnd yet, in faith, it is not; his present want\nSeems more than we shall find it: were it good\nTo set the exact wealth of all our states\nAll at one cast? to set so rich a main\nOn the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?\nIt were not good; for therein should we read\nThe very bottom and the soul of hope,\nThe very list, the very utmost bound\nOf all our fortunes.


plain_text:
'Faith, and so we should;\nWhere now remains a sweet reversion:\nWe may boldly spend upon the hope of what\nIs to come in:\nA comfort of retirement lives in this.


plain_text:
A rendezvous, a home to fly unto.\nIf that the devil and mischance look big\nUpon the maidenhead of our affairs.


plain_text:
But yet I would your father had been here.\nThe quality and hair of our attempt\nBrooks no division: it will be thought\nBy some, that know not why he is away,\nThat wisdom, loyalty and mere dislike\nOf our proceedings kept the earl from hence:\nAnd think how such an apprehension\nMay turn the tide of fearful faction\nAnd breed a kind of question in our cause;\nFor well you know we of the offering side\nMust keep aloof from strict arbitrement,\nAnd stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence\nThe eye of reason may pry in upon us:\nThis absence of your father's draws a curtain,\nThat shows the ignorant a kind of fear\nBefore not dreamt of.


plain_text:
You strain too far.\nI rather of his absence make this use:\nIt lends a lustre and more great opinion,\nA larger dare to our great enterprise,\nThan if the earl were here; for men must think,\nIf we without his help can make a head\nTo push against a kingdom, with his help\nWe shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.\nYet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.


plain_text:
Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.\nThe Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,\nIs marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.


plain_text:
And further, I have learn'd,\nThe king himself in person is set forth,\nOr hitherwards intended speedily,\nWith strong and mighty preparation.


plain_text:
He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,\nThe nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,\nAnd his comrades, that daff'd the world aside,\nAnd bid it pass?


plain_text:
All furnish'd, all in arms;\nAll plumed like estridges that with the wind\nBaited like eagles having lately bathed;\nGlittering in golden coats, like images;\nAs full of spirit as the month of May,\nAnd gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;\nWanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.\nI saw young Harry, with his beaver on,\nHis cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd\nRise from the ground like feather'd Mercury,\nAnd vaulted with such ease into his seat,\nAs if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,\nTo turn and wind a fiery Pegasus\nAnd witch the world with noble horsemanship.


plain_text:
No more, no more: worse than the sun in March,\nThis praise doth nourish agues. Let them come:\nThey come like sacrifices in their trim,\nAnd to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war\nAll hot and bleeding will we offer them:\nThe mailed Mars shall on his altar sit\nUp to the ears in blood. I am on fire\nTo hear this rich reprisal is so nigh\nAnd yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse,\nWho is to bear me like a thunderbolt\nAgainst the bosom of the Prince of Wales:\nHarry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,\nMeet and ne'er part till one drop down a corse.\nO that Glendower were come!


plain_text:
There is more news:\nI learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,\nHe cannot draw his power this fourteen days.


plain_text:
Forty let it be:\nMy father and Glendower being both away,\nThe powers of us may serve so great a day\nCome, let us take a muster speedily:\nDoomsday is near; die all, die merrily.


plain_text:
Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a\nbottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through;\nwe'll to Sutton Co'fil' tonight.


plain_text:
An if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it make\ntwenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid\nmy lieutenant Peto meet me at town's end.


plain_text:
If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused\ngurnet. I have misused the king's press damnably.\nI have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty\nsoldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me\nnone but good house-holders, yeoman's sons; inquire\nme out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked\ntwice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves,\nas had as lieve hear the devil as a drum; such as\nfear the report of a caliver worse than a struck\nfowl or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none but such\ntoasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no\nbigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out\ntheir services; and now my whole charge consists of\nancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of\ncompanies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the\npainted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his\nsores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but\ndiscarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to\nyounger brothers, revolted tapsters and ostlers\ntrade-fallen, the cankers of a calm world and a\nlong peace, ten times more dishonourable ragged than\nan old faced ancient: and such have I, to fill up\nthe rooms of them that have bought out their\nservices, that you would think that I had a hundred\nand fifty tattered prodigals lately come from\nswine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad\nfellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded\nall the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye\nhath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through\nCoventry with them, that's flat: nay, and the\nvillains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had\ngyves on; for indeed I had the most of them out of\nprison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my\ncompany; and the half shirt is two napkins tacked\ntogether and thrown over the shoulders like an\nherald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say\nthe truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban's, or\nthe red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that's all\none; they'll find linen enough on every hedge.


plain_text:
What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a devil dost thou\nin Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I\ncry you mercy: I thought your honour had already been\nat Shrewsbury.


plain_text:
Faith, Sir John,'tis more than time that I were\nthere, and you too; but my powers are there already.\nThe king, I can tell you, looks for us all: we must\naway all night.


plain_text:
I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath\nalready made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose\nfellows are these that come after?


plain_text:
Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for powder, food\nfor powder; they'll fill a pit as well as better:\ntush, man, mortal men, mortal men.


plain_text:
'Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had\nthat; and for their bareness, I am sure they never\nlearned that of me.


plain_text:
No I'll be sworn; unless you call three fingers on\nthe ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste: Percy is\nalready in the field.


plain_text:
Well,\nTo the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast\nFits a dull fighter and a keen guest.


plain_text:
Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,\nAnd I dare well maintain it with my life,\nIf well-respected honour bid me on,\nI hold as little counsel with weak fear\nAs you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives:\nLet it be seen to-morrow in the battle\nWhich of us fears.


plain_text:
Come, come it nay not be. I wonder much,\nBeing men of such great leading as you are,\nThat you foresee not what impediments\nDrag back our expedition: certain horse\nOf my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up:\nYour uncle Worcester's horse came but today;\nAnd now their pride and mettle is asleep,\nTheir courage with hard labour tame and dull,\nThat not a horse is half the half of himself.


plain_text:
So are the horses of the enemy\nIn general, journey-bated and brought low:\nThe better part of ours are full of rest.


plain_text:
Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God\nYou were of our determination!\nSome of us love you well; and even those some\nEnvy your great deservings and good name,\nBecause you are not of our quality,\nBut stand against us like an enemy.


plain_text:
And God defend but still I should stand so,\nSo long as out of limit and true rule\nYou stand against anointed majesty.\nBut to my charge. The king hath sent to know\nThe nature of your griefs, and whereupon\nYou conjure from the breast of civil peace\nSuch bold hostility, teaching his duteous land\nAudacious cruelty. If that the king\nHave any way your good deserts forgot,\nWhich he confesseth to be manifold,\nHe bids you name your griefs; and with all speed\nYou shall have your desires with interest\nAnd pardon absolute for yourself and these\nHerein misled by your suggestion.


plain_text:
The king is kind; and well we know the king\nKnows at what time to promise, when to pay.\nMy father and my uncle and myself\nDid give him that same royalty he wears;\nAnd when he was not six and twenty strong,\nSick in the world's regard, wretched and low,\nA poor unminded outlaw sneaking home,\nMy father gave him welcome to the shore;\nAnd when he heard him swear and vow to God\nHe came but to be Duke of Lancaster,\nTo sue his livery and beg his peace,\nWith tears of innocency and terms of zeal,\nMy father, in kind heart and pity moved,\nSwore him assistance and perform'd it too.\nNow when the lords and barons of the realm\nPerceived Northumberland did lean to him,\nThe more and less came in with cap and knee;\nMet him in boroughs, cities, villages,\nAttended him on bridges, stood in lanes,\nLaid gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths,\nGave him their heirs, as pages follow'd him\nEven at the heels in golden multitudes.\nHe presently, as greatness knows itself,\nSteps me a little higher than his vow\nMade to my father, while his blood was poor,\nUpon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh;\nAnd now, forsooth, takes on him to reform\nSome certain edicts and some strait decrees\nThat lie too heavy on the commonwealth,\nCries out upon abuses, seems to weep\nOver his country's wrongs; and by this face,\nThis seeming brow of justice, did he win\nThe hearts of all that he did angle for;\nProceeded further; cut me off the heads\nOf all the favourites that the absent king\nIn deputation left behind him here,\nWhen he was personal in the Irish war.


plain_text:
Then to the point.\nIn short time after, he deposed the king;\nSoon after that, deprived him of his life;\nAnd in the neck of that, task'd the whole state:\nTo make that worse, suffer'd his kinsman March,\nWho is, if every owner were well placed,\nIndeed his king, to be engaged in Wales,\nThere without ransom to lie forfeited;\nDisgraced me in my happy victories,\nSought to entrap me by intelligence;\nRated mine uncle from the council-board;\nIn rage dismiss'd my father from the court;\nBroke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong,\nAnd in conclusion drove us to seek out\nThis head of safety; and withal to pry\nInto his title, the which we find\nToo indirect for long continuance.


plain_text:
Not so, Sir Walter: we'll withdraw awhile.\nGo to the king; and let there be impawn'd\nSome surety for a safe return again,\nAnd in the morning early shall my uncle\nBring him our purposes: and so farewell.


plain_text:
Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief\nWith winged haste to the lord marshal;\nThis to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest\nTo whom they are directed. If you knew\nHow much they do to import, you would make haste.


plain_text:
Like enough you do.\nTo-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day\nWherein the fortune of ten thousand men\nMust bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury,\nAs I am truly given to understand,\nThe king with mighty and quick-raised power\nMeets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael,\nWhat with the sickness of Northumberland,\nWhose power was in the first proportion,\nAnd what with Owen Glendower's absence thence,\nWho with them was a rated sinew too\nAnd comes not in, o'er-ruled by prophecies,\nI fear the power of Percy is too weak\nTo wage an instant trial with the king.


plain_text:
But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,\nAnd there is my Lord of Worcester and a head\nOf gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.


plain_text:
And so there is: but yet the king hath drawn\nThe special head of all the land together:\nThe Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,\nThe noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt;\nAnd moe corrivals and dear men\nOf estimation and command in arms.


plain_text:
I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to fear;\nAnd, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed:\nFor if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king\nDismiss his power, he means to visit us,\nFor he hath heard of our confederacy,\nAnd 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him:\nTherefore make haste. I must go write again\nTo other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.


plain_text:
[Enter KING HENRY, PRINCE HENRY, Lord John of LANCASTER, EARL OF WESTMORELAND, SIR WALTER BLUNT, and FALSTAFF]


plain_text:
How bloodily the sun begins to peer\nAbove yon busky hill! the day looks pale\nAt his distemperature.


plain_text:
The southern wind\nDoth play the trumpet to his purposes,\nAnd by his hollow whistling in the leaves\nForetells a tempest and a blustering day.


plain_text:
Then with the losers let it sympathize,\nFor nothing can seem foul to those that win.\n[The trumpet sounds]\n[Enter WORCESTER and VERNON]\nHow now, my Lord of Worcester! 'tis not well\nThat you and I should meet upon such terms\nAs now we meet. You have deceived our trust,\nAnd made us doff our easy robes of peace,\nTo crush our old limbs in ungentle steel:\nThis is not well, my lord, this is not well.\nWhat say you to it? will you again unknit\nThis curlish knot of all-abhorred war?\nAnd move in that obedient orb again\nWhere you did give a fair and natural light,\nAnd be no more an exhaled meteor,\nA prodigy of fear and a portent\nOf broached mischief to the unborn times?


plain_text:
Hear me, my liege:\nFor mine own part, I could be well content\nTo entertain the lag-end of my life\nWith quiet hours; for I do protest,\nI have not sought the day of this dislike.


plain_text:
It pleased your majesty to turn your looks\nOf favour from myself and all our house;\nAnd yet I must remember you, my lord,\nWe were the first and dearest of your friends.\nFor you my staff of office did I break\nIn Richard's time; and posted day and night\nto meet you on the way, and kiss your hand,\nWhen yet you were in place and in account\nNothing so strong and fortunate as I.\nIt was myself, my brother and his son,\nThat brought you home and boldly did outdare\nThe dangers of the time. You swore to us,\nAnd you did swear that oath at Doncaster,\nThat you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state;\nNor claim no further than your new-fall'n right,\nThe seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster:\nTo this we swore our aid. But in short space\nIt rain'd down fortune showering on your head;\nAnd such a flood of greatness fell on you,\nWhat with our help, what with the absent king,\nWhat with the injuries of a wanton time,\nThe seeming sufferances that you had borne,\nAnd the contrarious winds that held the king\nSo long in his unlucky Irish wars\nThat all in England did repute him dead:\nAnd from this swarm of fair advantages\nYou took occasion to be quickly woo'd\nTo gripe the general sway into your hand;\nForget your oath to us at Doncaster;\nAnd being fed by us you used us so\nAs that ungentle hull, the cuckoo's bird,\nUseth the sparrow; did oppress our nest;\nGrew by our feeding to so great a bulk\nThat even our love durst not come near your sight\nFor fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing\nWe were enforced, for safety sake, to fly\nOut of sight and raise this present head;\nWhereby we stand opposed by such means\nAs you yourself have forged against yourself\nBy unkind usage, dangerous countenance,\nAnd violation of all faith and troth\nSworn to us in your younger enterprise.


plain_text:
These things indeed you have articulate,\nProclaim'd at market-crosses, read in churches,\nTo face the garment of rebellion\nWith some fine colour that may please the eye\nOf fickle changelings and poor discontents,\nWhich gape and rub the elbow at the news\nOf hurlyburly innovation:\nAnd never yet did insurrection want\nSuch water-colours to impaint his cause;\nNor moody beggars, starving for a time\nOf pellmell havoc and confusion.


plain_text:
In both your armies there is many a soul\nShall pay full dearly for this encounter,\nIf once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,\nThe Prince of Wales doth join with all the world\nIn praise of Henry Percy: by my hopes,\nThis present enterprise set off his head,\nI do not think a braver gentleman,\nMore active-valiant or more valiant-young,\nMore daring or more bold, is now alive\nTo grace this latter age with noble deeds.\nFor my part, I may speak it to my shame,\nI have a truant been to chivalry;\nAnd so I hear he doth account me too;\nYet this before my father's majesty--\nI am content that he shall take the odds\nOf his great name and estimation,\nAnd will, to save the blood on either side,\nTry fortune with him in a single fight.


plain_text:
And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,\nAlbeit considerations infinite\nDo make against it. No, good Worcester, no,\nWe love our people well; even those we love\nThat are misled upon your cousin's part;\nAnd, will they take the offer of our grace,\nBoth he and they and you, every man\nShall be my friend again and I'll be his:\nSo tell your cousin, and bring me word\nWhat he will do: but if he will not yield,\nRebuke and dread correction wait on us\nAnd they shall do their office. So, be gone;\nWe will not now be troubled with reply:\nWe offer fair; take it advisedly.


plain_text:
It will not be accepted, on my life:\nThe Douglas and the Hotspur both together\nAre confident against the world in arms.


plain_text:
Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge;\nFor, on their answer, will we set on them:\nAnd God befriend us, as our cause is just!


plain_text:
'Tis not due yet; I would be loath to pay him before\nhis day. What need I be so forward with him that\ncalls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; honour pricks\nme on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I\ncome on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or\nan arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no.\nHonour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is\nhonour? a word. What is in that word honour? what\nis that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it?\nhe that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no.\nDoth he hear it? no. 'Tis insensible, then. Yea,\nto the dead. But will it not live with the living?\nno. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore\nI'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so\nends my catechism.


plain_text:
Then are we all undone.\nIt is not possible, it cannot be,\nThe king should keep his word in loving us;\nHe will suspect us still and find a time\nTo punish this offence in other faults:\nSuspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes;\nFor treason is but trusted like the fox,\nWho, ne'er so tame, so cherish'd and lock'd up,\nWill have a wild trick of his ancestors.\nLook how we can, or sad or merrily,\nInterpretation will misquote our looks,\nAnd we shall feed like oxen at a stall,\nThe better cherish'd, still the nearer death.\nMy nephew's trespass may be well forgot;\nit hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,\nAnd an adopted name of privilege,\nA hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen:\nAll his offences live upon my head\nAnd on his father's; we did train him on,\nAnd, his corruption being ta'en from us,\nWe, as the spring of all, shall pay for all.\nTherefore, good cousin, let not Harry know,\nIn any case, the offer of the king.


plain_text:
I told him gently of our grievances,\nOf his oath-breaking; which he mended thus,\nBy now forswearing that he is forsworn:\nHe calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge\nWith haughty arms this hateful name in us.


plain_text:
Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have thrown\nA brave defiance in King Henry's teeth,\nAnd Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it;\nWhich cannot choose but bring him quickly on.


plain_text:
O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads,\nAnd that no man might draw short breath today\nBut I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me,\nHow show'd his tasking? seem'd it in contempt?


plain_text:
No, by my soul; I never in my life\nDid hear a challenge urged more modestly,\nUnless a brother should a brother dare\nTo gentle exercise and proof of arms.\nHe gave you all the duties of a man;\nTrimm'd up your praises with a princely tongue,\nSpoke to your deservings like a chronicle,\nMaking you ever better than his praise\nBy still dispraising praise valued in you;\nAnd, which became him like a prince indeed,\nHe made a blushing cital of himself;\nAnd chid his truant youth with such a grace\nAs if he master'd there a double spirit.\nOf teaching and of learning instantly.\nThere did he pause: but let me tell the world,\nIf he outlive the envy of this day,\nEngland did never owe so sweet a hope,\nSo much misconstrued in his wantonness.


plain_text:
Cousin, I think thou art enamoured\nOn his follies: never did I hear\nOf any prince so wild a libertine.\nBut be he as he will, yet once ere night\nI will embrace him with a soldier's arm,\nThat he shall shrink under my courtesy.\nArm, arm with speed: and, fellows, soldiers, friends,\nBetter consider what you have to do\nThan I, that have not well the gift of tongue,\nCan lift your blood up with persuasion.


plain_text:
I cannot read them now.\nO gentlemen, the time of life is short!\nTo spend that shortness basely were too long,\nIf life did ride upon a dial's point,\nStill ending at the arrival of an hour.\nAn if we live, we live to tread on kings;\nIf die, brave death, when princes die with us!\nNow, for our consciences, the arms are fair,\nWhen the intent of bearing them is just.


plain_text:
I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale,\nFor I profess not talking; only this--\nLet each man do his best: and here draw I\nA sword, whose temper I intend to stain\nWith the best blood that I can meet withal\nIn the adventure of this perilous day.\nNow, Esperance! Percy! and set on.\nSound all the lofty instruments of war,\nAnd by that music let us all embrace;\nFor, heaven to earth, some of us never shall\nA second time do such a courtesy.


plain_text:
What is thy name, that in the battle thus\nThou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek\nUpon my head?


plain_text:
Know then, my name is Douglas;\nAnd I do haunt thee in the battle thus\nBecause some tell me that thou art a king.


plain_text:
The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought\nThy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry,\nThis sword hath ended him: so shall it thee,\nUnless thou yield thee as my prisoner.


plain_text:
I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot;\nAnd thou shalt find a king that will revenge\nLord Stafford's death.


plain_text:
This, Douglas? no: I know this face full well:\nA gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt;\nSemblably furnish'd like the king himself.


plain_text:
A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes!\nA borrow'd title hast thou bought too dear:\nWhy didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?


plain_text:
Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;\nI'll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece,\nUntil I meet the king.


plain_text:
Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear\nthe shot here; here's no scoring but upon the pate.\nSoft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt: there's honour\nfor you! here's no vanity! I am as hot as moulten\nlead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I\nneed no more weight than mine own bowels. I have\nled my ragamuffins where they are peppered: there's\nnot three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and\nthey are for the town's end, to beg during life.\nBut who comes here?


plain_text:
What, stand'st thou idle here? lend me thy sword:\nMany a nobleman lies stark and stiff\nUnder the hoofs of vaunting enemies,\nWhose deaths are yet unrevenged: I prithee,\nlend me thy sword.


plain_text:
O Hal, I prithee, give me leave to breathe awhile.\nTurk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have\ndone this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.


plain_text:
Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st\nnot my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.


plain_text:
Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do\ncome in my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his\nwillingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like\nnot such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me\nlife: which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes\nunlooked for, and there's an end.


plain_text:
I prithee,\nHarry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed'st too much.\nLord John of Lancaster, go you with him.


plain_text:
Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help:\nAnd God forbid a shallow scratch should drive\nThe Prince of Wales from such a field as this,\nWhere stain'd nobility lies trodden on,\nand rebels' arms triumph in massacres!


plain_text:
By God, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster;\nI did not think thee lord of such a spirit:\nBefore, I loved thee as a brother, John;\nBut now, I do respect thee as my soul.


plain_text:
I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point\nWith lustier maintenance than I did look for\nOf such an ungrown warrior.


plain_text:
Another king! they grow like Hydra's heads:\nI am the Douglas, fatal to all those\nThat wear those colours on them: what art thou,\nThat counterfeit'st the person of a king?


plain_text:
The king himself; who, Douglas, grieves at heart\nSo many of his shadows thou hast met\nAnd not the very king. I have two boys\nSeek Percy and thyself about the field:\nBut, seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily,\nI will assay thee: so, defend thyself.


plain_text:
I fear thou art another counterfeit;\nAnd yet, in faith, thou bear'st thee like a king:\nBut mine I am sure thou art, whoe'er thou be,\nAnd thus I win thee.


plain_text:
Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like\nNever to hold it up again! the spirits\nOf valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms:\nIt is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee;\nWho never promiseth but he means to pay.\n[They fight: DOUGLAS flies]\nCheerly, my lord. how fares your grace?\nSir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succor sent,\nAnd so hath Clifton: I'll to Clifton straight.


plain_text:
Stay, and breathe awhile:\nThou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion,\nAnd show'd thou makest some tender of my life,\nIn this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.


plain_text:
O God! they did me too much injury\nThat ever said I hearken'd for your death.\nIf it were so, I might have let alone\nThe insulting hand of Douglas over you,\nWhich would have been as speedy in your end\nAs all the poisonous potions in the world\nAnd saved the treacherous labour of your son.


plain_text:
Why, then I see\nA very valiant rebel of the name.\nI am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,\nTo share with me in glory any more:\nTwo stars keep not their motion in one sphere;\nNor can one England brook a double reign,\nOf Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.


plain_text:
Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come\nTo end the one of us; and would to God\nThy name in arms were now as great as mine!


plain_text:
I'll make it greater ere I part from thee;\nAnd all the budding honours on thy crest\nI'll crop, to make a garland for my head.


plain_text:
Well said, Hal! to it Hal! Nay, you shall find no\nboy's play here, I can tell you.\n[Re-enter DOUGLAS; he fights with FALSTAFF,]\nwho falls down as if he were dead, and exit\nDOUGLAS. HOTSPUR is wounded, and falls]


plain_text:
O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth!\nI better brook the loss of brittle life\nThan those proud titles thou hast won of me;\nThey wound my thoughts worse than sword my flesh:\nBut thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;\nAnd time, that takes survey of all the world,\nMust have a stop. O, I could prophesy,\nBut that the earthy and cold hand of death\nLies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust\nAnd food for--


plain_text:
For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, great heart!\nIll-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!\nWhen that this body did contain a spirit,\nA kingdom for it was too small a bound;\nBut now two paces of the vilest earth\nIs room enough: this earth that bears thee dead\nBears not alive so stout a gentleman.\nIf thou wert sensible of courtesy,\nI should not make so dear a show of zeal:\nBut let my favours hide thy mangled face;\nAnd, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself\nFor doing these fair rites of tenderness.\nAdieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!\nThy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,\nBut not remember'd in thy epitaph!\n[He spieth FALSTAFF on the ground]\nWhat, old acquaintance! could not all this flesh\nKeep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!\nI could have better spared a better man:\nO, I should have a heavy miss of thee,\nIf I were much in love with vanity!\nDeath hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,\nThough many dearer, in this bloody fray.\nEmbowell'd will I see thee by and by:\nTill then in blood by noble Percy lie.


plain_text:
[Rising up]  Embowelled! if thou embowel me to-day,\nI'll give you leave to powder me and eat me too\nto-morrow. 'Sblood,'twas time to counterfeit, or\nthat hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too.\nCounterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit: to die,\nis to be a counterfeit; for he is but the\ncounterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man:\nbut to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby\nliveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and\nperfect image of life indeed. The better part of\nvalour is discretion; in the which better part I\nhave saved my life.'Zounds, I am afraid of this\ngunpowder Percy, though he be dead: how, if he\nshould counterfeit too and rise? by my faith, I am\nafraid he would prove the better counterfeit.\nTherefore I'll make him sure; yea, and I'll swear I\nkilled him. Why may not he rise as well as I?\nNothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me.\nTherefore, sirrah,\n[Stabbing him]\nwith a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.


plain_text:
I did; I saw him dead,\nBreathless and bleeding on the ground. Art\nthou alive?\nOr is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight?\nI prithee, speak; we will not trust our eyes\nWithout our ears: thou art not what thou seem'st.


plain_text:
No, that's certain; I am not a double man: but if I\nbe not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy:\n[Throwing the body down]\nif your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let\nhim kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either\nearl or duke, I can assure you.


plain_text:
Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to\nlying! I grant you I was down and out of breath;\nand so was he: but we rose both at an instant and\nfought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be\nbelieved, so; if not, let them that should reward\nvalour bear the sin upon their own heads. I'll take\nit upon my death, I gave him this wound in the\nthigh: if the man were alive and would deny it,\n'zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword.


plain_text:
This is the strangest fellow, brother John.\nCome, bring your luggage nobly on your back:\nFor my part, if a lie may do thee grace,\nI'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.\n[A retreat is sounded]\nThe trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.\nCome, brother, let us to the highest of the field,\nTo see what friends are living, who are dead.


plain_text:
I'll follow, as they say, for reward. He that\nrewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great,\nI'll grow less; for I'll purge, and leave sack, and\nlive cleanly as a nobleman should do.


plain_text:
[The trumpets sound. Enter KING HENRY IV, PRINCE HENRY, LORD JOHN LANCASTER, EARL OF WESTMORELAND, with WORCESTER and VERNON prisoners]


plain_text:
Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.\nIll-spirited Worcester! did not we send grace,\nPardon and terms of love to all of you?\nAnd wouldst thou turn our offers contrary?\nMisuse the tenor of thy kinsman's trust?\nThree knights upon our party slain to-day,\nA noble earl and many a creature else\nHad been alive this hour,\nIf like a Christian thou hadst truly borne\nBetwixt our armies true intelligence.


plain_text:
What I have done my safety urged me to;\nAnd I embrace this fortune patiently,\nSince not to be avoided it falls on me.


plain_text:
Bear Worcester to the death and Vernon too:\nOther offenders we will pause upon.\n[Exeunt WORCESTER and VERNON, guarded]\nHow goes the field?


plain_text:
The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw\nThe fortune of the day quite turn'd from him,\nThe noble Percy slain, and all his men\nUpon the foot of fear, fled with the rest;\nAnd falling from a hill, he was so bruised\nThat the pursuers took him. At my tent\nThe Douglas is; and I beseech your grace\nI may dispose of him.


plain_text:
Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you\nThis honourable bounty shall belong:\nGo to the Douglas, and deliver him\nUp to his pleasure, ransomless and free:\nHis valour shown upon our crests to-day\nHath taught us how to cherish such high deeds\nEven in the bosom of our adversaries.


plain_text:
Then this remains, that we divide our power.\nYou, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland\nTowards York shall bend you with your dearest speed,\nTo meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop,\nWho, as we hear, are busily in arms:\nMyself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales,\nTo fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.\nRebellion in this land shall lose his sway,\nMeeting the cheque of such another day:\nAnd since this business so fair is done,\nLet us not leave till all our own be won.


plain_text:
Open your ears; for which of you will stop\nThe vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?\nI, from the orient to the drooping west,\nMaking the wind my post-horse, still unfold\nThe acts commenced on this ball of earth.\nUpon my tongues continual slanders ride,\nThe which in every language I pronounce,\nStuffing the ears of men with false reports.\nI speak of peace while covert emnity,\nUnder the smile of safety, wounds the world;\nAnd who but Rumour, who but only I,\nMake fearful musters and prepar'd defence,\nWhiles the big year, swoln with some other grief,\nIs thought with child by the stern tyrant war,\nAnd no such matter? Rumour is a pipe\nBlown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,\nAnd of so easy and so plain a stop\nThat the blunt monster with uncounted heads,\nThe still-discordant wav'ring multitude,\nCan play upon it. But what need I thus\nMy well-known body to anatomize\nAmong my household? Why is Rumour here?\nI run before King Harry's victory,\nWho, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury,\nHath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,\nQuenching the flame of bold rebellion\nEven with the rebels' blood. But what mean I\nTo speak so true at first? My office is\nTo noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell\nUnder the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword,\nAnd that the King before the Douglas' rage\nStoop'd his anointed head as low as death.\nThis have I rumour'd through the peasant towns\nBetween that royal field of Shrewsbury\nAnd this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,\nWhere Hotspur's father, old Northumberland,\nLies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on,\nAnd not a man of them brings other news\nThan they have learnt of me. From Rumour's tongues\nThey bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.


plain_text:
His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard.\nPlease it your honour knock but at the gate,\nAnd he himself will answer.


plain_text:
What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now\nShould be the father of some stratagem.\nThe times are wild; contention, like a horse\nFull of high feeding, madly hath broke loose\nAnd bears down all before him.


plain_text:
As good as heart can wish.\nThe King is almost wounded to the death;\nAnd, in the fortune of my lord your son,\nPrince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts\nKill'd by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John,\nAnd Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field;\nAnd Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John,\nIs prisoner to your son. O, such a day,\nSo fought, so followed, and so fairly won,\nCame not till now to dignify the times,\nSince Cxsar's fortunes!


plain_text:
I spake with one, my lord, that came from\nA gentleman well bred and of good name,\nThat freely rend'red me these news for true.


plain_text:
My lord, I over-rode him on the way;\nAnd he is furnish'd with no certainties\nMore than he haply may retail from me.


plain_text:
My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back\nWith joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd,\nOut-rode me. After him came spurring hard\nA gentleman, almost forspent with speed,\nThat stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse.\nHe ask'd the way to Chester; and of him\nI did demand what news from Shrewsbury.\nHe told me that rebellion had bad luck,\nAnd that young Harry Percy's spur was cold.\nWith that he gave his able horse the head\nAnd, bending forward, struck his armed heels\nAgainst the panting sides of his poor jade\nUp to the rowel-head; and starting so,\nHe seem'd in running to devour the way,\nStaying no longer question.


plain_text:
Ha! Again:\nSaid he young Harry Percy's spur was cold?\nOf Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion\nHad met ill luck?


plain_text:
My lord, I'll tell you what:\nIf my young lord your son have not the day,\nUpon mine honour, for a silken point\nI'll give my barony. Never talk of it.


plain_text:
Who--he?\nHe was some hilding fellow that had stol'n\nThe horse he rode on and, upon my life,\nSpoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.


plain_text:
Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,\nForetells the nature of a tragic volume.\nSo looks the strand whereon the imperious flood\nHath left a witness'd usurpation.\nSay, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?


plain_text:
I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;\nWhere hateful death put on his ugliest mask\nTo fright our party.


plain_text:
How doth my son and brother?\nThou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek\nIs apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.\nEven such a man, so faint, so spiritless,\nSo dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,\nDrew Priam's curtain in the dead of night\nAnd would have told him half his Troy was burnt;\nBut Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,\nAnd I my Percy's death ere thou report'st it.\nThis thou wouldst say: 'Your son did thus and thus;\nYour brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas'--\nStopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds;\nBut in the end, to stop my ear indeed,\nThou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,\nEnding with 'Brother, son, and all, are dead.'


plain_text:
Why, he is dead.\nSee what a ready tongue suspicion hath!\nHe that but fears the thing he would not know\nHath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes\nThat what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton;\nTell thou an earl his divination lies,\nAnd I will take it as a sweet disgrace\nAnd make thee rich for doing me such wrong.


plain_text:
Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead.\nI see a strange confession in thine eye;\nThou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it fear or sin\nTo speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:\nThe tongue offends not that reports his death;\nAnd he doth sin that doth belie the dead,\nNot he which says the dead is not alive.\nYet the first bringer of unwelcome news\nHath but a losing office, and his tongue\nSounds ever after as a sullen bell,\nRememb'red tolling a departing friend.


plain_text:
I am sorry I should force you to believe\nThat which I would to God I had not seen;\nBut these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,\nRend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,\nTo Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down\nThe never-daunted Percy to the earth,\nFrom whence with life he never more sprung up.\nIn few, his death--whose spirit lent a fire\nEven to the dullest peasant in his camp--\nBeing bruited once, took fire and heat away\nFrom the best-temper'd courage in his troops;\nFor from his metal was his party steeled;\nWhich once in him abated, all the rest\nTurn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.\nAnd as the thing that's heavy in itself\nUpon enforcement flies with greatest speed,\nSo did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,\nLend to this weight such lightness with their fear\nThat arrows fled not swifter toward their aim\nThan did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,\nFly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester\nToo soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot,\nThe bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword\nHad three times slain th' appearance of the King,\nGan vail his stomach and did grace the shame\nOf those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight,\nStumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all\nIs that the King hath won, and hath sent out\nA speedy power to encounter you, my lord,\nUnder the conduct of young Lancaster\nAnd Westmoreland. This is the news at full.


plain_text:
For this I shall have time enough to mourn.\nIn poison there is physic; and these news,\nHaving been well, that would have made me sick,\nBeing sick, have in some measure made me well;\nAnd as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints,\nLike strengthless hinges, buckle under life,\nImpatient of his fit, breaks like a fire\nOut of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs,\nWeak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,\nAre thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!\nA scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel\nMust glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif!\nThou art a guard too wanton for the head\nWhich princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.\nNow bind my brows with iron; and approach\nThe ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring\nTo frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland!\nLet heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand\nKeep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die!\nAnd let this world no longer be a stage\nTo feed contention in a ling'ring act;\nBut let one spirit of the first-born Cain\nReign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set\nOn bloody courses, the rude scene may end\nAnd darkness be the burier of the dead!


plain_text:
Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.\nThe lives of all your loving complices\nLean on your health; the which, if you give o'er\nTo stormy passion, must perforce decay.\nYou cast th' event of war, my noble lord,\nAnd summ'd the account of chance before you said\n'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise\nThat in the dole of blows your son might drop.\nYou knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge,\nMore likely to fall in than to get o'er;\nYou were advis'd his flesh was capable\nOf wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit\nWould lift him where most trade of danger rang'd;\nYet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this,\nThough strongly apprehended, could restrain\nThe stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n,\nOr what hath this bold enterprise brought forth\nMore than that being which was like to be?


plain_text:
We all that are engaged to this loss\nKnew that we ventured on such dangerous seas\nThat if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one;\nAnd yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd\nChok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;\nAnd since we are o'erset, venture again.\nCome, we will put forth, body and goods.


plain_text:
'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord,\nI hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:\nThe gentle Archbishop of York is up\nWith well-appointed pow'rs. He is a man\nWho with a double surety binds his followers.\nMy lord your son had only but the corpse,\nBut shadows and the shows of men, to fight;\nFor that same word 'rebellion' did divide\nThe action of their bodies from their souls;\nAnd they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd,\nAs men drink potions; that their weapons only\nSeem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls\nThis word 'rebellion'--it had froze them up,\nAs fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop\nTurns insurrection to religion.\nSuppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts,\nHe's follow'd both with body and with mind;\nAnd doth enlarge his rising with the blood\nOf fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones;\nDerives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;\nTells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,\nGasping for life under great Bolingbroke;\nAnd more and less do flock to follow him.


plain_text:
I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,\nThis present grief had wip'd it from my mind.\nGo in with me; and counsel every man\nThe aptest way for safety and revenge.\nGet posts and letters, and make friends with speed--\nNever so few, and never yet more need.      Exeunt


plain_text:
He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water;\nfor the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than\nknew for.


plain_text:
Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The\nthis foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent\nthat intends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented\nme. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is\nother men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath\noverwhelm'd all her litter but one. If the Prince put thee\nmy service for any other reason than to set me off, why then\nhave no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to\nworn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd\nan agate till now; but I will inset you neither in gold nor\nsilver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your\nmaster, for a jewel--the juvenal, the Prince your master,\nchin is not yet fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in\npalm of my hand than he shall get one off his cheek; and yet\nwill not stick to say his face is a face-royal. God may\nwhen he will, 'tis not a hair amiss yet. He may keep it still\na face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of\nand yet he'll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his\nfather was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he's\nout of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dommelton\nthe satin for my short cloak and my slops?


plain_text:
He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance\nBardolph. He would not take his band and yours; he liked not\nsecurity.


plain_text:
Let him be damn'd, like the Glutton; pray God his\nbe hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! A rascal-yea-forsooth\nbear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The\nwhoreson smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and\nbunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is through\nthem in honest taking-up, then they must stand upon security.\nhad as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to\nit with security. I look'd 'a should have sent me two and\nyards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me\nWell, he may sleep in security; for he hath the horn of\nabundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it;\nyet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light\nWhere's Bardolph?


plain_text:
I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in\nSmithfield. An I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were\nmann'd, hors'd, and wiv'd.


plain_text:
He, my lord; but he hath since done good service at\nShrewsbury, and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to\nLord John of Lancaster.


plain_text:
What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not wars?\nthere not employment? Doth not the King lack subjects? Do not\nrebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side\none, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side,\nit worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it.


plain_text:
Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? Setting\nknighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat\nhad said so.


plain_text:
I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your\nsoldiership aside; and give me leave to tell you you in your\nthroat, if you say I am any other than an honest man.


plain_text:
I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that\ngrows to me! If thou get'st any leave of me, hang me; if thou\ntak'st leave, thou wert better be hang'd. You hunt counter.\nHence! Avaunt!


plain_text:
My good lord! God give your lordship good time of\nam glad to see your lordship abroad. I heard say your\nwas sick; I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your\nlordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some\nof age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; and I\nhumbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend care of your\nhealth.


plain_text:
This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy,\nplease your lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a\ntingling.


plain_text:
It hath it original from much grief, from study, and\nperturbation of the brain. I have read the cause of his\nin Galen; it is a kind of deafness.


plain_text:
Very well, my lord, very well. Rather an't please\nis the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking,\nI am troubled withal.


plain_text:
To punish you by the heels would amend the\nof your ears; and I care not if I do become your physician.


plain_text:
I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient.\nlordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in\nof poverty; but how I should be your patient to follow your\nprescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or\nindeed a scruple itself.


plain_text:
Well, I am loath to gall a new-heal'd wound.\nday's service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your\nnight's exploit on Gadshill. You may thank th' unquiet time\nyour quiet o'erposting that action.


plain_text:
Not so, my lord. Your ill angel is light; but hope\nthat looks upon me will take me without weighing. And yet in\nrespects, I grant, I cannot go--I cannot tell. Virtue is of\nlittle regard in these costermongers' times that true valour\nturn'd berod; pregnancy is made a tapster, and his quick wit\nwasted in giving reckonings; all the other gifts appertinent\nman, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a\ngooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of\nthat are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with\nbitterness of your galls; and we that are in the vaward of\nyouth, must confess, are wags too.


plain_text:
Do you set down your name in the scroll of\nthat are written down old with all the characters of age?\nyou not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white\ndecreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice\nyour wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every\npart about you blasted with antiquity? And will you yet call\nyourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!


plain_text:
My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the\nafternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For\nvoice--I have lost it with hallooing and singing of anthems.\napprove my youth further, I will not. The truth is, I am only\nin judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me\na thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him.\nthe box of the ear that the Prince gave you--he gave it like\nrude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have\nhim for it; and the young lion repents--marry, not in ashes\nsackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.


plain_text:
Well, the King hath sever'd you. I hear you are\ngoing with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and\nEarl of Northumberland.


plain_text:
Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look\npray, all you that kiss my Lady Peace at home, that our\njoin not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two\nout with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily. If it\nhot day, and I brandish anything but a bottle, I would I\nnever spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can\nout his head but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last\nbut it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they\nhave a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs\nam an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my\nwere not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were better to\neaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with\nperpetual motion.


plain_text:
Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient\nbear crosses. Fare you well. Commend me to my cousin\nWestmoreland.


plain_text:
If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can\nmore separate age and covetousness than 'a can part young\nand lechery; but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches\nother; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy!


plain_text:
I can get no remedy against this consumption of the\npurse; borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the\nis incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster;\nto the Prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to\nMistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I\nperceiv'd the first white hair of my chin. About it; you know\nwhere to find me. [Exit PAGE] A pox of this gout! or, a\nthis pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my\ntoe. 'Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my\nand my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit\nmake use of anything. I will turn diseases to commodity.


plain_text:
Thus have you heard our cause and known our means;\nAnd, my most noble friends, I pray you all\nSpeak plainly your opinions of our hopes-\nAnd first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?


plain_text:
I well allow the occasion of our amis;\nBut gladly would be better satisfied\nHow, in our means, we should advance ourselves\nTo look with forehead bold and big enough\nUpon the power and puissance of the King.


plain_text:
Our present musters grow upon the file\nTo five and twenty thousand men of choice;\nAnd our supplies live largely in the hope\nOf great Northumberland, whose bosom burns\nWith an incensed fire of injuries.


plain_text:
The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:\nWhether our present five and twenty thousand\nMay hold up head without Northumberland?


plain_text:
Yea, marry, there's the point;\nBut if without him we be thought too feeble,\nMy judgment is we should not step too far\nTill we had his assistance by the hand;\nFor, in a theme so bloody-fac'd as this,\nConjecture, expectation, and surmise\nOf aids incertain, should not be admitted.


plain_text:
It was, my lord; who lin'd himself with hope,\nEating the air and promise of supply,\nFlatt'ring himself in project of a power\nMuch smaller than the smallest of his thoughts;\nAnd so, with great imagination\nProper to madmen, led his powers to death,\nAnd, winking, leapt into destruction.


plain_text:
Yes, if this present quality of war-\nIndeed the instant action, a cause on foot-\nLives so in hope, as in an early spring\nWe see th' appearing buds; which to prove fruit\nHope gives not so much warrant, as despair\nThat frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,\nWe first survey the plot, then draw the model;\nAnd when we see the figure of the house,\nThen we must rate the cost of the erection;\nWhich if we find outweighs ability,\nWhat do we then but draw anew the model\nIn fewer offices, or at least desist\nTo build at all? Much more, in this great work--\nWhich is almost to pluck a kingdom down\nAnd set another up--should we survey\nThe plot of situation and the model,\nConsent upon a sure foundation,\nQuestion surveyors, know our own estate\nHow able such a work to undergo-\nTo weigh against his opposite; or else\nWe fortify in paper and in figures,\nUsing the names of men instead of men;\nLike one that draws the model of a house\nBeyond his power to build it; who, half through,\nGives o'er and leaves his part-created cost\nA naked subject to the weeping clouds\nAnd waste for churlish winter's tyranny.


plain_text:
Grant that our hopes--yet likely of fair birth--\nShould be still-born, and that we now possess'd\nThe utmost man of expectation,\nI think we are so a body strong enough,\nEven as we are, to equal with the King.


plain_text:
To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph;\nFor his divisions, as the times do brawl,\nAre in three heads: one power against the French,\nAnd one against Glendower; perforce a third\nMust take up us. So is the unfirm King\nIn three divided; and his coffers sound\nWith hollow poverty and emptiness.


plain_text:
That he should draw his several strengths together\nAnd come against us in full puissance\nNeed not be dreaded.


plain_text:
If he should do so,\nHe leaves his back unarm'd, the French and Welsh\nBaying at his heels. Never fear that.


plain_text:
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;\nAgainst the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth;\nBut who is substituted against the French\nI have no certain notice.


plain_text:
Let us on,\nAnd publish the occasion of our arms.\nThe commonwealth is sick of their own choice;\nTheir over-greedy love hath surfeited.\nAn habitation giddy and unsure\nHath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.\nO thou fond many, with what loud applause\nDidst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke\nBefore he was what thou wouldst have him be!\nAnd being now trimm'd in thine own desires,\nThou, beastly feeder, art so full of him\nThat thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.\nSo, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge\nThy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;\nAnd now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,\nAnd howl'st to find it. What trust is in these times?\nThey that, when Richard liv'd, would have him die\nAre now become enamour'd on his grave.\nThou that threw'st dust upon his goodly head,\nWhen through proud London he came sighing on\nAfter th' admired heels of Bolingbroke,\nCriest now 'O earth, yield us that king again,\nAnd take thou this!' O thoughts of men accurs'd!\nPast and to come seems best; things present, worst.


plain_text:
Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabb'd me in mine\nhouse, and that most beastly. In good faith, 'a cares not\nmischief he does, if his weapon be out; he will foin like any\ndevil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child.


plain_text:
I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he's an\ninfinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him\nGood Master Snare, let him not scape. 'A comes continuantly\nPie-corner--saving your manhoods--to buy a saddle; and he is\nindited to dinner to the Lubber's Head in Lumbert Street, to\nMaster Smooth's the silkman. I pray you, since my exion is\nent'red, and my case so openly known to the world, let him be\nbrought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a\nlone woman to bear; and I have borne, and borne, and borne;\nhave been fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, from\nday to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There\nhonesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass\na beast, to bear every knave's wrong.\n[Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, PAGE, and BARDOLPH]\nYonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave,\nwith him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and\nMaster Snare; do me, do me, do me your offices.


plain_text:
Throw me in the channel! I'll throw thee in the\nWilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder!\nthou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou kill God's officers and\nKing's? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a\nman-queller and a woman-queller.


plain_text:
Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wot, wot\nthou wot, wot ta? Do, do, thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed!


plain_text:
How now, Sir John! what, are you brawling here?\nDoth this become your place, your time, and business?\nYou should have been well on your way to York.\nStand from him, fellow; wherefore hang'st thou upon him?


plain_text:
O My most worshipful lord, an't please your Grace, I\npoor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit.


plain_text:
It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all--all\nhave. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all\nsubstance into that fat belly of his. But I will have some of\nout again, or I will ride thee a nights like a mare.


plain_text:
How comes this, Sir John? Fie! What man of good\ntemper would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not\nashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come\nher own?


plain_text:
Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the\ntoo. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet,\nmy Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire,\nWednesday in Wheeson week, when the Prince broke thy head for\nliking his father to singing-man of Windsor--thou didst swear\nme then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me\nlady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech,\nbutcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly?\nin to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good\nprawns, whereby thou didst desire to eat some, whereby I told\nthee they were ill for green wound? And didst thou not, when\nwas gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity\nsuch poor people, saying that ere long they should call me\nAnd didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch the thirty\nshillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath. Deny it, if thou\ncanst.


plain_text:
My lord, this is a poor mad soul, and she says up and\ndown the town that her eldest son is like you. She hath been\ngood case, and, the truth is, poverty hath distracted her.\nfor these foolish officers, I beseech you I may have redress\nagainst them.


plain_text:
Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted with\nmanner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is not a\nconfident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such\nthan impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level\nconsideration. You have, as it appears to me, practis'd upon\neasy yielding spirit of this woman, and made her serve your\nboth in purse and in person.


plain_text:
Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe her,\nunpay the villainy you have done with her; the one you may do\nwith sterling money, and the other with current repentance.


plain_text:
My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply.\ncall honourable boldness impudent sauciness; if a man will\ncurtsy and say nothing, he is virtuous. No, my lord, my\nduty rememb'red, I will not be your suitor. I say to you I do\ndesire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty\nemployment in the King's affairs.


plain_text:
You speak as having power to do wrong; but\nth' effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman.


plain_text:
The King, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales\nAre near at hand. The rest the paper tells. [Gives a letter]


plain_text:
By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to\nboth my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.


plain_text:
Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking; and for thy\nwalls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the\nthe German hunting, in water-work, is worth a thousand of\nbed-hangers and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten\nif thou canst. Come, and 'twere not for thy humours, there's\na better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw the\naction. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; dost\nknow me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.


plain_text:
Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles;\ni' faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la!


plain_text:
Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown.\nI hope you'll come to supper. you'll pay me all together?


plain_text:
No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,\nAre march'd up to my Lord of Lancaster,\nAgainst Northumberland and the Archbishop.


plain_text:
Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool\ntaught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap\ntap, and so part fair.


plain_text:
Faith, it does me; though it discolours the complexion\nmy greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me\ndesire small beer?


plain_text:
Belike then my appetite was not-princely got; for, by\ntroth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But\nindeed these humble considerations make me out of love with\ngreatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name,\nto know thy face to-morrow, or to take note how many pair of\nstockings thou hast--viz., these, and those that were thy\npeach-colour'd ones--or to bear the inventory of thy shirts-\none for superfluity, and another for use! But that the\ntennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is a low ebb\nlinen with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou\nnot done a great while, because the rest of thy low countries\nhave made a shift to eat up thy holland. And God knows\nthose that bawl out of the ruins of thy linen shall inherit\nkingdom; but the midwives say the children are not in the\nwhereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily\nstrengthened.


plain_text:
How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you\nshould talk so idly! Tell me, how many good young princes\ndo so, their fathers being so sick as yours at this time is?


plain_text:
Marry, I tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad,\nmy father is sick; albeit I could tell to thee--as to one it\npleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend--I could\nsad and sad indeed too.


plain_text:
By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil's\nas thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: let the\ntry the man. But I tell thee my heart bleeds inwardly that my\nfather is so sick; and keeping such vile company as thou art\nin reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow.


plain_text:
It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed\nfellow to think as every man thinks. Never a man's thought in\nworld keeps the road-way better than thine. Every man would\nme an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful\nthought to think so?


plain_text:
By this light, I am well spoke on; I can hear it with\nown ears. The worst that they can say of me is that I am a\nbrother and that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those\nthings, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes\nBardolph.


plain_text:
And the boy that I gave Falstaff. 'A had him from me\nChristian; and look if the fat villain have not transform'd\nape.


plain_text:
Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be\nblushing? Wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly\nare you become! Is't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's\nmaidenhead?


plain_text:
'A calls me e'en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and\ncould discern no part of his face from the window. At last I\nspied his eyes; and methought he had made two holes in the\nalewife's new petticoat, and so peep'd through.


plain_text:
Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamt she was delivered of a\nfirebrand; and therefore I call him her dream.


plain_text:
I do allow this well to be as familiar with me as my\nand he holds his place, for look you how he writes.


plain_text:
[Reads] 'John Falstaff, knight'--Every man must know\nas oft as he has occasion to name himself, even like those\nare kin to the King; for they never prick their finger but\nsay 'There's some of the King's blood spilt.' 'How comes\nsays he that takes upon him not to conceive. The answer is as\nready as a borrower's cap: 'I am the King's poor cousin,


plain_text:
Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from\nJaphet. But the letter: [Reads] 'Sir John Falstaff, knight,\nthe son of the King nearest his father, Harry Prince of\ngreeting.'


plain_text:
[Reads] 'I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I\nleave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses\nfavours so much that he swears thou art to marry his sister\nRepent at idle times as thou mayst, and so farewell.\n Thine, by yea and no--which is as much as to say as\n  thou usest him--JACK FALSTAFF with my familiars,\n  JOHN with my brothers and sisters, and SIR JOHN with\n  all Europe.'


plain_text:
Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the\nof the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master\nLondon?


plain_text:
Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master\nI am yet come to town. There's for your silence.


plain_text:
From a god to a bull? A heavy descension! It was Jove's\ncase. From a prince to a prentice? A low transformation! That\nshall be mine; for in everything the purpose must weigh with\nfolly. Follow me, Ned.


plain_text:
I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter,\nGive even way unto my rough affairs;\nPut not you on the visage of the times\nAnd be, like them, to Percy troublesome.


plain_text:
O, yet, for God's sake, go not to these wars!\nThe time was, father, that you broke your word,\nWhen you were more endear'd to it than now;\nWhen your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry,\nThrew many a northward look to see his father\nBring up his powers; but he did long in vain.\nWho then persuaded you to stay at home?\nThere were two honours lost, yours and your son's.\nFor yours, the God of heaven brighten it!\nFor his, it stuck upon him as the sun\nIn the grey vault of heaven; and by his light\nDid all the chivalry of England move\nTo do brave acts. He was indeed the glass\nWherein the noble youth did dress themselves.\nHe had no legs that practis'd not his gait;\nAnd speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,\nBecame the accents of the valiant;\nFor those who could speak low and tardily\nWould turn their own perfection to abuse\nTo seem like him: so that in speech, in gait,\nIn diet, in affections of delight,\nIn military rules, humours of blood,\nHe was the mark and glass, copy and book,\nThat fashion'd others. And him--O wondrous him!\nO miracle of men!--him did you leave--\nSecond to none, unseconded by you--\nTo look upon the hideous god of war\nIn disadvantage, to abide a field\nWhere nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name\nDid seem defensible. So you left him.\nNever, O never, do his ghost the wrong\nTo hold your honour more precise and nice\nWith others than with him! Let them alone.\nThe Marshal and the Archbishop are strong.\nHad my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,\nTo-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck,\nHave talk'd of Monmouth's grave.


plain_text:
Beshrew your heart,\nFair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me\nWith new lamenting ancient oversights.\nBut I must go and meet with danger there,\nOr it will seek me in another place,\nAnd find me worse provided.


plain_text:
O, fly to Scotland\nTill that the nobles and the armed commons\nHave of their puissance made a little taste.


plain_text:
If they get ground and vantage of the King,\nThen join you with them, like a rib of steel,\nTo make strength stronger; but, for all our loves,\nFirst let them try themselves. So did your son;\nHe was so suff'red; so came I a widow;\nAnd never shall have length of life enough\nTo rain upon remembrance with mine eyes,\nThat it may grow and sprout as high as heaven,\nFor recordation to my noble husband.


plain_text:
Come, come, go in with me. 'Tis with my mind\nAs with the tide swell'd up unto his height,\nThat makes a still-stand, running neither way.\nFain would I go to meet the Archbishop,\nBut many thousand reasons hold me back.\nI will resolve for Scotland. There am I,\nTill time and vantage crave my company.     Exeunt


plain_text:
Mass, thou say'st true. The Prince once set a\nof apple-johns before him, and told him there were five more\nJohns; and, putting off his hat, said 'I will now take my\nof these six dry, round, old, withered knights.' It ang'red\nto the heart; but he hath forgot that.


plain_text:
Why, then, cover and set them down; and see if thou\nfind out Sneak's noise; Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear\nmusic.


plain_text:
Sirrah, here will be the Prince and Master Poins anon;\nthey will put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John\nnot know of it. Bardolph hath brought word.


plain_text:
I' faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an\ngood temperality. Your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as\nwould desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as\nrose, in good truth, la! But, i' faith, you have drunk too\ncanaries; and that's a marvellous searching wine, and it\nthe blood ere one can say 'What's this?' How do you now?


plain_text:
[Singing] 'When Arthur first in court'--Empty the\nJordan. [Exit FRANCIS]--[Singing] 'And was a worthy king'--\nnow, Mistress Doll!


plain_text:
If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to\nthe diseases, Doll. We catch of you, Doll, we catch of you;\nthat, my poor virtue, grant that.


plain_text:
'Your brooches, pearls, and ouches.' For to serve\nis to come halting off; you know, to come off the breach with\npike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon\ncharg'd chambers bravely--


plain_text:
By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never\nbut you fall to some discord. You are both, i' good truth, as\nrheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with\nconfirmities. What the good-year! one must bear, and that\nyou. You are the weaker vessel, as as they say, the emptier\nvessel.


plain_text:
Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogs-head?\nThere's a whole merchant's venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him;\nhave not seen a hulk better stuff'd in the hold. Come, I'll\nfriends with thee, Jack. Thou art going to the wars; and\nI shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody cares.


plain_text:
If he swagger, let him not come here. No, by my faith!\nmust live among my neighbours; I'll no swaggerers. I am in\nname and fame with the very best. Shut the door. There comes\nswaggerers here; I have not liv'd all this while to have\nswaggering now. Shut the door, I pray you.


plain_text:
Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne'er tell me; and your ancient\nswagg'rer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick,\ndebuty, t' other day; and, as he said to me--'twas no longer\nthan Wednesday last, i' good faith!--'Neighbour Quickly,'\nhe--Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then--'Neighbour\nsays he 'receive those that are civil, for' said he 'you are\nan ill name.' Now 'a said so, I can tell whereupon. 'For'\n'you are an honest woman and well thought on, therefore take\nwhat guests you receive. Receive' says he 'no swaggering\ncompanions.' There comes none here. You would bless you to\nwhat he said. No, I'll no swagg'rers.


plain_text:
He's no swagg'rer, hostess; a tame cheater, i' faith;\nmay stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound. He'll not\nwith a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of\nresistance. Call him up, drawer.


plain_text:
Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my\nnor no cheater; but I do not love swaggering, by my troth. I\nthe worse when one says 'swagger.' Feel, masters, how I\nlook you, I warrant you.


plain_text:
Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you\na cup of sack; do you discharge upon mine hostess.


plain_text:
Come, I'll drink no proofs nor no bullets. I'll drink\nmore than will do me good, for no man's pleasure, I.


plain_text:
Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor,\nbase, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy\nrogue, away! I am meat for your master.


plain_text:
Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By\nwine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play\nsaucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you\nbasket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir?\nGod's light, with two points on your shoulder? Much!


plain_text:
Captain! Thou abominable damn'd cheater, art thou not\nto be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would\ntruncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you\nhave earn'd them. You a captain! you slave, for what? For\na poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him,\nrogue! He lives upon mouldy stew'd prunes and dried cakes. A\ncaptain! God's light, these villains will make the word as\nas the word 'occupy'; which was an excellent good word before\nwas ill sorted. Therefore captains had need look to't.


plain_text:
I'll see her damn'd first; to Pluto's damn'd lake, by\nhand, to th' infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile\nHold hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! down, faitors!\nwe not Hiren here?


plain_text:
These be good humours, indeed! Shall packhorses,\nAnd hollow pamper'd jades of Asia,\nWhich cannot go but thirty mile a day,\nCompare with Caesars, and with Cannibals,\nAnd Troiant Greeks? Nay, rather damn them with\nKing Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.\nShall we fall foul for toys?


plain_text:
O' my word, Captain, there's none such here. What the\ngood-year! do you think I would deny her? For God's sake, be\nquiet.


plain_text:
Then feed and be fat, my fair Calipolis.\nCome, give's some sack.\n'Si fortune me tormente sperato me contento.'\nFear we broadsides? No, let the fiend give fire.\nGive me some sack; and, sweetheart, lie thou there.\n[Laying down his sword]\nCome we to full points here, and are etceteras nothings?


plain_text:
Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat\nNay, an 'a do nothing but speak nothing, 'a shall be nothing\nhere.


plain_text:
What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue?\n[Snatching up his sword]\nThen death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!\nWhy, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds\nUntwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!


plain_text:
Here's a goodly tumult! I'll forswear keeping house\nI'll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant\nAlas, alas! put up your naked weapons, put up your naked


plain_text:
Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou\nsweat'st! Come, let me wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson\nchops. Ah, rogue! i' faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous\nHector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better\nthan the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain!


plain_text:
Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Don. A\nbragging slave! The rogue fled from me like quick-silver.


plain_text:
I' faith, and thou follow'dst him like a church. Thou\nwhoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou\nfighting a days and foining a nights, and begin to patch up\nold body for heaven?\n  Enter, behind, PRINCE HENRY and POINS disguised as drawers


plain_text:
He a good wit! hang him, baboon! His wit's as thick\nTewksbury mustard; there's no more conceit in him than is in\nmallet.


plain_text:
Because their legs are both of a bigness, and 'a\nquoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off\nends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys,\njumps upon join'd-stools, and swears with a good grace, and\nhis boots very smooth, like unto the sign of the Leg, and\nno bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other\nfaculties 'a has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for\nwhich the Prince admits him. For the Prince himself is such\nanother; the weight of a hair will turn the scales between\navoirdupois.


plain_text:
What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive\nThursday. Shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come. 'A\ngrows late; we'll to bed. Thou't forget me when I am gone.


plain_text:
By my troth, thou't set me a-weeping, an thou say'st so.\nProve that ever I dress myself handsome till thy return.\nhearken a' th' end.


plain_text:
O, the Lord preserve thy Grace! By my troth, welcome\nLondon. Now the Lord bless that sweet face of thine. O Jesu, are you come from Wales?


plain_text:
YOU whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak\nme even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!


plain_text:
Yea; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by\nGadshill. You knew I was at your back, and spoke it on\ntry my patience.


plain_text:
No abuse, Ned, i' th' world; honest Ned, none. I\ndisprais'd him before the wicked--that the wicked might not\nin love with thee; in which doing, I have done the part of a\ncareful friend and a true subject; and thy father is to give\nthanks for it. No abuse, Hal; none, Ned, none; no, faith,\nnone.


plain_text:
See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth\nmake thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us?\nshe of the wicked? Is thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is\nboy of the wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in\nnose, of the wicked?


plain_text:
The fiend hath prick'd down Bardolph irrecoverable;\nhis face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing\nroast malt-worms. For the boy--there is a good angel about\nbut the devil outbids him too.


plain_text:
For one of them--she's in hell already, and burns\nsouls. For th' other--I owe her money; and whether she be\nfor that, I know not.


plain_text:
No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for\nMarry, there is another indictment upon thee for suffering\nto be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which\nthink thou wilt howl.


plain_text:
The King your father is at Westminster;\nAnd there are twenty weak and wearied posts\nCome from the north; and as I came along\nI met and overtook a dozen captains,\nBare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,\nAnd asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.


plain_text:
By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame\nSo idly to profane the precious time,\nWhen tempest of commotion, like the south,\nBorne with black vapour, doth begin to melt\nAnd drop upon our bare unarmed heads.\nGive me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good night.


plain_text:
Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we\nmust hence, and leave it unpick'd. [Knocking within] More\nknocking at the door!\n[Re-enter BARDOLPH]\nHow now! What's the matter?


plain_text:
[To the PAGE]. Pay the musicians, sirrah.--Farewell,\nhostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of\nmerit are sought after; the undeserver may sleep, when the\naction is call'd on. Farewell, good wenches. If I be not sent\naway post, I will see you again ere I go.


plain_text:
Well, fare thee well. I have known thee these\nyears, come peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted


plain_text:
O, run Doll, run, run, good Come. [To BARDOLPH] She\ncomes blubber'd.--Yea, will you come, Doll?   Exeunt


plain_text:
Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick;\nBut, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters\nAnd well consider of them. Make good speed. Exit page\nHow many thousands of my poorest subjects\nAre at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,\nNature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee,\nThat thou no more will weigh my eyelids down,\nAnd steep my senses in forgetfulness?\nWhy rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,\nUpon uneasy pallets stretching thee,\nAnd hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,\nThan in the perfum'd chambers of the great,\nUnder the canopies of costly state,\nAnd lull'd with sound of sweetest melody?\nO thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile\nIn loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch\nA watch-case or a common 'larum-bell?\nWilt thou upon the high and giddy mast\nSeal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains\nIn cradle of the rude imperious surge,\nAnd in the visitation of the winds,\nWho take the ruffian billows by the top,\nCurling their monstrous heads, and hanging them\nWith deafing clamour in the slippery clouds,\nThat with the hurly death itself awakes?\nCanst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose\nTo the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;\nAnd in the calmest and most stillest night,\nWith all appliances and means to boot,\nDeny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!\nUneasy lies the head that wears a crown.


plain_text:
Then you perceive the body of our kingdom\nHow foul it is; what rank diseases grow,\nAnd with what danger, near the heart of it.


plain_text:
It is but as a body yet distempered;\nWhich to his former strength may be restored\nWith good advice and little medicine.\nMy Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd.


plain_text:
O God! that one might read the book of fate,\nAnd see the revolution of the times\nMake mountains level, and the continent,\nWeary of solid firmness, melt itself\nInto the sea; and other times to see\nThe beachy girdle of the ocean\nToo wide for Neptune's hips; how chances mock,\nAnd changes fill the cup of alteration\nWith divers liquors! O, if this were seen,\nThe happiest youth, viewing his progress through,\nWhat perils past, what crosses to ensue,\nWould shut the book and sit him down and die.\n'Tis not ten years gone\nSince Richard and Northumberland, great friends,\nDid feast together, and in two years after\nWere they at wars. It is but eight years since\nThis Percy was the man nearest my soul;\nWho like a brother toil'd in my affairs\nAnd laid his love and life under my foot;\nYea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard\nGave him defiance. But which of you was by--\n[To WARWICK] You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember--\nWhen Richard, with his eye brim full of tears,\nThen check'd and rated by Northumberland,\nDid speak these words, now prov'd a prophecy?\n'Northumberland, thou ladder by the which\nMy cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne'--\nThough then, God knows, I had no such intent\nBut that necessity so bow'd the state\nThat I and greatness were compell'd to kiss--\n'The time shall come'--thus did he follow it--\n'The time will come that foul sin, gathering head,\nShall break into corruption' so went on,\nForetelling this same time's condition\nAnd the division of our amity.


plain_text:
There is a history in all men's lives,\nFiguring the natures of the times deceas'd;\nThe which observ'd, a man may prophesy,\nWith a near aim, of the main chance of things\nAs yet not come to life, who in their seeds\nAnd weak beginning lie intreasured.\nSuch things become the hatch and brood of time;\nAnd, by the necessary form of this,\nKing Richard might create a perfect guess\nThat great Northumberland, then false to him,\nWould of that seed grow to a greater falseness;\nWhich should not find a ground to root upon\nUnless on you.


plain_text:
Are these things then necessities?\nThen let us meet them like necessities;\nAnd that same word even now cries out on us.\nThey say the Bishop and Northumberland\nAre fifty thousand strong.


plain_text:
It cannot be, my lord.\nRumour doth double, like the voice and echo,\nThe numbers of the feared. Please it your Grace\nTo go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord,\nThe powers that you already have sent forth\nShall bring this prize in very easily.\nTo comfort you the more, I have receiv'd\nA certain instance that Glendower is dead.\nYour Majesty hath been this fortnight ill;\nAnd these unseasoned hours perforce must ad\nUnto your sickness.


plain_text:
I will take your counsel.\nAnd, were these inward wars once out of hand,\nWe would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land.  Exeunt


plain_text:
Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir;\nyour hand, sir. An early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth\ngood cousin Silence?


plain_text:
By yea and no, sir. I dare say my cousin William is\na good scholar; he is at Oxford still, is he not?


plain_text:
'A must, then, to the Inns o' Court shortly. I was\nClement's Inn; where I think they will talk of mad Shallow


plain_text:
By the mass, I was call'd anything; and I would have\nanything indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little\nJohn Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, and\nPickbone, and Will Squele a Cotsole man--you had not four\nswinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again. And I may say\nyou we knew where the bona-robas were, and had the best of\nall at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John,\nand page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.


plain_text:
The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break\nScoggin's head at the court gate, when 'a was a crack not\nhigh; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson\nStockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the\ndays that I have spent! and to see how many of my old\nacquaintance are dead!


plain_text:
Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure. Death, as\nPsalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good\nof bullocks at Stamford fair?


plain_text:
Jesu, Jesu, dead! drew a good bow; and dead! 'A shot a\nfine shoot. John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much\nhis head. Dead! 'A would have clapp'd i' th' clout at twelve\nscore, and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and\nand a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to\nHow a score of ewes now?


plain_text:
I am Robert Shallow, sir, a poor esquire of this\nand one of the King's justices of the peace. What is your\npleasure with me?


plain_text:
My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir\nJohn Falstaff--a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most\nleader.


plain_text:
He greets me well, sir; I knew him a good back-sword\nHow doth the good knight? May I ask how my lady his wife


plain_text:
It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said\ntoo. 'Better accommodated!' It is good; yea, indeed, is it.\nphrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable.\n'Accommodated!' It comes of accommodo. Very good; a good


plain_text:
Pardon, sir; I have heard the word. 'Phrase' call you\nBy this day, I know not the phrase; but I will maintain the\nwith my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of\ngood command, by heaven. Accommodated: that is, when a man\nthey say, accommodated; or, when a man is being-whereby 'a\nthought to be accommodated; which is an excellent thing.


plain_text:
It is very just. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give\nyour good hand, give me your worship's good hand. By my\nyou like well and bear your years very well. Welcome, good\nJohn.


plain_text:
Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Where's the roll?\nme see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so,--so, so--yea,\nmarry, sir. Rafe Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them\nso, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy?


plain_text:
Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! Things that are\nmouldy lack use. Very singular good! In faith, well said, Sir\nJohn; very well said.


plain_text:
I was prick'd well enough before, an you could have let\nalone. My old dame will be undone now for one to do her\nand her drudgery. You need not to have prick'd me; there are\nother men fitter to go out than I.


plain_text:
Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside; know you where you\nFor th' other, Sir John--let me see. Simon Shadow!


plain_text:
Thy mother's son! Like enough; and thy father's\nSo the son of the female is the shadow of the male. It is\nso indeed; but much of the father's substance!


plain_text:
It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon\nback, and the whole frame stands upon pins. Prick him no


plain_text:
You may; but if he had been a man's tailor, he'd ha'\nprick'd you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's\nthou hast done in a woman's petticoat?


plain_text:
Well said, good woman's tailor! well said, courageous\nFeeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most\nmagnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor--well, Master\nShallow, deep, Master Shallow.


plain_text:
I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst\nhim and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private\nsoldier, that is the leader of so many thousands. Let that\nsuffice, most forcible Feeble.


plain_text:
A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught\nringing in the King's affairs upon his coronation day, sir.


plain_text:
Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown. We will\naway thy cold; and I will take such order that thy friends\nring for thee. Is here all?


plain_text:
Here is two more call'd than your number. You must\nbut four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to


plain_text:
Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry\ndinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow.


plain_text:
Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old;\ncertain she's old; and had Robin Nightwork, by old Nightwork,\nbefore I came to Clement's Inn.


plain_text:
Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that\nknight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well?


plain_text:
That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith,\nJohn, we have. Our watchword was 'Hem, boys!' Come, let's to\ndinner; come, let's to dinner. Jesus, the days that we have\nCome, come.


plain_text:
Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and\nhere's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In\ntruth, sir, I had as lief be hang'd, sir, as go. And yet, for\nmine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather because I am\nunwilling and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with\nfriends; else, sir, I did not care for mine own part so much.


plain_text:
And, good Master Corporal Captain, for my old dame's\nstand my friend. She has nobody to do anything about her when\nam gone; and she is old, and cannot help herself. You shall\nforty, sir.


plain_text:
By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe\na death. I'll ne'er bear a base mind. An't be my destiny, so;\nan't be not, so. No man's too good to serve 's Prince; and,\nit go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for\nnext.


plain_text:
Mouldy and Bullcalf: for you, Mouldy, stay at home\nyou are past service; and for your part, Bullcalf, grow you\nunto it. I will none of you.


plain_text:
Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong. They are\nlikeliest men, and I would have you serv'd with the best.


plain_text:
Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a\nCare I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big\nassemblance of a man! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow.\nWart; you see what a ragged appearance it is. 'A shall charge\nand discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's hammer,\noff and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's\nAnd this same half-fac'd fellow, Shadow--give me this man. He\npresents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great\nlevel at the edge of a penknife. And, for a retreat--how\nwill this Feeble, the woman's tailor, run off! O, give me the\nspare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a caliver into\nWart's hand, Bardolph.


plain_text:
Come, manage me your caliver. So--very well. Go to;\ngood; exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old,\nchopt, bald shot. Well said, i' faith, Wart; th'art a good\nHold, there's a tester for thee.


plain_text:
He is not his craft's master, he doth not do it right.\nremember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn--I\nthen Sir Dagonet in Arthur's show--there was a little quiver\nfellow, and 'a would manage you his piece thus; and 'a would\nabout and about, and come you in and come you in. 'Rah, tah,\ntah!' would 'a say; 'Bounce!' would 'a say; and away again\n'a go, and again would 'a come. I shall ne'er see such a


plain_text:
These fellows will do well. Master Shallow, God keep\nMaster Silence, I will not use many words with you: Fare you\nwell! Gentlemen both, I thank you. I must a dozen mile\nBardolph, give the soldiers coats.


plain_text:
Sir John, the Lord bless you; God prosper your\nGod send us peace! At your return, visit our house; let our\nacquaintance be renewed. Peradventure I will with ye to the\ncourt.


plain_text:
Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Exeunt JUSTICES] On,\nBardolph; lead the men away. [Exeunt all but FALSTAFF] As I\nreturn, I will fetch off these justices. I do see the bottom of\njustice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this\nvice of lying! This same starv'd justice hath done nothing but\nprate to me of the wildness of his youth and the feats he hath\ndone about Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie, duer paid\nto the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at\nClement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.\nWhen 'a was naked, he was for all the world like a fork'd radish,\nwith a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. 'A was so\nforlorn that his dimensions to any thick sight were invisible. 'A\nwas the very genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the\nwhores call'd him mandrake. 'A came ever in the rearward of the\nfashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutch'd huswifes that\nhe heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his fancies or\nhis good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire,\nand talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn\nbrother to him; and I'll be sworn 'a ne'er saw him but once in\nthe Tiltyard; and then he burst his head for crowding among the\nmarshal's men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat his own\nname; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an\neel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a\ncourt--and now has he land and beeves. Well, I'll be acquainted\nwith him if I return; and 't shall go hard but I'll make him a\nphilosopher's two stones to me. If the young dace be a bait for\nthe old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap\nat him. Let time shape, and there an end.   Exit


plain_text:
'Tis well done.\nMy friends and brethren in these great affairs,\nI must acquaint you that I have receiv'd\nNew-dated letters from Northumberland;\nTheir cold intent, tenour, and substance, thus:\nHere doth he wish his person, with such powers\nAs might hold sortance with his quality,\nThe which he could not levy; whereupon\nHe is retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes,\nTo Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers\nThat your attempts may overlive the hazard\nAnd fearful meeting of their opposite.


plain_text:
West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,\nIn goodly form comes on the enemy;\nAnd, by the ground they hide, I judge their number\nUpon or near the rate of thirty thousand.


plain_text:
Then, my lord,\nUnto your Grace do I in chief address\nThe substance of my speech. If that rebellion\nCame like itself, in base and abject routs,\nLed on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,\nAnd countenanc'd by boys and beggary-\nI say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd\nIn his true, native, and most proper shape,\nYou, reverend father, and these noble lords,\nHad not been here to dress the ugly form\nOf base and bloody insurrection\nWith your fair honours. You, Lord Archbishop,\nWhose see is by a civil peace maintain'd,\nWhose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,\nWhose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,\nWhose white investments figure innocence,\nThe dove, and very blessed spirit of peace-\nWherefore you do so ill translate yourself\nOut of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,\nInto the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war;\nTurning your books to graves, your ink to blood,\nYour pens to lances, and your tongue divine\nTo a loud trumpet and a point of war?


plain_text:
Wherefore do I this? So the question stands.\nBriefly to this end: we are all diseas'd\nAnd with our surfeiting and wanton hours\nHave brought ourselves into a burning fever,\nAnd we must bleed for it; of which disease\nOur late King, Richard, being infected, died.\nBut, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,\nI take not on me here as a physician;\nNor do I as an enemy to peace\nTroop in the throngs of military men;\nBut rather show awhile like fearful war\nTo diet rank minds sick of happiness,\nAnd purge th' obstructions which begin to stop\nOur very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.\nI have in equal balance justly weigh'd\nWhat wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,\nAnd find our griefs heavier than our offences.\nWe see which way the stream of time doth run\nAnd are enforc'd from our most quiet there\nBy the rough torrent of occasion;\nAnd have the summary of all our griefs,\nWhen time shall serve, to show in articles;\nWhich long ere this we offer'd to the King,\nAnd might by no suit gain our audience:\nWhen we are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs,\nWe are denied access unto his person,\nEven by those men that most have done us wrong.\nThe dangers of the days but newly gone,\nWhose memory is written on the earth\nWith yet appearing blood, and the examples\nOf every minute's instance, present now,\nHath put us in these ill-beseeming arms;\nNot to break peace, or any branch of it,\nBut to establish here a peace indeed,\nConcurring both in name and quality.


plain_text:
When ever yet was your appeal denied;\nWherein have you been galled by the King;\nWhat peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you\nThat you should seal this lawless bloody book\nOf forg'd rebellion with a seal divine,\nAnd consecrate commotion's bitter edge?


plain_text:
My brother general, the commonwealth,\nTo brother horn an household cruelty,\nI make my quarrel in particular.


plain_text:
Why not to him in part, and to us all\nThat feel the bruises of the days before,\nAnd suffer the condition of these times\nTo lay a heavy and unequal hand\nUpon our honours?


plain_text:
O my good Lord Mowbray,\nConstrue the times to their necessities,\nAnd you shall say, indeed, it is the time,\nAnd not the King, that doth you injuries.\nYet, for your part, it not appears to me,\nEither from the King or in the present time,\nThat you should have an inch of any ground\nTo build a grief on. Were you not restor'd\nTo all the Duke of Norfolk's signiories,\nYour noble and right well-rememb'red father's?


plain_text:
What thing, in honour, had my father lost\nThat need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me?\nThe King that lov'd him, as the state stood then,\nWas force perforce compell'd to banish him,\nAnd then that Henry Bolingbroke and he,\nBeing mounted and both roused in their seats,\nTheir neighing coursers daring of the spur,\nTheir armed staves in charge, their beavers down,\nTheir eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,\nAnd the loud trumpet blowing them together--\nThen, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd\nMy father from the breast of Bolingbroke,\nO, when the King did throw his warder down--\nHis own life hung upon the staff he threw--\nThen threw he down himself, and all their lives\nThat by indictment and by dint of sword\nHave since miscarried under Bolingbroke.


plain_text:
You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.\nThe Earl of Hereford was reputed then\nIn England the most valiant gentleman.\nWho knows on whom fortune would then have smil'd?\nBut if your father had been victor there,\nHe ne'er had borne it out of Coventry;\nFor all the country, in a general voice,\nCried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love\nWere set on Hereford, whom they doted on,\nAnd bless'd and grac'd indeed more than the King.\nBut this is mere digression from my purpose.\nHere come I from our princely general\nTo know your griefs; to tell you from his Grace\nThat he will give you audience; and wherein\nIt shall appear that your demands are just,\nYou shall enjoy them, everything set off\nThat might so much as think you enemies.


plain_text:
Mowbray. you overween to take it so.\nThis offer comes from mercy, not from fear;\nFor, lo! within a ken our army lies-\nUpon mine honour, all too confident\nTo give admittance to a thought of fear.\nOur battle is more full of names than yours,\nOur men more perfect in the use of arms,\nOur armour all as strong, our cause the best;\nThen reason will our hearts should be as good.\nSay you not, then, our offer is compell'd.


plain_text:
Hath the Prince John a full commission,\nIn very ample virtue of his father,\nTo hear and absolutely to determine\nOf what conditions we shall stand upon?


plain_text:
Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule,\nFor this contains our general grievances.\nEach several article herein redress'd,\nAll members of our cause, both here and hence,\nThat are insinewed to this action,\nAcquitted by a true substantial form,\nAnd present execution of our wills\nTo us and to our purposes confin'd-\nWe come within our awful banks again,\nAnd knit our powers to the arm of peace.


plain_text:
This will I show the general. Please you, lords,\nIn sight of both our battles we may meet;\nAnd either end in peace--which God so frame!-\nOr to the place of diff'rence call the swords\nWhich must decide it.


plain_text:
Fear you not that: if we can make our peace\nUpon such large terms and so absolute\nAs our conditions shall consist upon,\nOur peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.


plain_text:
Yea, but our valuation shall be such\nThat every slight and false-derived cause,\nYea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason,\nShall to the King taste of this action;\nThat, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,\nWe shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind\nThat even our corn shall seem as light as chaff,\nAnd good from bad find no partition.


plain_text:
No, no, my lord. Note this: the King is weary\nOf dainty and such picking grievances;\nFor he hath found to end one doubt by death\nRevives two greater in the heirs of life;\nAnd therefore will he wipe his tables clean,\nAnd keep no tell-tale to his memory\nThat may repeat and history his los\nTo new remembrance. For full well he knows\nHe cannot so precisely weed this land\nAs his misdoubts present occasion:\nHis foes are so enrooted with his friends\nThat, plucking to unfix an enemy,\nHe doth unfasten so and shake a friend.\nSo that this land, like an offensive wife\nThat hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes,\nAs he is striking, holds his infant up,\nAnd hangs resolv'd correction in the arm\nThat was uprear'd to execution.


plain_text:
Besides, the King hath wasted all his rods\nOn late offenders, that he now doth lack\nThe very instruments of chastisement;\nSo that his power, like to a fangless lion,\nMay offer, but not hold.


plain_text:
'Tis very true;\nAnd therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal,\nIf we do now make our atonement well,\nOur peace will, like a broken limb united,\nGrow stronger for the breaking.


plain_text:
Enter, from one side, MOWBRAY, attended; afterwards, the ARCHBISHOP, HASTINGS, and others; from the other side, PRINCE JOHN of LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, OFFICERS, and others


plain_text:
You are well encount'red here, my cousin Mowbray.\nGood day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop;\nAnd so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.\nMy Lord of York, it better show'd with you\nWhen that your flock, assembled by the bell,\nEncircled you to hear with reverence\nYour exposition on the holy text\nThan now to see you here an iron man,\nCheering a rout of rebels with your drum,\nTurning the word to sword, and life to death.\nThat man that sits within a monarch's heart\nAnd ripens in the sunshine of his favour,\nWould he abuse the countenance of the king,\nAlack, what mischiefs might he set abroach\nIn shadow of such greatness! With you, Lord Bishop,\nIt is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken\nHow deep you were within the books of God?\nTo us the speaker in His parliament,\nTo us th' imagin'd voice of God himself,\nThe very opener and intelligencer\nBetween the grace, the sanctities of heaven,\nAnd our dull workings. O, who shall believe\nBut you misuse the reverence of your place,\nEmploy the countenance and grace of heav'n\nAs a false favourite doth his prince's name,\nIn deeds dishonourable? You have ta'en up,\nUnder the counterfeited zeal of God,\nThe subjects of His substitute, my father,\nAnd both against the peace of heaven and him\nHave here up-swarm'd them.


plain_text:
Good my Lord of Lancaster,\nI am not here against your father's peace;\nBut, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland,\nThe time misord'red doth, in common sense,\nCrowd us and crush us to this monstrous form\nTo hold our safety up. I sent your Grace\nThe parcels and particulars of our grief,\nThe which hath been with scorn shov'd from the court,\nWhereon this hydra son of war is born;\nWhose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep\nWith grant of our most just and right desires;\nAnd true obedience, of this madness cur'd,\nStoop tamely to the foot of majesty.


plain_text:
And though we here fall down,\nWe have supplies to second our attempt.\nIf they miscarry, theirs shall second them;\nAnd so success of mischief shall be born,\nAnd heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up\nWhiles England shall have generation.


plain_text:
I like them all and do allow them well;\nAnd swear here, by the honour of my blood,\nMy father's purposes have been mistook;\nAnd some about him have too lavishly\nWrested his meaning and authority.\nMy lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd;\nUpon my soul, they shall. If this may please you,\nDischarge your powers unto their several counties,\nAs we will ours; and here, between the armies,\nLet's drink together friendly and embrace,\nThat all their eyes may bear those tokens home\nOf our restored love and amity.


plain_text:
Go, Captain, and deliver to the army\nThis news of peace. Let them have pay, and part.\nI know it will please them. Hie thee, Captain.


plain_text:
I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains\nI have bestow'd to breed this present peace,\nYou would drink freely; but my love to ye\nShall show itself more openly hereafter.


plain_text:
Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow\nServes to say thus, 'Some good thing comes to-morrow.'


plain_text:
A peace is of the nature of a conquest;\nFor then both parties nobly are subdu'd,\nAnd neither party loser.


plain_text:
Go, my lord,\nAnd let our army be discharged too.\n[Exit WESTMORELAND]\nAnd, good my lord, so please you let our trains\nMarch by us, that we may peruse the men\nWe should have cop'd withal.


plain_text:
I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.\n[Re-enter WESTMORELAND]\nNow, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?


plain_text:
My lord, our army is dispers'd already.\nLike youthful steers unyok'd, they take their courses\nEast, west, north, south; or like a school broke up,\nEach hurries toward his home and sporting-place.


plain_text:
Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which\nI do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason;\nAnd you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,\nOf capital treason I attach you both.


plain_text:
I pawn'd thee none:\nI promis'd you redress of these same grievances\nWhereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,\nI will perform with a most Christian care.\nBut for you, rebels--look to taste the due\nMeet for rebellion and such acts as yours.\nMost shallowly did you these arms commence,\nFondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.\nStrike up our drums, pursue the scatt'red stray.\nGod, and not we, hath safely fought to-day.\nSome guard these traitors to the block of death,\nTreason's true bed and yielder-up of breath.  Exeunt


plain_text:
Well then, Colville is your name, a knight is your\ndegree, and your place the Dale. Colville shall still be your\nname, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place--a\ndeep enough; so shall you be still Colville of the Dale.


plain_text:
As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do you yield,\nsir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the\nof thy lovers, and they weep for thy death; therefore rouse\nfear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.


plain_text:
I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of\nand not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my\nAn I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the\nactive fellow in Europe. My womb, my womb, my womb undoes me.\nHere comes our general.


plain_text:
The heat is past; follow no further now.\nCall in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland.\n[Exit WESTMORELAND]\nNow, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?\nWhen everything is ended, then you come.\nThese tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,\nOne time or other break some gallows' back.


plain_text:
I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I\nknew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do\nthink me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I, in my poor\nold motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither\nthe very extremest inch of possibility; I have found'red nine\nscore and odd posts; and here, travel tainted as I am, have,\nmy pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colville of the\nDale,a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of\nHe saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say with the\nfellow of Rome-I came, saw, and overcame.


plain_text:
I know not. Here he is, and here I yield him; and I\nbeseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this\ndeeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad\nelse, with mine own picture on the top on't, Colville kissing\nfoot; to the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all\nshow like gilt twopences to me, and I, in the clear sky of\no'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of\nelement, which show like pins' heads to her, believe not the\nof the noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert


plain_text:
I am, my lord, but as my betters are\nThat led me hither. Had they been rul'd by me,\nYou should have won them dearer than you have.


plain_text:
I know not how they sold themselves; but thou, like a\nkind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for\nthee.


plain_text:
Send Colville, with his confederates,\nTo York, to present execution.\nBlunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure.\n[Exeunt BLUNT and others]\nAnd now dispatch we toward the court, my lords.\nI hear the King my father is sore sick.\nOur news shall go before us to his Majesty,\nWhich, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him\nAnd we with sober speed will follow you.


plain_text:
My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through\nGloucestershire; and, when you come to court, stand my good\npray, in your good report.


plain_text:
I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your\ndukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth\nlove me; nor a man cannot make him laugh--but that's no\nhe drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys\nto any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood,\nmaking many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male\ngreen-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches.\nare generally fools and cowards-which some of us should be\nbut for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold\noperation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there\nthe foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it;\napprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and\ndelectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, the\nwhich is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second\nyour excellent sherris is the warming of the blood; which\ncold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the\nbadge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms\nand makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes.\nillumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all\nrest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital\ncommoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their\ncaptain, the heart, who, great and puff'd up with this\ndoth any deed of courage--and this valour comes of sherris.\nthat skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that\nit a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil\ntill sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof\nit that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did\nnaturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile,\nbare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent\nendeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris,\nthat he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand\nthe first humane principle I would teach them should be to\nforswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.\n[Enter BARDOLPH]\nHow now, Bardolph!


plain_text:
Let them go. I'll through Gloucestershire, and there\nI visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I have him already\ntemp'ring between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I\nwith him. Come away.        Exeunt


plain_text:
Now, lords, if God doth give successful end\nTo this debate that bleedeth at our doors,\nWe will our youth lead on to higher fields,\nAnd draw no swords but what are sanctified.\nOur navy is address'd, our power connected,\nOur substitutes in absence well invested,\nAnd everything lies level to our wish.\nOnly we want a little personal strength;\nAnd pause us till these rebels, now afoot,\nCome underneath the yoke of government.


plain_text:
Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.\nHow chance thou art not with the Prince thy brother?\nHe loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas.\nThou hast a better place in his affection\nThan all thy brothers; cherish it, my boy,\nAnd noble offices thou mayst effect\nOf mediation, after I am dead,\nBetween his greatness and thy other brethren.\nTherefore omit him not; blunt not his love,\nNor lose the good advantage of his grace\nBy seeming cold or careless of his will;\nFor he is gracious if he be observ'd.\nHe hath a tear for pity and a hand\nOpen as day for melting charity;\nYet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he is flint;\nAs humorous as winter, and as sudden\nAs flaws congealed in the spring of day.\nHis temper, therefore, must be well observ'd.\nChide him for faults, and do it reverently,\nWhen you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth;\nBut, being moody, give him line and scope\nTill that his passions, like a whale on ground,\nConfound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,\nAnd thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends,\nA hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,\nThat the united vessel of their blood,\nMingled with venom of suggestion--\nAs, force perforce, the age will pour it in--\nShall never leak, though it do work as strong\nAs aconitum or rash gunpowder.


plain_text:
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;\nAnd he, the noble image of my youth,\nIs overspread with them; therefore my grief\nStretches itself beyond the hour of death.\nThe blood weeps from my heart when I do shape,\nIn forms imaginary, th'unguided days\nAnd rotten times that you shall look upon\nWhen I am sleeping with my ancestors.\nFor when his headstrong riot hath no curb,\nWhen rage and hot blood are his counsellors\nWhen means and lavish manners meet together,\nO, with what wings shall his affections fly\nTowards fronting peril and oppos'd decay!


plain_text:
My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite.\nThe Prince but studies his companions\nLike a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language,\n'Tis needful that the most immodest word\nBe look'd upon and learnt; which once attain'd,\nYour Highness knows, comes to no further use\nBut to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,\nThe Prince will, in the perfectness of time,\nCast off his followers; and their memory\nShall as a pattern or a measure live\nBy which his Grace must mete the lives of other,\nTurning past evils to advantages.


plain_text:
'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb\nIn the dead carrion.\n[Enter WESTMORELAND]\nWho's here? Westmoreland?


plain_text:
Health to my sovereign, and new happiness\nAdded to that that am to deliver!\nPrince John, your son, doth kiss your Grace's hand.\nMowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all,\nAre brought to the correction of your law.\nThere is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd,\nBut Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.\nThe manner how this action hath been borne\nHere at more leisure may your Highness read,\nWith every course in his particular.


plain_text:
O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,\nWhich ever in the haunch of winter sings\nThe lifting up of day.\n[Enter HARCOURT]\nLook here's more news.


plain_text:
From enemies heaven keep your Majesty;\nAnd, when they stand against you, may they fall\nAs those that I am come to tell you of!\nThe Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph,\nWith a great power of English and of Scots,\nAre by the shrieve of Yorkshire overthrown.\nThe manner and true order of the fight\nThis packet, please it you, contains at large.


plain_text:
And wherefore should these good news make me sick?\nWill Fortune never come with both hands full,\nBut write her fair words still in foulest letters?\nShe either gives a stomach and no food-\nSuch are the poor, in health--or else a feast,\nAnd takes away the stomach--such are the rich\nThat have abundance and enjoy it not.\nI should rejoice now at this happy news;\nAnd now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.\nO me! come near me now I am much ill.


plain_text:
Be patient, Princes; you do know these fits\nAre with his Highness very ordinary.\nStand from him, give him air; he'll straight be well.


plain_text:
No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs.\nTh' incessant care and labour of his mind\nHath wrought the mure that should confine it in\nSo thin that life looks through, and will break out.


plain_text:
The people fear me; for they do observe\nUnfather'd heirs and loathly births of nature.\nThe seasons change their manners, as the year\nHad found some months asleep, and leapt them over.


plain_text:
The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between;\nAnd the old folk, Time's doting chronicles,\nSay it did so a little time before\nThat our great grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died.


plain_text:
Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;\nUnless some dull and favourable hand\nWill whisper music to my weary spirit.


plain_text:
No; I will sit and watch here by the King.\n[Exeunt all but the PRINCE]\nWhy doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,\nBeing so troublesome a bedfellow?\nO polish'd perturbation! golden care!\nThat keep'st the ports of slumber open wide\nTo many a watchful night! Sleep with it now!\nYet not so sound and half so deeply sweet\nAs he whose brow with homely biggen bound\nSnores out the watch of night. O majesty!\nWhen thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit\nLike a rich armour worn in heat of day\nThat scald'st with safety. By his gates of breath\nThere lies a downy feather which stirs not.\nDid he suspire, that light and weightless down\nPerforce must move. My gracious lord! my father!\nThis sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep\nThat from this golden rigol hath divorc'd\nSo many English kings. Thy due from me\nIs tears and heavy sorrows of the blood\nWhich nature, love, and filial tenderness,\nShall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously.\nMy due from thee is this imperial crown,\nWhich, as immediate from thy place and blood,\nDerives itself to me. [Putting on the crown] Lo where it\nWhich God shall guard; and put the world's whole strength\nInto one giant arm, it shall not force\nThis lineal honour from me. This from thee\nWill I to mine leave as 'tis left to me.   Exit


plain_text:
The Prince hath ta'en it hence. Go, seek him out.\nIs he so hasty that he doth suppose\nMy sleep my death?\nFind him, my lord of Warwick; chide him hither.\n[Exit WARWICK]\nThis part of his conjoins with my disease\nAnd helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are!\nHow quickly nature falls into revolt\nWhen gold becomes her object!\nFor this the foolish over-careful fathers\nHave broke their sleep with thoughts,\nTheir brains with care, their bones with industry;\nFor this they have engrossed and pil'd up\nThe cank'red heaps of strange-achieved gold;\nFor this they have been thoughtful to invest\nTheir sons with arts and martial exercises;\nWhen, like the bee, tolling from every flower\nThe virtuous sweets,\nOur thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd,\nWe bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,\nAre murd'red for our pains. This bitter taste\nYields his engrossments to the ending father.\n[Re-enter WARWICK]\nNow where is he that will not stay so long\nTill his friend sickness hath determin'd me?


plain_text:
My lord, I found the Prince in the next room,\nWashing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,\nWith such a deep demeanour in great sorrow,\nThat tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood,\nWould, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife\nWith gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.


plain_text:
But wherefore did he take away the crown?\n[Re-enter PRINCE HENRY]\nLo where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.\nDepart the chamber, leave us here alone.


plain_text:
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.\nI stay too long by thee, I weary thee.\nDost thou so hunger for mine empty chair\nThat thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours\nBefore thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!\nThou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.\nStay but a little, for my cloud of dignity\nIs held from falling with so weak a wind\nThat it will quickly drop; my day is dim.\nThou hast stol'n that which, after some few hours,\nWere thine without offense; and at my death\nThou hast seal'd up my expectation.\nThy life did manifest thou lov'dst me not,\nAnd thou wilt have me die assur'd of it.\nThou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,\nWhich thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,\nTo stab at half an hour of my life.\nWhat, canst thou not forbear me half an hour?\nThen get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself;\nAnd bid the merry bells ring to thine ear\nThat thou art crowned, not that I am dead.\nLet all the tears that should bedew my hearse\nBe drops of balm to sanctify thy head;\nOnly compound me with forgotten dust;\nGive that which gave thee life unto the worms.\nPluck down my officers, break my decrees;\nFor now a time is come to mock at form-\nHarry the Fifth is crown'd. Up, vanity:\nDown, royal state. All you sage counsellors, hence.\nAnd to the English court assemble now,\nFrom every region, apes of idleness.\nNow, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum.\nHave you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,\nRevel the night, rob, murder, and commit\nThe oldest sins the newest kind of ways?\nBe happy, he will trouble you no more.\nEngland shall double gild his treble guilt;\nEngland shall give him office, honour, might;\nFor the fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks\nThe muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog\nShall flesh his tooth on every innocent.\nO my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!\nWhen that my care could not withhold thy riots,\nWhat wilt thou do when riot is thy care?\nO, thou wilt be a wilderness again.\nPeopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!


plain_text:
O, pardon me, my liege! But for my tears,\nThe moist impediments unto my speech,\nI had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke\nEre you with grief had spoke and I had heard\nThe course of it so far. There is your crown,\nAnd he that wears the crown immortally\nLong guard it yours! [Kneeling] If I affect it more\nThan as your honour and as your renown,\nLet me no more from this obedience rise,\nWhich my most inward true and duteous spirit\nTeacheth this prostrate and exterior bending!\nGod witness with me, when I here came in\nAnd found no course of breath within your Majesty,\nHow cold it struck my heart! If I do feign,\nO, let me in my present wildness die,\nAnd never live to show th' incredulous world\nThe noble change that I have purposed!\nComing to look on you, thinking you dead-\nAnd dead almost, my liege, to think you were-\nI spake unto this crown as having sense,\nAnd thus upbraided it: 'The care on thee depending\nHath fed upon the body of my father;\nTherefore thou best of gold art worst of gold.\nOther, less fine in carat, is more precious,\nPreserving life in med'cine potable;\nBut thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd,\nHast eat thy bearer up.' Thus, my most royal liege,\nAccusing it, I put it on my head,\nTo try with it--as with an enemy\nThat had before my face murd'red my father--\nThe quarrel of a true inheritor.\nBut if it did infect my blood with joy,\nOr swell my thoughts to any strain of pride;\nIf any rebel or vain spirit of mine\nDid with the least affection of a welcome\nGive entertainment to the might of it,\nLet God for ever keep it from my head,\nAnd make me as the poorest vassal is,\nThat doth with awe and terror kneel to it!


plain_text:
O my son,\nGod put it in thy mind to take it hence,\nThat thou mightst win the more thy father's love,\nPleading so wisely in excuse of it!\nCome hither, Harry; sit thou by my bed,\nAnd hear, I think, the very latest counsel\nThat ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,\nBy what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways\nI met this crown; and I myself know well\nHow troublesome it sat upon my head:\nTo thee it shall descend with better quiet,\nBetter opinion, better confirmation;\nFor all the soil of the achievement goes\nWith me into the earth. It seem'd in me\nBut as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand;\nAnd I had many living to upbraid\nMy gain of it by their assistances;\nWhich daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,\nWounding supposed peace. All these bold fears\nThou seest with peril I have answered;\nFor all my reign hath been but as a scene\nActing that argument. And now my death\nChanges the mood; for what in me was purchas'd\nFalls upon thee in a more fairer sort;\nSo thou the garland wear'st successively.\nYet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do,\nThou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;\nAnd all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,\nHave but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;\nBy whose fell working I was first advanc'd,\nAnd by whose power I well might lodge a fear\nTo be again displac'd; which to avoid,\nI cut them off; and had a purpose now\nTo lead out many to the Holy Land,\nLest rest and lying still might make them look\nToo near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,\nBe it thy course to busy giddy minds\nWith foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out,\nMay waste the memory of the former days.\nMore would I, but my lungs are wasted so\nThat strength of speech is utterly denied me.\nHow I came by the crown, O God, forgive;\nAnd grant it may with thee in true peace live!


plain_text:
My gracious liege,\nYou won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;\nThen plain and right must my possession be;\nWhich I with more than with a common pain\n'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.\n Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WARWICK, LORDS, and others


plain_text:
Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John;\nBut health, alack, with youthful wings is flown\nFrom this bare wither'd trunk. Upon thy sight\nMy worldly business makes a period.\nWhere is my Lord of Warwick?


plain_text:
Laud be to God! Even there my life must end.\nIt hath been prophesied to me many years,\nI should not die but in Jerusalem;\nWhich vainly I suppos'd the Holy Land.\nBut bear me to that chamber; there I'll lie;\nIn that Jerusalem shall Harry die.    Exeunt


plain_text:
I will not excuse you; you shall not be excus'd;\nshall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you\nnot be excus'd. Why, Davy!


plain_text:
Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see,\nDavy; let me see--yea, marry, William cook, bid him come\nSir John, you shall not be excus'd.


plain_text:
Marry, sir, thus: those precepts cannot be served; and,\nagain, sir--shall we sow the headland with wheat?


plain_text:
Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had;\nsir, do you mean to stop any of William's wages about the\nlost the other day at Hinckley fair?


plain_text:
'A shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of\nshort-legg'd hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little\nkickshaws, tell William cook.


plain_text:
Yea, Davy; I will use him well. A friend i' th' court\nbetter than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for\nare arrant knaves and will backbite.


plain_text:
I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet God\nforbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his\nfriend's request. An honest man, sir, is able to speak for\nhimself, when a knave is not. I have serv'd your worship\nsir, this eight years; an I cannot once or twice in a quarter\nbear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very\ncredit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend,\ntherefore, I beseech you, let him be countenanc'd.


plain_text:
[Exit DAVY] Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come,\nwith your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph.


plain_text:
I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master Bardolph.\n[To the PAGE] And welcome, my tall fellow. Come, Sir John.


plain_text:
I'll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow.\n[Exit SHALLOW] Bardolph, look to our horses. [Exeunt\nand PAGE] If I were sawed into quantities, I should make\ndozen of such bearded hermits' staves as Master Shallow. It\nwonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's\nspirits and his. They, by observing of him, do bear\nlike foolish justices: he, by conversing with them, is turned\ninto a justice-like serving-man. Their spirits are so married\nconjunction with the participation of society that they flock\ntogether in consent, like so many wild geese. If I had a suit\nMaster Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of\nbeing near their master; if to his men, I would curry with\nShallow that no man could better command his servants. It is\ncertain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is\nas men take diseases, one of another; therefore let men take\nof their company. I will devise matter enough out of this\nto keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of\nfashions, which is four terms, or two actions; and 'a shall\nwithout intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight\noath, and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that\nhad the ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh\nhis face be like a wet cloak ill laid up!


plain_text:
I would his Majesty had call'd me with him.\nThe service that I truly did his life\nHath left me open to all injuries.


plain_text:
I know he doth not, and do arm myself\nTo welcome the condition of the time,\nWhich cannot look more hideously upon me\nThan I have drawn it in my fantasy.


plain_text:
Here comes the heavy issue of dead Harry.\nO that the living Harry had the temper\nOf he, the worst of these three gentlemen!\nHow many nobles then should hold their places\nThat must strike sail to spirits of vile sort!


plain_text:
O, good my lord, you have lost a friend\nAnd I dare swear you borrow not that face\nOf seeming sorrow--it is sure your own.


plain_text:
Though no man be assur'd what grace to find,\nYou stand in coldest expectation.\nI am the sorrier; would 'twere otherwise.


plain_text:
Sweet Princes, what I did, I did in honour,\nLed by th' impartial conduct of my soul;\nAnd never shall you see that I will beg\nA ragged and forestall'd remission.\nIf truth and upright innocency fail me,\nI'll to the King my master that is dead,\nAnd tell him who hath sent me after him.


plain_text:
This new and gorgeous garment, majesty,\nSits not so easy on me as you think.\nBrothers, you mix your sadness with some fear.\nThis is the English, not the Turkish court;\nNot Amurath an Amurath succeeds,\nBut Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers,\nFor, by my faith, it very well becomes you.\nSorrow so royally in you appears\nThat I will deeply put the fashion on,\nAnd wear it in my heart. Why, then, be sad;\nBut entertain no more of it, good brothers,\nThan a joint burden laid upon us all.\nFor me, by heaven, I bid you be assur'd,\nI'll be your father and your brother too;\nLet me but bear your love, I'll bear your cares.\nYet weep that Harry's dead, and so will I;\nBut Harry lives that shall convert those tears\nBy number into hours of happiness.


plain_text:
No?\nHow might a prince of my great hopes forget\nSo great indignities you laid upon me?\nWhat, rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison,\nTh' immediate heir of England! Was this easy?\nMay this be wash'd in Lethe and forgotten?


plain_text:
I then did use the person of your father;\nThe image of his power lay then in me;\nAnd in th' administration of his law,\nWhiles I was busy for the commonwealth,\nYour Highness pleased to forget my place,\nThe majesty and power of law and justice,\nThe image of the King whom I presented,\nAnd struck me in my very seat of judgment;\nWhereon, as an offender to your father,\nI gave bold way to my authority\nAnd did commit you. If the deed were ill,\nBe you contented, wearing now the garland,\nTo have a son set your decrees at nought,\nTo pluck down justice from your awful bench,\nTo trip the course of law, and blunt the sword\nThat guards the peace and safety of your person;\nNay, more, to spurn at your most royal image,\nAnd mock your workings in a second body.\nQuestion your royal thoughts, make the case yours;\nBe now the father, and propose a son;\nHear your own dignity so much profan'd,\nSee your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,\nBehold yourself so by a son disdain'd;\nAnd then imagine me taking your part\nAnd, in your power, soft silencing your son.\nAfter this cold considerance, sentence me;\nAnd, as you are a king, speak in your state\nWhat I have done that misbecame my place,\nMy person, or my liege's sovereignty.


plain_text:
You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well;\nTherefore still bear the balance and the sword;\nAnd I do wish your honours may increase\nTill you do live to see a son of mine\nOffend you, and obey you, as I did.\nSo shall I live to speak my father's words:\n'Happy am I that have a man so bold\nThat dares do justice on my proper son;\nAnd not less happy, having such a son\nThat would deliver up his greatness so\nInto the hands of justice.' You did commit me;\nFor which I do commit into your hand\nTh' unstained sword that you have us'd to bear;\nWith this remembrance--that you use the same\nWith the like bold, just, and impartial spirit\nAs you have done 'gainst me. There is my hand.\nYou shall be as a father to my youth;\nMy voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear;\nAnd I will stoop and humble my intents\nTo your well-practis'd wise directions.\nAnd, Princes all, believe me, I beseech you,\nMy father is gone wild into his grave,\nFor in his tomb lie my affections;\nAnd with his spirits sadly I survive,\nTo mock the expectation of the world,\nTo frustrate prophecies, and to raze out\nRotten opinion, who hath writ me down\nAfter my seeming. The tide of blood in me\nHath proudly flow'd in vanity till now.\nNow doth it turn and ebb back to the sea,\nWhere it shall mingle with the state of floods,\nAnd flow henceforth in formal majesty.\nNow call we our high court of parliament;\nAnd let us choose such limbs of noble counsel,\nThat the great body of our state may go\nIn equal rank with the best govern'd nation;\nThat war, or peace, or both at once, may be\nAs things acquainted and familiar to us;\nIn which you, father, shall have foremost hand.\nOur coronation done, we will accite,\nAs I before rememb'red, all our state;\nAnd--God consigning to my good intents-\nNo prince nor peer shall have just cause to say,\nGod shorten Harry's happy life one day.   Exeunt


plain_text:
Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an arbour, we\nwill eat a last year's pippin of mine own graffing, with a\nof caraways, and so forth. Come, cousin Silence. And then to


plain_text:
Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir\n-marry, good air. Spread, Davy, spread, Davy; well said,


plain_text:
A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet, Sir\nJohn. By the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper. A\nvarlet. Now sit down, now sit down; come, cousin.


plain_text:
Ah, sirrah! quoth-a--we shall    [Singing]\n   Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,\n   And praise God for the merry year;\n   When flesh is cheap and females dear,\n   And lusty lads roam here and there,\n    So merrily,\n   And ever among so merrily.


plain_text:
Sweet sir, sit; I'll be with you anon; most sweet sir,\nMaster Page, good Master Page, sit. Proface! What you want in\nmeat, we'll have in drink. But you must bear; the heart's


plain_text:
[Singing]\n  Be merry, be merry, my wife has all;\n  For women are shrews, both short and tall;\n  'Tis merry in hall when beards wag an;\n  And welcome merry Shrove-tide.\n  Be merry, be merry.


plain_text:
[Singing]\n  A cup of wine that's brisk and fine,\n  And drink unto the leman mine;\n  And a merry heart lives long-a.


plain_text:
Honest Bardolph, welcome; if thou want'st anything and\nwilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny\nand welcome indeed too. I'll drink to Master Bardolph, and to\nthe cabileros about London.


plain_text:
By God's liggens, I thank thee. The knave will stick\nthee, I can assure thee that. 'A will not out, 'a; 'tis true\nbred.


plain_text:
Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing; be merry.\n[One knocks at door] Look who's at door there, ho! Who


plain_text:
Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet\nthou art now one of the greatest men in this realm.


plain_text:
Puff!\nPuff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!\nSir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend,\nAnd helter-skelter have I rode to thee;\nAnd tidings do I bring, and lucky joys,\nAnd golden times, and happy news of price.


plain_text:
Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons?\nAnd shall good news be baffled?\nThen, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap.


plain_text:
Give me pardon, sir. If, sir, you come with news from\ncourt, I take it there's but two ways--either to utter them\nconceal them. I am, sir, under the King, in some authority.


plain_text:
A foutra for thine office!\nSir John, thy tender lambkin now is King;\nHarry the Fifth's the man. I speak the truth.\nWhen Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like\nThe bragging Spaniard.


plain_text:
Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master Robert\nchoose what office thou wilt in the land, 'tis thine. Pistol,\nwill double-charge thee with dignities.


plain_text:
Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow, my Lord\nShallow, be what thou wilt--I am Fortune's steward. Get on\nboots; we'll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph!\n[Exit BARDOLPH] Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal\ndevise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master\nI know the young King is sick for me. Let us take any man's\nhorses: the laws of England are at my commandment. Blessed\nthey that have been my friends; and woe to my Lord Chief


plain_text:
Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!\n'Where is the life that late I led?' say they.\nWhy, here it is; welcome these pleasant days!   Exeunt


plain_text:
No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that I might die,\nthat I might have thee hang'd. Thou hast drawn my shoulder out of\njoint.


plain_text:
The constables have delivered her over to me; and she\nshall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her. There hath been\na man or two lately kill'd about her.


plain_text:
Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I'll tell thee what,\nthou damn'd tripe-visag'd rascal, an the child I now go with do\nmiscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou\npaper-fac'd villain.


plain_text:
O the Lord, that Sir John were come! He would make this a\nbloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb\nmiscarry!


plain_text:
If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again;\nyou have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for\nthe man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you.


plain_text:
I'll tell you what, you thin man in a censer, I will have you\nas soundly swing'd for this--you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy\nfamish'd correctioner, if you be not swing'd, I'll forswear\nhalf-kirtles.


plain_text:
 Trumpets sound, and the KING and his train pass over the stage. After them enter FALSTAFF, SHALLOW, PISTOL, BARDOLPH, and page


plain_text:
Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow; I will make the\nKing do you grace. I will leer upon him, as 'a comes by; and do\nbut mark the countenance that he will give me.


plain_text:
Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. [To SHALLOW] O, if\nI had had to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the\nthousand pound I borrowed of you. But 'tis no matter; this poor\nshow doth better; this doth infer the zeal I had to see him.


plain_text:
But to stand stained with travel, and sweating with\ndesire to see him; thinking of nothing else, putting all\nelse in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done\nsee him.


plain_text:
My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver\nAnd make thee rage.\nThy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts,\nIs in base durance and contagious prison;\nHal'd thither\nBy most mechanical and dirty hand.\nRouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto's snake,\nFor Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but truth.


plain_text:
I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers.\nHow ill white hairs become a fool and jester!\nI have long dreamt of such a kind of man,\nSo surfeit-swell'd, so old, and so profane;\nBut being awak'd, I do despise my dream.\nMake less thy body hence, and more thy grace;\nLeave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape\nFor thee thrice wider than for other men--\nReply not to me with a fool-born jest;\nPresume not that I am the thing I was,\nFor God doth know, so shall the world perceive,\nThat I have turn'd away my former self;\nSo will I those that kept me company.\nWhen thou dost hear I am as I have been,\nApproach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,\nThe tutor and the feeder of my riots.\nTill then I banish thee, on pain of death,\nAs I have done the rest of my misleaders,\nNot to come near our person by ten mile.\nFor competence of life I will allow you,\nThat lack of means enforce you not to evils;\nAnd, as we hear you do reform yourselves,\nWe will, according to your strengths and qualities,\nGive you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,\nTo see perform'd the tenour of our word.\nSet on.     Exeunt the KING and his train


plain_text:
That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do not you grieve\nthis; I shall be sent for in private to him. Look you, he\nseem thus to the world. Fear not your advancements; I will be\nman yet that shall make you great.


plain_text:
I cannot perceive how, unless you give me your\nand stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John,\nhave five hundred of my thousand.


plain_text:
Fear no colours; go with me to dinner. Come,\nPistol; come, Bardolph. I shall be sent for soon at night.


plain_text:
I like this fair proceeding of the King's.\nHe hath intent his wonted followers\nShall all be very well provided for;\nBut all are banish'd till their conversations\nAppear more wise and modest to the world.


plain_text:
I will lay odds that, ere this year expire,\nWe bear our civil swords and native fire\nAs far as France. I heard a bird so sing,\nWhose music, to my thinking, pleas'd the King.\nCome, will you hence?         Exeunt


plain_text:
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend\nThe brightest heaven of invention,\nA kingdom for a stage, princes to act\nAnd monarchs to behold the swelling scene!\nThen should the warlike Harry, like himself,\nAssume the port of Mars; and at his heels,\nLeash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire\nCrouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all,\nThe flat unraised spirits that have dared\nOn this unworthy scaffold to bring forth\nSo great an object: can this cockpit hold\nThe vasty fields of France? or may we cram\nWithin this wooden O the very casques\nThat did affright the air at Agincourt?\nO, pardon! since a crooked figure may\nAttest in little place a million;\nAnd let us, ciphers to this great accompt,\nOn your imaginary forces work.\nSuppose within the girdle of these walls\nAre now confined two mighty monarchies,\nWhose high upreared and abutting fronts\nThe perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:\nPiece out our imperfections with your thoughts;\nInto a thousand parts divide on man,\nAnd make imaginary puissance;\nThink when we talk of horses, that you see them\nPrinting their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;\nFor 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,\nCarry them here and there; jumping o'er times,\nTurning the accomplishment of many years\nInto an hour-glass: for the which supply,\nAdmit me Chorus to this history;\nWho prologue-like your humble patience pray,\nGently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.


plain_text:
My lord, I'll tell you; that self bill is urged,\nWhich in the eleventh year of the last king's reign\nWas like, and had indeed against us pass'd,\nBut that the scambling and unquiet time\nDid push it out of farther question.


plain_text:
It must be thought on. If it pass against us,\nWe lose the better half of our possession:\nFor all the temporal lands which men devout\nBy testament have given to the church\nWould they strip from us; being valued thus:\nAs much as would maintain, to the king's honour,\nFull fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights,\nSix thousand and two hundred good esquires;\nAnd, to relief of lazars and weak age,\nOf indigent faint souls past corporal toil.\nA hundred almshouses right well supplied;\nAnd to the coffers of the king beside,\nA thousand pounds by the year: thus runs the bill.


plain_text:
The courses of his youth promised it not.\nThe breath no sooner left his father's body,\nBut that his wildness, mortified in him,\nSeem'd to die too; yea, at that very moment\nConsideration, like an angel, came\nAnd whipp'd the offending Adam out of him,\nLeaving his body as a paradise,\nTo envelop and contain celestial spirits.\nNever was such a sudden scholar made;\nNever came reformation in a flood,\nWith such a heady currance, scouring faults\nNor never Hydra-headed wilfulness\nSo soon did lose his seat and all at once\nAs in this king.


plain_text:
Hear him but reason in divinity,\nAnd all-admiring with an inward wish\nYou would desire the king were made a prelate:\nHear him debate of commonwealth affairs,\nYou would say it hath been all in all his study:\nList his discourse of war, and you shall hear\nA fearful battle render'd you in music:\nTurn him to any cause of policy,\nThe Gordian knot of it he will unloose,\nFamiliar as his garter: that, when he speaks,\nThe air, a charter'd libertine, is still,\nAnd the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,\nTo steal his sweet and honey'd sentences;\nSo that the art and practic part of life\nMust be the mistress to this theoric:\nWhich is a wonder how his grace should glean it,\nSince his addiction was to courses vain,\nHis companies unletter'd, rude and shallow,\nHis hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports,\nAnd never noted in him any study,\nAny retirement, any sequestration\nFrom open haunts and popularity.


plain_text:
The strawberry grows underneath the nettle\nAnd wholesome berries thrive and ripen best\nNeighbour'd by fruit of baser quality:\nAnd so the prince obscured his contemplation\nUnder the veil of wildness; which, no doubt,\nGrew like the summer grass, fastest by night,\nUnseen, yet crescive in his faculty.


plain_text:
It must be so; for miracles are ceased;\nAnd therefore we must needs admit the means\nHow things are perfected.


plain_text:
But, my good lord,\nHow now for mitigation of this bill\nUrged by the commons? Doth his majesty\nIncline to it, or no?


plain_text:
He seems indifferent,\nOr rather swaying more upon our part\nThan cherishing the exhibiters against us;\nFor I have made an offer to his majesty,\nUpon our spiritual convocation\nAnd in regard of causes now in hand,\nWhich I have open'd to his grace at large,\nAs touching France, to give a greater sum\nThan ever at one time the clergy yet\nDid to his predecessors part withal.


plain_text:
With good acceptance of his majesty;\nSave that there was not time enough to hear,\nAs I perceived his grace would fain have done,\nThe severals and unhidden passages\nOf his true titles to some certain dukedoms\nAnd generally to the crown and seat of France\nDerived from Edward, his great-grandfather.


plain_text:
The French ambassador upon that instant\nCraved audience; and the hour, I think, is come\nTo give him hearing: is it four o'clock?


plain_text:
Then go we in, to know his embassy;\nWhich I could with a ready guess declare,\nBefore the Frenchman speak a word of it.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Enter KING HENRY V, GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER,]\nWARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and Attendants]


plain_text:
Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolved,\nBefore we hear him, of some things of weight\nThat task our thoughts, concerning us and France.


plain_text:
Sure, we thank you.\nMy learned lord, we pray you to proceed\nAnd justly and religiously unfold\nWhy the law Salique that they have in France\nOr should, or should not, bar us in our claim:\nAnd God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,\nThat you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading,\nOr nicely charge your understanding soul\nWith opening titles miscreate, whose right\nSuits not in native colours with the truth;\nFor God doth know how many now in health\nShall drop their blood in approbation\nOf what your reverence shall incite us to.\nTherefore take heed how you impawn our person,\nHow you awake our sleeping sword of war:\nWe charge you, in the name of God, take heed;\nFor never two such kingdoms did contend\nWithout much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops\nAre every one a woe, a sore complaint\n'Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the swords\nThat make such waste in brief mortality.\nUnder this conjuration, speak, my lord;\nFor we will hear, note and believe in heart\nThat what you speak is in your conscience wash'd\nAs pure as sin with baptism.


plain_text:
Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers,\nThat owe yourselves, your lives and services\nTo this imperial throne. There is no bar\nTo make against your highness' claim to France\nBut this, which they produce from Pharamond,\n'In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant:'\n'No woman shall succeed in Salique land:'\nWhich Salique land the French unjustly gloze\nTo be the realm of France, and Pharamond\nThe founder of this law and female bar.\nYet their own authors faithfully affirm\nThat the land Salique is in Germany,\nBetween the floods of Sala and of Elbe;\nWhere Charles the Great, having subdued the Saxons,\nThere left behind and settled certain French;\nWho, holding in disdain the German women\nFor some dishonest manners of their life,\nEstablish'd then this law; to wit, no female\nShould be inheritrix in Salique land:\nWhich Salique, as I said, 'twixt Elbe and Sala,\nIs at this day in Germany call'd Meisen.\nThen doth it well appear that Salique law\nWas not devised for the realm of France:\nNor did the French possess the Salique land\nUntil four hundred one and twenty years\nAfter defunction of King Pharamond,\nIdly supposed the founder of this law;\nWho died within the year of our redemption\nFour hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great\nSubdued the Saxons, and did seat the French\nBeyond the river Sala, in the year\nEight hundred five. Besides, their writers say,\nKing Pepin, which deposed Childeric,\nDid, as heir general, being descended\nOf Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,\nMake claim and title to the crown of France.\nHugh Capet also, who usurped the crown\nOf Charles the duke of Lorraine, sole heir male\nOf the true line and stock of Charles the Great,\nTo find his title with some shows of truth,\n'Through, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught,\nConvey'd himself as heir to the Lady Lingare,\nDaughter to Charlemain, who was the son\nTo Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son\nOf Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth,\nWho was sole heir to the usurper Capet,\nCould not keep quiet in his conscience,\nWearing the crown of France, till satisfied\nThat fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,\nWas lineal of the Lady Ermengare,\nDaughter to Charles the foresaid duke of Lorraine:\nBy the which marriage the line of Charles the Great\nWas re-united to the crown of France.\nSo that, as clear as is the summer's sun.\nKing Pepin's title and Hugh Capet's claim,\nKing Lewis his satisfaction, all appear\nTo hold in right and title of the female:\nSo do the kings of France unto this day;\nHowbeit they would hold up this Salique law\nTo bar your highness claiming from the female,\nAnd rather choose to hide them in a net\nThan amply to imbar their crooked titles\nUsurp'd from you and your progenitors.


plain_text:
The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!\nFor in the book of Numbers is it writ,\nWhen the man dies, let the inheritance\nDescend unto the daughter. Gracious lord,\nStand for your own; unwind your bloody flag;\nLook back into your mighty ancestors:\nGo, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb,\nFrom whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit,\nAnd your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince,\nWho on the French ground play'd a tragedy,\nMaking defeat on the full power of France,\nWhiles his most mighty father on a hill\nStood smiling to behold his lion's whelp\nForage in blood of French nobility.\nO noble English. that could entertain\nWith half their forces the full Pride of France\nAnd let another half stand laughing by,\nAll out of work and cold for action!


plain_text:
Awake remembrance of these valiant dead\nAnd with your puissant arm renew their feats:\nYou are their heir; you sit upon their throne;\nThe blood and courage that renowned them\nRuns in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege\nIs in the very May-morn of his youth,\nRipe for exploits and mighty enterprises.


plain_text:
Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth\nDo all expect that you should rouse yourself,\nAs did the former lions of your blood.


plain_text:
They know your grace hath cause and means and might;\nSo hath your highness; never king of England\nHad nobles richer and more loyal subjects,\nWhose hearts have left their bodies here in England\nAnd lie pavilion'd in the fields of France.


plain_text:
O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege,\nWith blood and sword and fire to win your right;\nIn aid whereof we of the spiritualty\nWill raise your highness such a mighty sum\nAs never did the clergy at one time\nBring in to any of your ancestors.


plain_text:
We must not only arm to invade the French,\nBut lay down our proportions to defend\nAgainst the Scot, who will make road upon us\nWith all advantages.


plain_text:
They of those marches, gracious sovereign,\nShall be a wall sufficient to defend\nOur inland from the pilfering borderers.


plain_text:
We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,\nBut fear the main intendment of the Scot,\nWho hath been still a giddy neighbour to us;\nFor you shall read that my great-grandfather\nNever went with his forces into France\nBut that the Scot on his unfurnish'd kingdom\nCame pouring, like the tide into a breach,\nWith ample and brim fulness of his force,\nGalling the gleaned land with hot assays,\nGirding with grievous siege castles and towns;\nThat England, being empty of defence,\nHath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.


plain_text:
She hath been then more fear'd than harm'd, my liege;\nFor hear her but exampled by herself:\nWhen all her chivalry hath been in France\nAnd she a mourning widow of her nobles,\nShe hath herself not only well defended\nBut taken and impounded as a stray\nThe King of Scots; whom she did send to France,\nTo fill King Edward's fame with prisoner kings\nAnd make her chronicle as rich with praise\nAs is the ooze and bottom of the sea\nWith sunken wreck and sunless treasuries.


plain_text:
But there's a saying very old and true,\n'If that you will France win,\nThen with Scotland first begin:'\nFor once the eagle England being in prey,\nTo her unguarded nest the weasel Scot\nComes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs,\nPlaying the mouse in absence of the cat,\nTo tear and havoc more than she can eat.


plain_text:
It follows then the cat must stay at home:\nYet that is but a crush'd necessity,\nSince we have locks to safeguard necessaries,\nAnd pretty traps to catch the petty thieves.\nWhile that the armed hand doth fight abroad,\nThe advised head defends itself at home;\nFor government, though high and low and lower,\nPut into parts, doth keep in one consent,\nCongreeing in a full and natural close,\nLike music.


plain_text:
Therefore doth heaven divide\nThe state of man in divers functions,\nSetting endeavour in continual motion;\nTo which is fixed, as an aim or butt,\nObedience: for so work the honey-bees,\nCreatures that by a rule in nature teach\nThe act of order to a peopled kingdom.\nThey have a king and officers of sorts;\nWhere some, like magistrates, correct at home,\nOthers, like merchants, venture trade abroad,\nOthers, like soldiers, armed in their stings,\nMake boot upon the summer's velvet buds,\nWhich pillage they with merry march bring home\nTo the tent-royal of their emperor;\nWho, busied in his majesty, surveys\nThe singing masons building roofs of gold,\nThe civil citizens kneading up the honey,\nThe poor mechanic porters crowding in\nTheir heavy burdens at his narrow gate,\nThe sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,\nDelivering o'er to executors pale\nThe lazy yawning drone. I this infer,\nThat many things, having full reference\nTo one consent, may work contrariously:\nAs many arrows, loosed several ways,\nCome to one mark; as many ways meet in one town;\nAs many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;\nAs many lines close in the dial's centre;\nSo may a thousand actions, once afoot.\nEnd in one purpose, and be all well borne\nWithout defeat. Therefore to France, my liege.\nDivide your happy England into four;\nWhereof take you one quarter into France,\nAnd you withal shall make all Gallia shake.\nIf we, with thrice such powers left at home,\nCannot defend our own doors from the dog,\nLet us be worried and our nation lose\nThe name of hardiness and policy.


plain_text:
Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.\n[Exeunt some Attendants]\nNow are we well resolved; and, by God's help,\nAnd yours, the noble sinews of our power,\nFrance being ours, we'll bend it to our awe,\nOr break it all to pieces: or there we'll sit,\nRuling in large and ample empery\nO'er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms,\nOr lay these bones in an unworthy urn,\nTombless, with no remembrance over them:\nEither our history shall with full mouth\nSpeak freely of our acts, or else our grave,\nLike Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth,\nNot worshipp'd with a waxen epitaph.\n[Enter Ambassadors of France]\nNow are we well prepared to know the pleasure\nOf our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear\nYour greeting is from him, not from the king.


plain_text:
May't please your majesty to give us leave\nFreely to render what we have in charge;\nOr shall we sparingly show you far off\nThe Dauphin's meaning and our embassy?


plain_text:
We are no tyrant, but a Christian king;\nUnto whose grace our passion is as subject\nAs are our wretches fetter'd in our prisons:\nTherefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness\nTell us the Dauphin's mind.


plain_text:
Thus, then, in few.\nYour highness, lately sending into France,\nDid claim some certain dukedoms, in the right\nOf your great predecessor, King Edward the Third.\nIn answer of which claim, the prince our master\nSays that you savour too much of your youth,\nAnd bids you be advised there's nought in France\nThat can be with a nimble galliard won;\nYou cannot revel into dukedoms there.\nHe therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit,\nThis tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this,\nDesires you let the dukedoms that you claim\nHear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.


plain_text:
We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us;\nHis present and your pains we thank you for:\nWhen we have march'd our rackets to these balls,\nWe will, in France, by God's grace, play a set\nShall strike his father's crown into the hazard.\nTell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler\nThat all the courts of France will be disturb'd\nWith chaces. And we understand him well,\nHow he comes o'er us with our wilder days,\nNot measuring what use we made of them.\nWe never valued this poor seat of England;\nAnd therefore, living hence, did give ourself\nTo barbarous licence; as 'tis ever common\nThat men are merriest when they are from home.\nBut tell the Dauphin I will keep my state,\nBe like a king and show my sail of greatness\nWhen I do rouse me in my throne of France:\nFor that I have laid by my majesty\nAnd plodded like a man for working-days,\nBut I will rise there with so full a glory\nThat I will dazzle all the eyes of France,\nYea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us.\nAnd tell the pleasant prince this mock of his\nHath turn'd his balls to gun-stones; and his soul\nShall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance\nThat shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows\nShall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands;\nMock mothers from their sons, mock castles down;\nAnd some are yet ungotten and unborn\nThat shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.\nBut this lies all within the will of God,\nTo whom I do appeal; and in whose name\nTell you the Dauphin I am coming on,\nTo venge me as I may and to put forth\nMy rightful hand in a well-hallow'd cause.\nSo get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin\nHis jest will savour but of shallow wit,\nWhen thousands weep more than did laugh at it.\nConvey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.


plain_text:
We hope to make the sender blush at it.\nTherefore, my lords, omit no happy hour\nThat may give furtherance to our expedition;\nFor we have now no thought in us but France,\nSave those to God, that run before our business.\nTherefore let our proportions for these wars\nBe soon collected and all things thought upon\nThat may with reasonable swiftness add\nMore feathers to our wings; for, God before,\nWe'll chide this Dauphin at his father's door.\nTherefore let every man now task his thought,\nThat this fair action may on foot be brought.


plain_text:
Now all the youth of England are on fire,\nAnd silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:\nNow thrive the armourers, and honour's thought\nReigns solely in the breast of every man:\nThey sell the pasture now to buy the horse,\nFollowing the mirror of all Christian kings,\nWith winged heels, as English Mercuries.\nFor now sits Expectation in the air,\nAnd hides a sword from hilts unto the point\nWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,\nPromised to Harry and his followers.\nThe French, advised by good intelligence\nOf this most dreadful preparation,\nShake in their fear and with pale policy\nSeek to divert the English purposes.\nO England! model to thy inward greatness,\nLike little body with a mighty heart,\nWhat mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,\nWere all thy children kind and natural!\nBut see thy fault! France hath in thee found out\nA nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills\nWith treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,\nOne, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,\nHenry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,\nSir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,\nHave, for the gilt of France,--O guilt indeed!\nConfirm'd conspiracy with fearful France;\nAnd by their hands this grace of kings must die,\nIf hell and treason hold their promises,\nEre he take ship for France, and in Southampton.\nLinger your patience on; and we'll digest\nThe abuse of distance; force a play:\nThe sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;\nThe king is set from London; and the scene\nIs now transported, gentles, to Southampton;\nThere is the playhouse now, there must you sit:\nAnd thence to France shall we convey you safe,\nAnd bring you back, charming the narrow seas\nTo give you gentle pass; for, if we may,\nWe'll not offend one stomach with our play.\nBut, till the king come forth, and not till then,\nUnto Southampton do we shift our scene.


plain_text:
For my part, I care not: I say little; but when\ntime shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that\nshall be as it may. I dare not fight; but I will\nwink and hold out mine iron: it is a simple one; but\nwhat though? it will toast cheese, and it will\nendure cold as another man's sword will: and\nthere's an end.


plain_text:
I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and\nwe'll be all three sworn brothers to France: let it\nbe so, good Corporal Nym.


plain_text:
Faith, I will live so long as I may, that's the\ncertain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I\nwill do as I may: that is my rest, that is the\nrendezvous of it.


plain_text:
It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell\nQuickly: and certainly she did you wrong; for you\nwere troth-plight to her.


plain_text:
I cannot tell: things must be as they may: men may\nsleep, and they may have their throats about them at\nthat time; and some say knives have edges. It must\nbe as it may: though patience be a tired mare, yet\nshe will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I\ncannot tell.


plain_text:
Base tike, call'st thou me host? Now, by this hand,\nI swear, I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.


plain_text:
No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and\nboard a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live\nhonestly by the prick of their needles, but it will\nbe thought we keep a bawdy house straight.\n[NYM and PISTOL draw]\nO well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! we\nshall see wilful adultery and murder committed.


plain_text:
'Solus,' egregious dog? O viper vile!\nThe 'solus' in thy most mervailous face;\nThe 'solus' in thy teeth, and in thy throat,\nAnd in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy,\nAnd, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!\nI do retort the 'solus' in thy bowels;\nFor I can take, and Pistol's cock is up,\nAnd flashing fire will follow.


plain_text:
I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an\nhumour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow\nfoul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my\nrapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk\noff, I would prick your guts a little, in good\nterms, as I may: and that's the humour of it.


plain_text:
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!\nThe grave doth gape, and doting death is near;\nTherefore exhale.


plain_text:
Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the\nfirst stroke, I'll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.


plain_text:
An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.\nGive me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give:\nThy spirits are most tall.


plain_text:
'Couple a gorge!'\nThat is the word. I thee defy again.\nO hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get?\nNo; to the spital go,\nAnd from the powdering tub of infamy\nFetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind,\nDoll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse:\nI have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly\nFor the only she; and--pauca, there's enough. Go to.


plain_text:
Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and\nyou, hostess: he is very sick, and would to bed.\nGood Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and\ndo the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he's very ill.


plain_text:
By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of\nthese days. The king has killed his heart. Good\nhusband, come home presently.


plain_text:
Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to\nFrance together: why the devil should we keep\nknives to cut one another's throats?


plain_text:
Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends:\nan thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too.\nPrithee, put up.


plain_text:
A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;\nAnd liquor likewise will I give to thee,\nAnd friendship shall combine, and brotherhood:\nI'll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me;\nIs not this just? for I shall sutler be\nUnto the camp, and profits will accrue.\nGive me thy hand.


plain_text:
As ever you came of women, come in quickly to Sir\nJohn. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning\nquotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to\nbehold. Sweet men, come to him.


plain_text:
How smooth and even they do bear themselves!\nAs if allegiance in their bosoms sat,\nCrowned with faith and constant loyalty.


plain_text:
Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,\nWhom he hath dull'd and cloy'd with gracious favours,\nThat he should, for a foreign purse, so sell\nHis sovereign's life to death and treachery.\n[Trumpets sound. Enter KING HENRY V, SCROOP,]\nCAMBRIDGE, GREY, and Attendants]


plain_text:
Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard.\nMy Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham,\nAnd you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts:\nThink you not that the powers we bear with us\nWill cut their passage through the force of France,\nDoing the execution and the act\nFor which we have in head assembled them?


plain_text:
I doubt not that; since we are well persuaded\nWe carry not a heart with us from hence\nThat grows not in a fair consent with ours,\nNor leave not one behind that doth not wish\nSuccess and conquest to attend on us.


plain_text:
Never was monarch better fear'd and loved\nThan is your majesty: there's not, I think, a subject\nThat sits in heart-grief and uneasiness\nUnder the sweet shade of your government.


plain_text:
True: those that were your father's enemies\nHave steep'd their galls in honey and do serve you\nWith hearts create of duty and of zeal.


plain_text:
We therefore have great cause of thankfulness;\nAnd shall forget the office of our hand,\nSooner than quittance of desert and merit\nAccording to the weight and worthiness.


plain_text:
So service shall with steeled sinews toil,\nAnd labour shall refresh itself with hope,\nTo do your grace incessant services.


plain_text:
We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter,\nEnlarge the man committed yesterday,\nThat rail'd against our person: we consider\nit was excess of wine that set him on;\nAnd on his more advice we pardon him.


plain_text:
That's mercy, but too much security:\nLet him be punish'd, sovereign, lest example\nBreed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind.


plain_text:
Alas, your too much love and care of me\nAre heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch!\nIf little faults, proceeding on distemper,\nShall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eye\nWhen capital crimes, chew'd, swallow'd and digested,\nAppear before us? We'll yet enlarge that man,\nThough Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, in their dear care\nAnd tender preservation of our person,\nWould have him punished. And now to our French causes:\nWho are the late commissioners?


plain_text:
Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours;\nThere yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight,\nGrey of Northumberland, this same is yours:\nRead them; and know, I know your worthiness.\nMy Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter,\nWe will aboard to night. Why, how now, gentlemen!\nWhat see you in those papers that you lose\nSo much complexion? Look ye, how they change!\nTheir cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there\nThat hath so cowarded and chased your blood\nOut of appearance?


plain_text:
The mercy that was quick in us but late,\nBy your own counsel is suppress'd and kill'd:\nYou must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy;\nFor your own reasons turn into your bosoms,\nAs dogs upon their masters, worrying you.\nSee you, my princes, and my noble peers,\nThese English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here,\nYou know how apt our love was to accord\nTo furnish him with all appertinents\nBelonging to his honour; and this man\nHath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired,\nAnd sworn unto the practises of France,\nTo kill us here in Hampton: to the which\nThis knight, no less for bounty bound to us\nThan Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O,\nWhat shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel,\nIngrateful, savage and inhuman creature!\nThou that didst bear the key of all my counsels,\nThat knew'st the very bottom of my soul,\nThat almost mightst have coin'd me into gold,\nWouldst thou have practised on me for thy use,\nMay it be possible, that foreign hire\nCould out of thee extract one spark of evil\nThat might annoy my finger? 'tis so strange,\nThat, though the truth of it stands off as gross\nAs black and white, my eye will scarcely see it.\nTreason and murder ever kept together,\nAs two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose,\nWorking so grossly in a natural cause,\nThat admiration did not whoop at them:\nBut thou, 'gainst all proportion, didst bring in\nWonder to wait on treason and on murder:\nAnd whatsoever cunning fiend it was\nThat wrought upon thee so preposterously\nHath got the voice in hell for excellence:\nAll other devils that suggest by treasons\nDo botch and bungle up damnation\nWith patches, colours, and with forms being fetch'd\nFrom glistering semblances of piety;\nBut he that temper'd thee bade thee stand up,\nGave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,\nUnless to dub thee with the name of traitor.\nIf that same demon that hath gull'd thee thus\nShould with his lion gait walk the whole world,\nHe might return to vasty Tartar back,\nAnd tell the legions 'I can never win\nA soul so easy as that Englishman's.'\nO, how hast thou with 'jealousy infected\nThe sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful?\nWhy, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned?\nWhy, so didst thou: come they of noble family?\nWhy, so didst thou: seem they religious?\nWhy, so didst thou: or are they spare in diet,\nFree from gross passion or of mirth or anger,\nConstant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,\nGarnish'd and deck'd in modest complement,\nNot working with the eye without the ear,\nAnd but in purged judgment trusting neither?\nSuch and so finely bolted didst thou seem:\nAnd thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,\nTo mark the full-fraught man and best indued\nWith some suspicion. I will weep for thee;\nFor this revolt of thine, methinks, is like\nAnother fall of man. Their faults are open:\nArrest them to the answer of the law;\nAnd God acquit them of their practises!


plain_text:
I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of\nRichard Earl of Cambridge.\nI arrest thee of high treason, by the name of\nHenry Lord Scroop of Masham.\nI arrest thee of high treason, by the name of\nThomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland.


plain_text:
Our purposes God justly hath discover'd;\nAnd I repent my fault more than my death;\nWhich I beseech your highness to forgive,\nAlthough my body pay the price of it.


plain_text:
For me, the gold of France did not seduce;\nAlthough I did admit it as a motive\nThe sooner to effect what I intended:\nBut God be thanked for prevention;\nWhich I in sufferance heartily will rejoice,\nBeseeching God and you to pardon me.


plain_text:
Never did faithful subject more rejoice\nAt the discovery of most dangerous treason\nThan I do at this hour joy o'er myself.\nPrevented from a damned enterprise:\nMy fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign.


plain_text:
God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.\nYou have conspired against our royal person,\nJoin'd with an enemy proclaim'd and from his coffers\nReceived the golden earnest of our death;\nWherein you would have sold your king to slaughter,\nHis princes and his peers to servitude,\nHis subjects to oppression and contempt\nAnd his whole kingdom into desolation.\nTouching our person seek we no revenge;\nBut we our kingdom's safety must so tender,\nWhose ruin you have sought, that to her laws\nWe do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,\nPoor miserable wretches, to your death:\nThe taste whereof, God of his mercy give\nYou patience to endure, and true repentance\nOf all your dear offences! Bear them hence.\n[Exeunt CAMBRIDGE, SCROOP and GREY, guarded]\nNow, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof\nShall be to you, as us, like glorious.\nWe doubt not of a fair and lucky war,\nSince God so graciously hath brought to light\nThis dangerous treason lurking in our way\nTo hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now\nBut every rub is smoothed on our way.\nThen forth, dear countrymen: let us deliver\nOur puissance into the hand of God,\nPutting it straight in expedition.\nCheerly to sea; the signs of war advance:\nNo king of England, if not king of France.


plain_text:
No; for my manly heart doth yearn.\nBardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:\nBoy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,\nAnd we must yearn therefore.


plain_text:
Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur's\nbosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. A' made\na finer end and went away an it had been any\nchristom child; a' parted even just between twelve\nand one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after\nI saw him fumble with the sheets and play with\nflowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew\nthere was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as\na pen, and a' babbled of green fields. 'How now,\nsir John!' quoth I. 'what, man! be o' good\ncheer.' So a' cried out 'God, God, God!' three or\nfour times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a'\nshould not think of God; I hoped there was no need\nto trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So\na' bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my\nhand into the bed and felt them, and they were as\ncold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and\nthey were as cold as any stone, and so upward and\nupward, and all was as cold as any stone.


plain_text:
A' did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then\nhe was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon.


plain_text:
Do you not remember, a' saw a flea stick upon\nBardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black soul\nburning in hell-fire?


plain_text:
Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips.\nLook to my chattels and my movables:\nLet senses rule; the word is 'Pitch and Pay:'\nTrust none;\nFor oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes,\nAnd hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:\nTherefore, Caveto be thy counsellor.\nGo, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms,\nLet us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys,\nTo suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter the FRENCH KING, the DAUPHIN, the]\nDUKES of BERRI and BRETAGNE, the Constable, and others]


plain_text:
Thus comes the English with full power upon us;\nAnd more than carefully it us concerns\nTo answer royally in our defences.\nTherefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne,\nOf Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth,\nAnd you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch,\nTo line and new repair our towns of war\nWith men of courage and with means defendant;\nFor England his approaches makes as fierce\nAs waters to the sucking of a gulf.\nIt fits us then to be as provident\nAs fear may teach us out of late examples\nLeft by the fatal and neglected English\nUpon our fields.


plain_text:
My most redoubted father,\nIt is most meet we arm us 'gainst the foe;\nFor peace itself should not so dull a kingdom,\nThough war nor no known quarrel were in question,\nBut that defences, musters, preparations,\nShould be maintain'd, assembled and collected,\nAs were a war in expectation.\nTherefore, I say 'tis meet we all go forth\nTo view the sick and feeble parts of France:\nAnd let us do it with no show of fear;\nNo, with no more than if we heard that England\nWere busied with a Whitsun morris-dance:\nFor, my good liege, she is so idly king'd,\nHer sceptre so fantastically borne\nBy a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth,\nThat fear attends her not.


plain_text:
O peace, Prince Dauphin!\nYou are too much mistaken in this king:\nQuestion your grace the late ambassadors,\nWith what great state he heard their embassy,\nHow well supplied with noble counsellors,\nHow modest in exception, and withal\nHow terrible in constant resolution,\nAnd you shall find his vanities forespent\nWere but the outside of the Roman Brutus,\nCovering discretion with a coat of folly;\nAs gardeners do with ordure hide those roots\nThat shall first spring and be most delicate.


plain_text:
Well, 'tis not so, my lord high constable;\nBut though we think it so, it is no matter:\nIn cases of defence 'tis best to weigh\nThe enemy more mighty than he seems:\nSo the proportions of defence are fill'd;\nWhich of a weak or niggardly projection\nDoth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting\nA little cloth.


plain_text:
Think we King Harry strong;\nAnd, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him.\nThe kindred of him hath been flesh'd upon us;\nAnd he is bred out of that bloody strain\nThat haunted us in our familiar paths:\nWitness our too much memorable shame\nWhen Cressy battle fatally was struck,\nAnd all our princes captiv'd by the hand\nOf that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales;\nWhiles that his mountain sire, on mountain standing,\nUp in the air, crown'd with the golden sun,\nSaw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him,\nMangle the work of nature and deface\nThe patterns that by God and by French fathers\nHad twenty years been made. This is a stem\nOf that victorious stock; and let us fear\nThe native mightiness and fate of him.


plain_text:
We'll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.\n[Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords]\nYou see this chase is hotly follow'd, friends.


plain_text:
Turn head, and stop pursuit; for coward dogs\nMost spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten\nRuns far before them. Good my sovereign,\nTake up the English short, and let them know\nOf what a monarchy you are the head:\nSelf-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin\nAs self-neglecting.


plain_text:
From him; and thus he greets your majesty.\nHe wills you, in the name of God Almighty,\nThat you divest yourself, and lay apart\nThe borrow'd glories that by gift of heaven,\nBy law of nature and of nations, 'long\nTo him and to his heirs; namely, the crown\nAnd all wide-stretched honours that pertain\nBy custom and the ordinance of times\nUnto the crown of France. That you may know\n'Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim,\nPick'd from the worm-holes of long-vanish'd days,\nNor from the dust of old oblivion raked,\nHe sends you this most memorable line,\nIn every branch truly demonstrative;\nWilling to overlook this pedigree:\nAnd when you find him evenly derived\nFrom his most famed of famous ancestors,\nEdward the Third, he bids you then resign\nYour crown and kingdom, indirectly held\nFrom him the native and true challenger.


plain_text:
Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown\nEven in your hearts, there will he rake for it:\nTherefore in fierce tempest is he coming,\nIn thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove,\nThat, if requiring fail, he will compel;\nAnd bids you, in the bowels of the Lord,\nDeliver up the crown, and to take mercy\nOn the poor souls for whom this hungry war\nOpens his vasty jaws; and on your head\nTurning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries\nThe dead men's blood, the pining maidens groans,\nFor husbands, fathers and betrothed lovers,\nThat shall be swallow'd in this controversy.\nThis is his claim, his threatening and my message;\nUnless the Dauphin be in presence here,\nTo whom expressly I bring greeting too.


plain_text:
For us, we will consider of this further:\nTo-morrow shall you bear our full intent\nBack to our brother England.


plain_text:
Scorn and defiance; slight regard, contempt,\nAnd any thing that may not misbecome\nThe mighty sender, doth he prize you at.\nThus says my king; an' if your father's highness\nDo not, in grant of all demands at large,\nSweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty,\nHe'll call you to so hot an answer of it,\nThat caves and womby vaultages of France\nShall chide your trespass and return your mock\nIn second accent of his ordnance.


plain_text:
Say, if my father render fair return,\nIt is against my will; for I desire\nNothing but odds with England: to that end,\nAs matching to his youth and vanity,\nI did present him with the Paris balls.


plain_text:
He'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it,\nWere it the mistress-court of mighty Europe:\nAnd, be assured, you'll find a difference,\nAs we his subjects have in wonder found,\nBetween the promise of his greener days\nAnd these he masters now: now he weighs time\nEven to the utmost grain: that you shall read\nIn your own losses, if he stay in France.


plain_text:
Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king\nCome here himself to question our delay;\nFor he is footed in this land already.


plain_text:
You shall be soon dispatch's with fair conditions:\nA night is but small breath and little pause\nTo answer matters of this consequence.


plain_text:
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies\nIn motion of no less celerity\nThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seen\nThe well-appointed king at Hampton pier\nEmbark his royalty; and his brave fleet\nWith silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning:\nPlay with your fancies, and in them behold\nUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;\nHear the shrill whistle which doth order give\nTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,\nBorne with the invisible and creeping wind,\nDraw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea,\nBreasting the lofty surge: O, do but think\nYou stand upon the ravage and behold\nA city on the inconstant billows dancing;\nFor so appears this fleet majestical,\nHolding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:\nGrapple your minds to sternage of this navy,\nAnd leave your England, as dead midnight still,\nGuarded with grandsires, babies and old women,\nEither past or not arrived to pith and puissance;\nFor who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd\nWith one appearing hair, that will not follow\nThese cull'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?\nWork, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;\nBehold the ordnance on their carriages,\nWith fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.\nSuppose the ambassador from the French comes back;\nTells Harry that the king doth offer him\nKatharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry,\nSome petty and unprofitable dukedoms.\nThe offer likes not: and the nimble gunner\nWith linstock now the devilish cannon touches,\n[Alarum, and chambers go off]\nAnd down goes all before them. Still be kind,\nAnd eke out our performance with your mind.


plain_text:
[Exit]\n[Alarum. Enter KING HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD,]\nGLOUCESTER, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders]


plain_text:
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;\nOr close the wall up with our English dead.\nIn peace there's nothing so becomes a man\nAs modest stillness and humility:\nBut when the blast of war blows in our ears,\nThen imitate the action of the tiger;\nStiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,\nDisguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;\nThen lend the eye a terrible aspect;\nLet pry through the portage of the head\nLike the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it\nAs fearfully as doth a galled rock\nO'erhang and jutty his confounded base,\nSwill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.\nNow set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,\nHold hard the breath and bend up every spirit\nTo his full height. On, on, you noblest English.\nWhose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!\nFathers that, like so many Alexanders,\nHave in these parts from morn till even fought\nAnd sheathed their swords for lack of argument:\nDishonour not your mothers; now attest\nThat those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.\nBe copy now to men of grosser blood,\nAnd teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,\nWhose limbs were made in England, show us here\nThe mettle of your pasture; let us swear\nThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;\nFor there is none of you so mean and base,\nThat hath not noble lustre in your eyes.\nI see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,\nStraining upon the start. The game's afoot:\nFollow your spirit, and upon this charge\nCry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'


plain_text:
Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot;\nand, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives:\nthe humour of it is too hot, that is the very\nplain-song of it.


plain_text:
The plain-song is most just: for humours do abound:\nKnocks go and come; God's vassals drop and die;\nAnd sword and shield,\nIn bloody field,\nDoth win immortal fame.


plain_text:
And I:\nIf wishes would prevail with me,\nMy purpose should not fail with me,\nBut thither would I hie.


plain_text:
Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould.\nAbate thy rage, abate thy manly rage,\nAbate thy rage, great duke!\nGood bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!


plain_text:
As young as I am, I have observed these three\nswashers. I am boy to them all three: but all they\nthree, though they would serve me, could not be man\nto me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to\na man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and\nred-faced; by the means whereof a' faces it out, but\nfights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue\nand a quiet sword; by the means whereof a' breaks\nwords, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath\nheard that men of few words are the best men; and\ntherefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a'\nshould be thought a coward: but his few bad words\nare matched with as few good deeds; for a' never\nbroke any man's head but his own, and that was\nagainst a post when he was drunk. They will steal\nany thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a\nlute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for\nthree half pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn\nbrothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a\nfire-shovel: I knew by that piece of service the\nmen would carry coals. They would have me as\nfamiliar with men's pockets as their gloves or their\nhandkerchers: which makes much against my manhood,\nif I should take from another's pocket to put into\nmine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I\nmust leave them, and seek some better service:\ntheir villany goes against my weak stomach, and\ntherefore I must cast it up.


plain_text:
Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the\nmines; the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.


plain_text:
To the mines! tell you the duke, it is not so good\nto come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is\nnot according to the disciplines of the war: the\nconcavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you,\nthe athversary, you may discuss unto the duke, look\nyou, is digt himself four yard under the\ncountermines: by Cheshu, I think a' will plough up\nall, if there is not better directions.


plain_text:
The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the\nsiege is given, is altogether directed by an\nIrishman, a very valiant gentleman, i' faith.


plain_text:
By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world: I will\nverify as much in his beard: be has no more\ndirections in the true disciplines of the wars, look\nyou, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.


plain_text:
Captain Jamy is a marvellous falourous gentleman,\nthat is certain; and of great expedition and\nknowledge in th' aunchient wars, upon my particular\nknowledge of his directions: by Cheshu, he will\nmaintain his argument as well as any military man in\nthe world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars\nof the Romans.


plain_text:
By Chrish, la! tish ill done: the work ish give\nover, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand, I\nswear, and my father's soul, the work ish ill done;\nit ish give over: I would have blowed up the town, so\nChrish save me, la! in an hour: O, tish ill done,\ntish ill done; by my hand, tish ill done!


plain_text:
Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you\nvoutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you,\nas partly touching or concerning the disciplines of\nthe war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument,\nlook you, and friendly communication; partly to\nsatisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction,\nlook you, of my mind, as touching the direction of\nthe military discipline; that is the point.


plain_text:
It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath:\nand I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick\noccasion; that sall I, marry.


plain_text:
It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me: the\nday is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the\nking, and the dukes: it is no time to discourse. The\ntown is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the\nbreach; and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing:\n'tis shame for us all: so God sa' me, 'tis shame to\nstand still; it is shame, by my hand: and there is\nthroats to be cut, and works to be done; and there\nish nothing done, so Chrish sa' me, la!


plain_text:
By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves\nto slomber, ay'll de gud service, or ay'll lig i'\nthe grund for it; ay, or go to death; and ay'll pay\n't as valourously as I may, that sall I suerly do,\nthat is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full\nfain hear some question 'tween you tway.


plain_text:
Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain,\nand a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal. What ish\nmy nation? Who talks of my nation?


plain_text:
Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is\nmeant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think\nyou do not use me with that affability as in\ndiscretion you ought to use me, look you: being as\ngood a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of\nwar, and in the derivation of my birth, and in\nother particularities.


plain_text:
Captain Macmorris, when there is more better\nopportunity to be required, look you, I will be so\nbold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war;\nand there is an end.


plain_text:
[The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter KING HENRY and his train]


plain_text:
How yet resolves the governor of the town?\nThis is the latest parle we will admit;\nTherefore to our best mercy give yourselves;\nOr like to men proud of destruction\nDefy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,\nA name that in my thoughts becomes me best,\nIf I begin the battery once again,\nI will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur\nTill in her ashes she lie buried.\nThe gates of mercy shall be all shut up,\nAnd the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,\nIn liberty of bloody hand shall range\nWith conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass\nYour fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.\nWhat is it then to me, if impious war,\nArray'd in flames like to the prince of fiends,\nDo, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats\nEnlink'd to waste and desolation?\nWhat is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,\nIf your pure maidens fall into the hand\nOf hot and forcing violation?\nWhat rein can hold licentious wickedness\nWhen down the hill he holds his fierce career?\nWe may as bootless spend our vain command\nUpon the enraged soldiers in their spoil\nAs send precepts to the leviathan\nTo come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,\nTake pity of your town and of your people,\nWhiles yet my soldiers are in my command;\nWhiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace\nO'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds\nOf heady murder, spoil and villany.\nIf not, why, in a moment look to see\nThe blind and bloody soldier with foul hand\nDefile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;\nYour fathers taken by the silver beards,\nAnd their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls,\nYour naked infants spitted upon pikes,\nWhiles the mad mothers with their howls confused\nDo break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry\nAt Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.\nWhat say you? will you yield, and this avoid,\nOr, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?


plain_text:
Our expectation hath this day an end:\nThe Dauphin, whom of succors we entreated,\nReturns us that his powers are yet not ready\nTo raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king,\nWe yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.\nEnter our gates; dispose of us and ours;\nFor we no longer are defensible.


plain_text:
Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter,\nGo you and enter Harfleur; there remain,\nAnd fortify it strongly 'gainst the French:\nUse mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,\nThe winter coming on and sickness growing\nUpon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.\nTo-night in Harfleur we will be your guest;\nTo-morrow for the march are we addrest.


plain_text:
Les doigts? ma foi, j'oublie les doigts; mais je me\nsouviendrai. Les doigts? je pense qu'ils sont\nappeles de fingres; oui, de fingres.


plain_text:
La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense\nque je suis le bon ecolier; j'ai gagne deux mots\nd'Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles?


plain_text:
Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez\nles mots aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre.


plain_text:
De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ce sont mots\nde son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et\nnon pour les dames d'honneur d'user: je ne voudrais\nprononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France\npour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le coun!\nNeanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon\nensemble: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arm, de\nelbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Enter the KING OF FRANCE, the DAUPHIN, the DUKE oF]\nBOURBON, the Constable Of France, and others]


plain_text:
And if he be not fought withal, my lord,\nLet us not live in France; let us quit all\nAnd give our vineyards to a barbarous people.


plain_text:
O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,\nThe emptying of our fathers' luxury,\nOur scions, put in wild and savage stock,\nSpirt up so suddenly into the clouds,\nAnd overlook their grafters?


plain_text:
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!\nMort de ma vie! if they march along\nUnfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,\nTo buy a slobbery and a dirty farm\nIn that nook-shotten isle of Albion.


plain_text:
Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle?\nIs not their climate foggy, raw and dull,\nOn whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,\nKilling their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,\nA drench for sur-rein'd jades, their barley-broth,\nDecoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?\nAnd shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,\nSeem frosty? O, for honour of our land,\nLet us not hang like roping icicles\nUpon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people\nSweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields!\nPoor we may call them in their native lords.


plain_text:
By faith and honour,\nOur madams mock at us, and plainly say\nOur mettle is bred out and they will give\nTheir bodies to the lust of English youth\nTo new-store France with bastard warriors.


plain_text:
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,\nAnd teach lavoltas high and swift corantos;\nSaying our grace is only in our heels,\nAnd that we are most lofty runaways.


plain_text:
Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence:\nLet him greet England with our sharp defiance.\nUp, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged\nMore sharper than your swords, hie to the field:\nCharles Delabreth, high constable of France;\nYou Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri,\nAlencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;\nJaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,\nBeaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg,\nFoix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;\nHigh dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights,\nFor your great seats now quit you of great shames.\nBar Harry England, that sweeps through our land\nWith pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur:\nRush on his host, as doth the melted snow\nUpon the valleys, whose low vassal seat\nThe Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon:\nGo down upon him, you have power enough,\nAnd in a captive chariot into Rouen\nBring him our prisoner.


plain_text:
This becomes the great.\nSorry am I his numbers are so few,\nHis soldiers sick and famish'd in their march,\nFor I am sure, when he shall see our army,\nHe'll drop his heart into the sink of fear\nAnd for achievement offer us his ransom.


plain_text:
Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy.\nAnd let him say to England that we send\nTo know what willing ransom he will give.\nPrince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.


plain_text:
Be patient, for you shall remain with us.\nNow forth, lord constable and princes all,\nAnd quickly bring us word of England's fall.


plain_text:
The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon;\nand a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my\nheart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and\nmy uttermost power: he is not-God be praised and\nblessed!--any hurt in the world; but keeps the\nbridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline.\nThere is an aunchient lieutenant there at the\npridge, I think in my very conscience he is as\nvaliant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no\nestimation in the world; but did see him do as\ngallant service.


plain_text:
Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,\nAnd of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate,\nAnd giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel,\nThat goddess blind,\nThat stands upon the rolling restless stone--


plain_text:
By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is\npainted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to\nsignify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is\npainted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which\nis the moral of it, that she is turning, and\ninconstant, and mutability, and variation: and her\nfoot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone,\nwhich rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth,\nthe poet makes a most excellent description of it:\nFortune is an excellent moral.


plain_text:
Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him;\nFor he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a' be:\nA damned death!\nLet gallows gape for dog; let man go free\nAnd let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate:\nBut Exeter hath given the doom of death\nFor pax of little price.\nTherefore, go speak: the duke will hear thy voice:\nAnd let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut\nWith edge of penny cord and vile reproach:\nSpeak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.


plain_text:
Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice\nat: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would\ndesire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put\nhim to execution; for discipline ought to be used.


plain_text:
I'll assure you, a' uttered as brave words at the\nbridge as you shall see in a summer's day. But it\nis very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well,\nI warrant you, when time is serve.


plain_text:
Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then\ngoes to the wars, to grace himself at his return\ninto London under the form of a soldier. And such\nfellows are perfect in the great commanders' names:\nand they will learn you by rote where services were\ndone; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach,\nat such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was\nshot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on;\nand this they con perfectly in the phrase of war,\nwhich they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and what\na beard of the general's cut and a horrid suit of\nthe camp will do among foaming bottles and\nale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But\nyou must learn to know such slanders of the age, or\nelse you may be marvellously mistook.


plain_text:
I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is\nnot the man that he would gladly make show to the\nworld he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will\ntell him my mind.\n[Drum heard]\nHark you, the king is coming, and I must speak with\nhim from the pridge.\n[Drum and colours. Enter KING HENRY, GLOUCESTER, and Soldiers]\nGod pless your majesty!


plain_text:
Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has\nvery gallantly maintained the pridge: the French is\ngone off, look you; and there is gallant and most\nprave passages; marry, th' athversary was have\npossession of the pridge; but he is enforced to\nretire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the\npridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke is a\nprave man.


plain_text:
The perdition of th' athversary hath been very\ngreat, reasonable great: marry, for my part, I\nthink the duke hath lost never a man, but one that\nis like to be executed for robbing a church, one\nBardolph, if your majesty know the man: his face is\nall bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o'\nfire: and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like\na coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red;\nbut his nose is executed and his fire's out.


plain_text:
We would have all such offenders so cut off: and we\ngive express charge, that in our marches through the\ncountry, there be nothing compelled from the\nvillages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the\nFrench upbraided or abused in disdainful language;\nfor when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the\ngentler gamester is the soonest winner.


plain_text:
Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry of England:\nThough we seemed dead, we did but sleep: advantage\nis a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we\ncould have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we\nthought not good to bruise an injury till it were\nfull ripe: now we speak upon our cue, and our voice\nis imperial: England shall repent his folly, see\nhis weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him\ntherefore consider of his ransom; which must\nproportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we\nhave lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in\nweight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under.\nFor our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the\neffusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too\nfaint a number; and for our disgrace, his own\nperson, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and\nworthless satisfaction. To this add defiance: and\ntell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his\nfollowers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far\nmy king and master; so much my office.


plain_text:
Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back.\nAnd tell thy king I do not seek him now;\nBut could be willing to march on to Calais\nWithout impeachment: for, to say the sooth,\nThough 'tis no wisdom to confess so much\nUnto an enemy of craft and vantage,\nMy people are with sickness much enfeebled,\nMy numbers lessened, and those few I have\nAlmost no better than so many French;\nWho when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,\nI thought upon one pair of English legs\nDid march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God,\nThat I do brag thus! This your air of France\nHath blown that vice in me: I must repent.\nGo therefore, tell thy master here I am;\nMy ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,\nMy army but a weak and sickly guard;\nYet, God before, tell him we will come on,\nThough France himself and such another neighbour\nStand in our way. There's for thy labour, Montjoy.\nGo bid thy master well advise himself:\nIf we may pass, we will; if we be hinder'd,\nWe shall your tawny ground with your red blood\nDiscolour: and so Montjoy, fare you well.\nThe sum of all our answer is but this:\nWe would not seek a battle, as we are;\nNor, as we are, we say we will not shun it:\nSo tell your master.


plain_text:
We are in God's hand, brother, not in theirs.\nMarch to the bridge; it now draws toward night:\nBeyond the river we'll encamp ourselves,\nAnd on to-morrow, bid them march away.


plain_text:
What a long night is this! I will not change my\nhorse with any that treads but on four pasterns.\nCa, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his\nentrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus,\nchez les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I\nsoar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth\nsings when he touches it; the basest horn of his\nhoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.


plain_text:
And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for\nPerseus: he is pure air and fire; and the dull\nelements of earth and water never appear in him, but\nonly in Patient stillness while his rider mounts\nhim: he is indeed a horse; and all other jades you\nmay call beasts.


plain_text:
It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the\nbidding of a monarch and his countenance enforces homage.


plain_text:
Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the\nrising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary\ndeserved praise on my palfrey: it is a theme as\nfluent as the sea: turn the sands into eloquent\ntongues, and my horse is argument for them all:\n'tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for\na sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the\nworld, familiar to us and unknown to lay apart\ntheir particular functions and wonder at him. I\nonce writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus:\n'Wonder of nature,'--


plain_text:
O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode,\nlike a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in\nyour straight strossers.


plain_text:
Be warned by me, then: they that ride so and ride\nnot warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have\nmy horse to my mistress.


plain_text:
'Le chien est retourne a son propre vomissement, et\nla truie lavee au bourbier;' thou makest use of any thing.


plain_text:
Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will\nit never be day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and\nmy way shall be paved with English faces.


plain_text:
I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of\nmy way: but I would it were morning; for I would\nfain be about the ears of the English.


plain_text:
By my faith, sir, but it is; never any body saw it\nbut his lackey: 'tis a hooded valour; and when it\nappears, it will bate.


plain_text:
Well placed: there stands your friend for the\ndevil: have at the very eye of that proverb with 'A\npox of the devil.'


plain_text:
A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were\nday! Alas, poor Harry of England! he longs not for\nthe dawning as we do.


plain_text:
What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of\nEngland, to mope with his fat-brained followers so\nfar out of his knowledge!


plain_text:
That they lack; for if their heads had any\nintellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy\nhead-pieces.


plain_text:
Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a\nRussian bear and have their heads crushed like\nrotten apples! You may as well say, that's a\nvaliant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.


plain_text:
Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the\nmastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving\ntheir wits with their wives: and then give them\ngreat meals of beef and iron and steel, they will\neat like wolves and fight like devils.


plain_text:
Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs\nto eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm:\ncome, shall we about it?


plain_text:
Now entertain conjecture of a time\nWhen creeping murmur and the poring dark\nFills the wide vessel of the universe.\nFrom camp to camp through the foul womb of night\nThe hum of either army stilly sounds,\nThat the fixed sentinels almost receive\nThe secret whispers of each other's watch:\nFire answers fire, and through their paly flames\nEach battle sees the other's umber'd face;\nSteed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs\nPiercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents\nThe armourers, accomplishing the knights,\nWith busy hammers closing rivets up,\nGive dreadful note of preparation:\nThe country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,\nAnd the third hour of drowsy morning name.\nProud of their numbers and secure in soul,\nThe confident and over-lusty French\nDo the low-rated English play at dice;\nAnd chide the cripple tardy-gaited night\nWho, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp\nSo tediously away. The poor condemned English,\nLike sacrifices, by their watchful fires\nSit patiently and inly ruminate\nThe morning's danger, and their gesture sad\nInvesting lank-lean; cheeks and war-worn coats\nPresenteth them unto the gazing moon\nSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold\nThe royal captain of this ruin'd band\nWalking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,\nLet him cry 'Praise and glory on his head!'\nFor forth he goes and visits all his host.\nBids them good morrow with a modest smile\nAnd calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.\nUpon his royal face there is no note\nHow dread an army hath enrounded him;\nNor doth he dedicate one jot of colour\nUnto the weary and all-watched night,\nBut freshly looks and over-bears attaint\nWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;\nThat every wretch, pining and pale before,\nBeholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:\nA largess universal like the sun\nHis liberal eye doth give to every one,\nThawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all,\nBehold, as may unworthiness define,\nA little touch of Harry in the night.\nAnd so our scene must to the battle fly;\nWhere--O for pity!--we shall much disgrace\nWith four or five most vile and ragged foils,\nRight ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous,\nThe name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,\nMinding true things by what their mockeries be.


plain_text:
Gloucester, 'tis true that we are in great danger;\nThe greater therefore should our courage be.\nGood morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!\nThere is some soul of goodness in things evil,\nWould men observingly distil it out.\nFor our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,\nWhich is both healthful and good husbandry:\nBesides, they are our outward consciences,\nAnd preachers to us all, admonishing\nThat we should dress us fairly for our end.\nThus may we gather honey from the weed,\nAnd make a moral of the devil himself.\n[Enter ERPINGHAM]\nGood morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:\nA good soft pillow for that good white head\nWere better than a churlish turf of France.


plain_text:
'Tis good for men to love their present pains\nUpon example; so the spirit is eased:\nAnd when the mind is quicken'd, out of doubt,\nThe organs, though defunct and dead before,\nBreak up their drowsy grave and newly move,\nWith casted slough and fresh legerity.\nLend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both,\nCommend me to the princes in our camp;\nDo my good morrow to them, and anon\nDesire them an to my pavilion.


plain_text:
No, my good knight;\nGo with my brothers to my lords of England:\nI and my bosom must debate awhile,\nAnd then I would no other company.


plain_text:
The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,\nA lad of life, an imp of fame;\nOf parents good, of fist most valiant.\nI kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string\nI love the lovely bully. What is thy name?


plain_text:
So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is\nthe greatest admiration of the universal world, when\nthe true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the\nwars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to\nexamine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall\nfind, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle toddle\nnor pibble pabble in Pompey's camp; I warrant you,\nyou shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the\ncares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety\nof it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.


plain_text:
If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating\ncoxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also,\nlook you, be an ass and a fool and a prating\ncoxcomb? in your own conscience, now?


plain_text:
We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think\nwe shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?


plain_text:
No; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I\nspeak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I\nam: the violet smells to him as it doth to me: the\nelement shows to him as it doth to me; all his\nsenses have but human conditions: his ceremonies\nlaid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and\nthough his affections are higher mounted than ours,\nyet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like\nwing. Therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we\ndo, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish\nas ours are: yet, in reason, no man should possess\nhim with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing\nit, should dishearten his army.


plain_text:
He may show what outward courage he will; but I\nbelieve, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish\nhimself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he\nwere, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.


plain_text:
By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king:\nI think he would not wish himself any where but\nwhere he is.


plain_text:
Then I would he were here alone; so should he be\nsure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved.


plain_text:
I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here\nalone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men's\nminds: methinks I could not die any where so\ncontented as in the king's company; his cause being\njust and his quarrel honourable.


plain_text:
Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know\nenough, if we know we are the kings subjects: if\nhis cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes\nthe crime of it out of us.


plain_text:
But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath\na heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and\narms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join\ntogether at the latter day and cry all 'We died at\nsuch a place;' some swearing, some crying for a\nsurgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind\nthem, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their\nchildren rawly left. I am afeard there are few die\nwell that die in a battle; for how can they\ncharitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their\nargument? Now, if these men do not die well, it\nwill be a black matter for the king that led them to\nit; whom to disobey were against all proportion of\nsubjection.


plain_text:
So, if a son that is by his father sent about\nmerchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the\nimputation of his wickedness by your rule, should be\nimposed upon his father that sent him: or if a\nservant, under his master's command transporting a\nsum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in\nmany irreconciled iniquities, you may call the\nbusiness of the master the author of the servant's\ndamnation: but this is not so: the king is not\nbound to answer the particular endings of his\nsoldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of\nhis servant; for they purpose not their death, when\nthey purpose their services. Besides, there is no\nking, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to\nthe arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all\nunspotted soldiers: some peradventure have on them\nthe guilt of premeditated and contrived murder;\nsome, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of\nperjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that\nhave before gored the gentle bosom of peace with\npillage and robbery. Now, if these men have\ndefeated the law and outrun native punishment,\nthough they can outstrip men, they have no wings to\nfly from God: war is his beadle, war is vengeance;\nso that here men are punished for before-breach of\nthe king's laws in now the king's quarrel: where\nthey feared the death, they have borne life away;\nand where they would be safe, they perish: then if\nthey die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of\ntheir damnation than he was before guilty of those\nimpieties for the which they are now visited. Every\nsubject's duty is the king's; but every subject's\nsoul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in\nthe wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every\nmote out of his conscience: and dying so, death\nis to him advantage; or not dying, the time was\nblessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained:\nand in him that escapes, it were not sin to think\nthat, making God so free an offer, He let him\noutlive that day to see His greatness and to teach\nothers how they should prepare.


plain_text:
Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but\nwhen our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we\nne'er the wiser.


plain_text:
You pay him then. That's a perilous shot out of an\nelder-gun, that a poor and private displeasure can\ndo against a monarch! you may as well go about to\nturn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a\npeacock's feather. You'll never trust his word\nafter! come, 'tis a foolish saying.


plain_text:
Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my\nbonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I\nwill make it my quarrel.


plain_text:
This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come\nto me and say, after to-morrow, 'This is my glove,'\nby this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.


plain_text:
Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we have\nFrench quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.


plain_text:
Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to\none, they will beat us; for they bear them on their\nshoulders: but it is no English treason to cut\nFrench crowns, and to-morrow the king himself will\nbe a clipper.\n[Exeunt soldiers]\nUpon the king! let us our lives, our souls,\nOur debts, our careful wives,\nOur children and our sins lay on the king!\nWe must bear all. O hard condition,\nTwin-born with greatness, subject to the breath\nOf every fool, whose sense no more can feel\nBut his own wringing! What infinite heart's-ease\nMust kings neglect, that private men enjoy!\nAnd what have kings, that privates have not too,\nSave ceremony, save general ceremony?\nAnd what art thou, thou idle ceremony?\nWhat kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more\nOf mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?\nWhat are thy rents? what are thy comings in?\nO ceremony, show me but thy worth!\nWhat is thy soul of adoration?\nArt thou aught else but place, degree and form,\nCreating awe and fear in other men?\nWherein thou art less happy being fear'd\nThan they in fearing.\nWhat drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,\nBut poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,\nAnd bid thy ceremony give thee cure!\nThink'st thou the fiery fever will go out\nWith titles blown from adulation?\nWill it give place to flexure and low bending?\nCanst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,\nCommand the health of it? No, thou proud dream,\nThat play'st so subtly with a king's repose;\nI am a king that find thee, and I know\n'Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,\nThe sword, the mace, the crown imperial,\nThe intertissued robe of gold and pearl,\nThe farced title running 'fore the king,\nThe throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp\nThat beats upon the high shore of this world,\nNo, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,\nNot all these, laid in bed majestical,\nCan sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,\nWho with a body fill'd and vacant mind\nGets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread;\nNever sees horrid night, the child of hell,\nBut, like a lackey, from the rise to set\nSweats in the eye of Phoebus and all night\nSleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,\nDoth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,\nAnd follows so the ever-running year,\nWith profitable labour, to his grave:\nAnd, but for ceremony, such a wretch,\nWinding up days with toil and nights with sleep,\nHad the fore-hand and vantage of a king.\nThe slave, a member of the country's peace,\nEnjoys it; but in gross brain little wots\nWhat watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,\nWhose hours the peasant best advantages.


plain_text:
O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts;\nPossess them not with fear; take from them now\nThe sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers\nPluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,\nO, not to-day, think not upon the fault\nMy father made in compassing the crown!\nI Richard's body have interred anew;\nAnd on it have bestow'd more contrite tears\nThan from it issued forced drops of blood:\nFive hundred poor I have in yearly pay,\nWho twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up\nToward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built\nTwo chantries, where the sad and solemn priests\nSing still for Richard's soul. More will I do;\nThough all that I can do is nothing worth,\nSince that my penitence comes after all,\nImploring pardon.


plain_text:
My brother Gloucester's voice? Ay;\nI know thy errand, I will go with thee:\nThe day, my friends and all things stay for me.


plain_text:
Mount them, and make incision in their hides,\nThat their hot blood may spin in English eyes,\nAnd dout them with superfluous courage, ha!


plain_text:
To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!\nDo but behold yon poor and starved band,\nAnd your fair show shall suck away their souls,\nLeaving them but the shales and husks of men.\nThere is not work enough for all our hands;\nScarce blood enough in all their sickly veins\nTo give each naked curtle-axe a stain,\nThat our French gallants shall to-day draw out,\nAnd sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,\nThe vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.\n'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,\nThat our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,\nWho in unnecessary action swarm\nAbout our squares of battle, were enow\nTo purge this field of such a hilding foe,\nThough we upon this mountain's basis by\nTook stand for idle speculation:\nBut that our honours must not. What's to say?\nA very little little let us do.\nAnd all is done. Then let the trumpets sound\nThe tucket sonance and the note to mount;\nFor our approach shall so much dare the field\nThat England shall couch down in fear and yield.


plain_text:
Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?\nYon island carrions, desperate of their bones,\nIll-favouredly become the morning field:\nTheir ragged curtains poorly are let loose,\nAnd our air shakes them passing scornfully:\nBig Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host\nAnd faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:\nThe horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,\nWith torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades\nLob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,\nThe gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes\nAnd in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit\nLies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless;\nAnd their executors, the knavish crows,\nFly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.\nDescription cannot suit itself in words\nTo demonstrate the life of such a battle\nIn life so lifeless as it shows itself.


plain_text:
Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits\nAnd give their fasting horses provender,\nAnd after fight with them?


plain_text:
I stay but for my guidon: to the field!\nI will the banner from a trumpet take,\nAnd use it for my haste. Come, come, away!\nThe sun is high, and we outwear the day.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Enter GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, ERPINGHAM, with]\nall his host: SALISBURY and WESTMORELAND]


plain_text:
God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds.\nGod be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge:\nIf we no more meet till we meet in heaven,\nThen, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,\nMy dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,\nAnd my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!


plain_text:
Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day:\nAnd yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,\nFor thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.


plain_text:
What's he that wishes so?\nMy cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:\nIf we are mark'd to die, we are enow\nTo do our country loss; and if to live,\nThe fewer men, the greater share of honour.\nGod's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.\nBy Jove, I am not covetous for gold,\nNor care I who doth feed upon my cost;\nIt yearns me not if men my garments wear;\nSuch outward things dwell not in my desires:\nBut if it be a sin to covet honour,\nI am the most offending soul alive.\nNo, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:\nGod's peace! I would not lose so great an honour\nAs one man more, methinks, would share from me\nFor the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!\nRather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,\nThat he which hath no stomach to this fight,\nLet him depart; his passport shall be made\nAnd crowns for convoy put into his purse:\nWe would not die in that man's company\nThat fears his fellowship to die with us.\nThis day is called the feast of Crispian:\nHe that outlives this day, and comes safe home,\nWill stand a tip-toe when the day is named,\nAnd rouse him at the name of Crispian.\nHe that shall live this day, and see old age,\nWill yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,\nAnd say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'\nThen will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.\nAnd say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'\nOld men forget: yet all shall be forgot,\nBut he'll remember with advantages\nWhat feats he did that day: then shall our names.\nFamiliar in his mouth as household words\nHarry the king, Bedford and Exeter,\nWarwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,\nBe in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.\nThis story shall the good man teach his son;\nAnd Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,\nFrom this day to the ending of the world,\nBut we in it shall be remember'd;\nWe few, we happy few, we band of brothers;\nFor he to-day that sheds his blood with me\nShall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,\nThis day shall gentle his condition:\nAnd gentlemen in England now a-bed\nShall think themselves accursed they were not here,\nAnd hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks\nThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.


plain_text:
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:\nThe French are bravely in their battles set,\nAnd will with all expedience charge on us.


plain_text:
Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men;\nWhich likes me better than to wish us one.\nYou know your places: God be with you all!


plain_text:
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,\nIf for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,\nBefore thy most assured overthrow:\nFor certainly thou art so near the gulf,\nThou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,\nThe constable desires thee thou wilt mind\nThy followers of repentance; that their souls\nMay make a peaceful and a sweet retire\nFrom off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies\nMust lie and fester.


plain_text:
I pray thee, bear my former answer back:\nBid them achieve me and then sell my bones.\nGood God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?\nThe man that once did sell the lion's skin\nWhile the beast lived, was killed with hunting him.\nA many of our bodies shall no doubt\nFind native graves; upon the which, I trust,\nShall witness live in brass of this day's work:\nAnd those that leave their valiant bones in France,\nDying like men, though buried in your dunghills,\nThey shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet them,\nAnd draw their honours reeking up to heaven;\nLeaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,\nThe smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.\nMark then abounding valour in our English,\nThat being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,\nBreak out into a second course of mischief,\nKilling in relapse of mortality.\nLet me speak proudly: tell the constable\nWe are but warriors for the working-day;\nOur gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd\nWith rainy marching in the painful field;\nThere's not a piece of feather in our host--\nGood argument, I hope, we will not fly--\nAnd time hath worn us into slovenry:\nBut, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;\nAnd my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night\nThey'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck\nThe gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads\nAnd turn them out of service. If they do this,--\nAs, if God please, they shall,--my ransom then\nWill soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour;\nCome thou no more for ransom, gentle herald:\nThey shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;\nWhich if they have as I will leave 'em them,\nShall yield them little, tell the constable.


plain_text:
O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:\nPerpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark;\nO Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,\nExcept, O signieur, thou do give to me\nEgregious ransom.


plain_text:
Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys;\nOr I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat\nIn drops of crimson blood.


plain_text:
Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys?\nCome hither, boy: ask me this slave in French\nWhat is his name.


plain_text:
Il me commande de vous dire que vous faites vous\npret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a cette\nheure de couper votre gorge.


plain_text:
Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,\nPeasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;\nOr mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.


plain_text:
O, je vous supplie, pour l'amour de Dieu, me\npardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison:\ngardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents ecus.


plain_text:
He prays you to save his life: he is a gentleman of\na good house; and for his ransom he will give you\ntwo hundred crowns.


plain_text:
Encore qu'il est contre son jurement de pardonner\naucun prisonnier, neanmoins, pour les ecus que vous\nl'avez promis, il est content de vous donner la\nliberte, le franchisement.


plain_text:
Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et\nje m'estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les\nmains d'un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave,\nvaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d'Angleterre.


plain_text:
He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and\nhe esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into\nthe hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave,\nvalorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England.


plain_text:
Suivez-vous le grand capitaine.\n[Exeunt PISTOL, and French Soldier]\nI did never know so full a voice issue from so\nempty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty\nvessel makes the greatest sound.' Bardolph and Nym\nhad ten times more valour than this roaring devil i'\nthe old play, that every one may pare his nails with\na wooden dagger; and they are both hanged; and so\nwould this be, if he durst steal any thing\nadventurously. I must stay with the lackeys, with\nthe luggage of our camp: the French might have a\ngood prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is\nnone to guard it but boys.


plain_text:
Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!\nReproach and everlasting shame\nSits mocking in our plumes. O merchante fortune!\nDo not run away.


plain_text:
Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame!\nLet us die in honour: once more back again;\nAnd he that will not follow Bourbon now,\nLet him go hence, and with his cap in hand,\nLike a base pander, hold the chamber-door\nWhilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,\nHis fairest daughter is contaminated.


plain_text:
We are enow yet living in the field\nTo smother up the English in our throngs,\nIf any order might be thought upon.


plain_text:
Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour\nI saw him down; thrice up again and fighting;\nFrom helmet to the spur all blood he was.


plain_text:
In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,\nLarding the plain; and by his bloody side,\nYoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,\nThe noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.\nSuffolk first died: and York, all haggled over,\nComes to him, where in gore he lay insteep'd,\nAnd takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes\nThat bloodily did spawn upon his face;\nAnd cries aloud 'Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!\nMy soul shall thine keep company to heaven;\nTarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast,\nAs in this glorious and well-foughten field\nWe kept together in our chivalry!'\nUpon these words I came and cheer'd him up:\nHe smiled me in the face, raught me his hand,\nAnd, with a feeble gripe, says 'Dear my lord,\nCommend my service to me sovereign.'\nSo did he turn and over Suffolk's neck\nHe threw his wounded arm and kiss'd his lips;\nAnd so espoused to death, with blood he seal'd\nA testament of noble-ending love.\nThe pretty and sweet manner of it forced\nThose waters from me which I would have stopp'd;\nBut I had not so much of man in me,\nAnd all my mother came into mine eyes\nAnd gave me up to tears.


plain_text:
I blame you not;\nFor, hearing this, I must perforce compound\nWith mistful eyes, or they will issue too.\n[Alarum]\nBut, hark! what new alarum is this same?\nThe French have reinforced their scatter'd men:\nThen every soldier kill his prisoners:\nGive the word through.


plain_text:
Kill the poys and the luggage! 'tis expressly\nagainst the law of arms: 'tis as arrant a piece of\nknavery, mark you now, as can be offer't; in your\nconscience, now, is it not?


plain_text:
'Tis certain there's not a boy left alive; and the\ncowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha' done\nthis slaughter: besides, they have burned and\ncarried away all that was in the king's tent;\nwherefore the king, most worthily, hath caused every\nsoldier to cut his prisoner's throat. O, 'tis a\ngallant king!


plain_text:
Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What\ncall you the town's name where Alexander the Pig was born!


plain_text:
Why, I pray you, is not pig great? the pig, or the\ngreat, or the mighty, or the huge, or the\nmagnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase\nis a little variations.


plain_text:
I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon; his\nfather was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.


plain_text:
I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I\ntell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the\n'orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons\nbetween Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations,\nlook you, is both alike. There is a river in\nMacedon; and there is also moreover a river at\nMonmouth: it is called Wye at Monmouth; but it is\nout of my prains what is the name of the other\nriver; but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is\nto my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you\nmark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life\nis come after it indifferent well; for there is\nfigures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and\nyou know, in his rages, and his furies, and his\nwraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his\ndispleasures, and his indignations, and also being a\nlittle intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and\nhis angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.


plain_text:
It is not well done, mark you now take the tales out\nof my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak\nbut in the figures and comparisons of it: as\nAlexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his\nales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in\nhis right wits and his good judgments, turned away\nthe fat knight with the great belly-doublet: he\nwas full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and\nmocks; I have forgot his name.


plain_text:
Here comes his majesty.\n[Alarum. Enter KING HENRY, and forces; WARWICK,]\nGLOUCESTER, EXETER, and others]


plain_text:
I was not angry since I came to France\nUntil this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;\nRide thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:\nIf they will fight with us, bid them come down,\nOr void the field; they do offend our sight:\nIf they'll do neither, we will come to them,\nAnd make them skirr away, as swift as stones\nEnforced from the old Assyrian slings:\nBesides, we'll cut the throats of those we have,\nAnd not a man of them that we shall take\nShall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.


plain_text:
How now! what means this, herald? know'st thou not\nThat I have fined these bones of mine for ransom?\nComest thou again for ransom?


plain_text:
No, great king:\nI come to thee for charitable licence,\nThat we may wander o'er this bloody field\nTo look our dead, and then to bury them;\nTo sort our nobles from our common men.\nFor many of our princes--woe the while!--\nLie drown'd and soak'd in mercenary blood;\nSo do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs\nIn blood of princes; and their wounded steeds\nFret fetlock deep in gore and with wild rage\nYerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,\nKilling them twice. O, give us leave, great king,\nTo view the field in safety and dispose\nOf their dead bodies!


plain_text:
I tell thee truly, herald,\nI know not if the day be ours or no;\nFor yet a many of your horsemen peer\nAnd gallop o'er the field.


plain_text:
Your grandfather of famous memory, an't please your\nmajesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack\nPrince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles,\nfought a most prave pattle here in France.


plain_text:
Your majesty says very true: if your majesties is\nremembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a\ngarden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their\nMonmouth caps; which, your majesty know, to this\nhour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do\nbelieve your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek\nupon Saint Tavy's day.


plain_text:
All the water in Wye cannot wash your majesty's\nWelsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that:\nGod pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases\nhis grace, and his majesty too!


plain_text:
By Jeshu, I am your majesty's countryman, I care not\nwho know it; I will confess it to all the 'orld: I\nneed not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised be\nGod, so long as your majesty is an honest man.


plain_text:
God keep me so! Our heralds go with him:\nBring me just notice of the numbers dead\nOn both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.


plain_text:
An't please your majesty, a rascal that swaggered\nwith me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to\nchallenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box\no' th' ear: or if I can see my glove in his cap,\nwhich he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear\nif alive, I will strike it out soundly.


plain_text:
Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as\nLucifer and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look\nyour grace, that he keep his vow and his oath: if\nhe be perjured, see you now, his reputation is as\narrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black\nshoe trod upon God's ground and his earth, in my\nconscience, la!


plain_text:
Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and\nstick it in thy cap: when Alencon and myself were\ndown together, I plucked this glove from his helm:\nif any man challenge this, he is a friend to\nAlencon, and an enemy to our person; if thou\nencounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love.


plain_text:
Your grace doo's me as great honours as can be\ndesired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain\nsee the man, that has but two legs, that shall find\nhimself aggrieved at this glove; that is all; but I\nwould fain see it once, an please God of his grace\nthat I might see.


plain_text:
My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,\nFollow Fluellen closely at the heels:\nThe glove which I have given him for a favour\nMay haply purchase him a box o' th' ear;\nIt is the soldier's; I by bargain should\nWear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick:\nIf that the soldier strike him, as I judge\nBy his blunt bearing he will keep his word,\nSome sudden mischief may arise of it;\nFor I do know Fluellen valiant\nAnd, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder,\nAnd quickly will return an injury:\nFollow and see there be no harm between them.\nGo you with me, uncle of Exeter.


plain_text:
God's will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you\nnow, come apace to the king: there is more good\ntoward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.


plain_text:
That's a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his\nmajesty's name, apprehend him: he's a friend of the\nDuke Alencon's.


plain_text:
My Lord of Warwick, here is--praised be God for it!\n--a most contagious treason come to light, look\nyou, as you shall desire in a summer's day. Here is\nhis majesty.


plain_text:
My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that,\nlook your grace, has struck the glove which your\nmajesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon.


plain_text:
My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of\nit; and he that I gave it to in change promised to\nwear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, if he\ndid: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I\nhave been as good as my word.


plain_text:
Your majesty hear now, saving your majesty's\nmanhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy\nknave it is: I hope your majesty is pear me\ntestimony and witness, and will avouchment, that\nthis is the glove of Alencon, that your majesty is\ngive me; in your conscience, now?


plain_text:
Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is the\nfellow of it.\n'Twas I, indeed, thou promised'st to strike;\nAnd thou hast given me most bitter terms.


plain_text:
All offences, my lord, come from the heart: never\ncame any from mine that might offend your majesty.


plain_text:
Your majesty came not like yourself: you appeared to\nme but as a common man; witness the night, your\ngarments, your lowliness; and what your highness\nsuffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for\nyour own fault and not mine: for had you been as I\ntook you for, I made no offence; therefore, I\nbeseech your highness, pardon me.


plain_text:
Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns,\nAnd give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow;\nAnd wear it for an honour in thy cap\nTill I do challenge it. Give him the crowns:\nAnd, captain, you must needs be friends with him.


plain_text:
By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle\nenough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence\nfor you; and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you\nout of prawls, and prabbles' and quarrels, and\ndissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.


plain_text:
It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will\nserve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore should\nyou be so pashful? your shoes is not so good: 'tis\na good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.


plain_text:
Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king;\nJohn Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt:\nOf other lords and barons, knights and squires,\nFull fifteen hundred, besides common men.


plain_text:
This note doth tell me of ten thousand French\nThat in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number,\nAnd nobles bearing banners, there lie dead\nOne hundred twenty six: added to these,\nOf knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,\nEight thousand and four hundred; of the which,\nFive hundred were but yesterday dubb'd knights:\nSo that, in these ten thousand they have lost,\nThere are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;\nThe rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires,\nAnd gentlemen of blood and quality.\nThe names of those their nobles that lie dead:\nCharles Delabreth, high constable of France;\nJaques of Chatillon, admiral of France;\nThe master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures;\nGreat Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dolphin,\nJohn Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant,\nThe brother of the Duke of Burgundy,\nAnd Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls,\nGrandpre and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix,\nBeaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.\nHere was a royal fellowship of death!\nWhere is the number of our English dead?\n[Herald shews him another paper]\nEdward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,\nSir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire:\nNone else of name; and of all other men\nBut five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here;\nAnd not to us, but to thy arm alone,\nAscribe we all! When, without stratagem,\nBut in plain shock and even play of battle,\nWas ever known so great and little loss\nOn one part and on the other? Take it, God,\nFor it is none but thine!


plain_text:
Come, go we in procession to the village.\nAnd be it death proclaimed through our host\nTo boast of this or take the praise from God\nWhich is his only.


plain_text:
Do we all holy rites;\nLet there be sung 'Non nobis' and 'Te Deum;'\nThe dead with charity enclosed in clay:\nAnd then to Calais; and to England then:\nWhere ne'er from France arrived more happy men.


plain_text:
Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story,\nThat I may prompt them: and of such as have,\nI humbly pray them to admit the excuse\nOf time, of numbers and due course of things,\nWhich cannot in their huge and proper life\nBe here presented. Now we bear the king\nToward Calais: grant him there; there seen,\nHeave him away upon your winged thoughts\nAthwart the sea. Behold, the English beach\nPales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,\nWhose shouts and claps out-voice the deep mouth'd sea,\nWhich like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king\nSeems to prepare his way: so let him land,\nAnd solemnly see him set on to London.\nSo swift a pace hath thought that even now\nYou may imagine him upon Blackheath;\nWhere that his lords desire him to have borne\nHis bruised helmet and his bended sword\nBefore him through the city: he forbids it,\nBeing free from vainness and self-glorious pride;\nGiving full trophy, signal and ostent\nQuite from himself to God. But now behold,\nIn the quick forge and working-house of thought,\nHow London doth pour out her citizens!\nThe mayor and all his brethren in best sort,\nLike to the senators of the antique Rome,\nWith the plebeians swarming at their heels,\nGo forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in:\nAs, by a lower but loving likelihood,\nWere now the general of our gracious empress,\nAs in good time he may, from Ireland coming,\nBringing rebellion broached on his sword,\nHow many would the peaceful city quit,\nTo welcome him! much more, and much more cause,\nDid they this Harry. Now in London place him;\nAs yet the lamentation of the French\nInvites the King of England's stay at home;\nThe emperor's coming in behalf of France,\nTo order peace between them; and omit\nAll the occurrences, whatever chanced,\nTill Harry's back-return again to France:\nThere must we bring him; and myself have play'd\nThe interim, by remembering you 'tis past.\nThen brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,\nAfter your thoughts, straight back again to France.


plain_text:
There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in\nall things: I will tell you, asse my friend,\nCaptain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly,\nlousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and\nyourself and all the world know to be no petter\nthan a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is\ncome to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday,\nlook you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in place\nwhere I could not breed no contention with him; but\nI will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see\nhim once again, and then I will tell him a little\npiece of my desires.


plain_text:
'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his\nturkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you\nscurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!


plain_text:
Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,\nTo have me fold up Parca's fatal web?\nHence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.


plain_text:
I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my\ndesires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat,\nlook you, this leek: because, look you, you do not\nlove it, nor your affections and your appetites and\nyour digestions doo's not agree with it, I would\ndesire you to eat it.


plain_text:
You say very true, scauld knave, when God's will is:\nI will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat\nyour victuals: come, there is sauce for it.\n[Strikes him]\nYou called me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will\nmake you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you,\nfall to: if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.


plain_text:
I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or\nI will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it\nis good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.


plain_text:
Much good do you, scauld knave, heartily. Nay, pray\nyou, throw none away; the skin is good for your\nbroken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks\nhereafter, I pray you, mock at 'em; that is all.


plain_text:
Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I\nhave another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.


plain_text:
If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in cudgels:\nyou shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but\ncudgels. God b' wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate.


plain_text:
Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will\nyou mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an\nhonourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of\npredeceased valour and dare not avouch in your deeds\nany of your words? I have seen you gleeking and\ngalling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You\nthought, because he could not speak English in the\nnative garb, he could not therefore handle an\nEnglish cudgel: you find it otherwise; and\nhenceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good\nEnglish condition. Fare ye well.


plain_text:
Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?\nNews have I, that my Nell is dead i' the spital\nOf malady of France;\nAnd there my rendezvous is quite cut off.\nOld I do wax; and from my weary limbs\nHonour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,\nAnd something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.\nTo England will I steal, and there I'll steal:\nAnd patches will I get unto these cudgell'd scars,\nAnd swear I got them in the Gallia wars.


plain_text:
[Exit]\n[Enter, at one door KING HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD,]\nGLOUCESTER, WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and other Lords;\nat another, the FRENCH KING, QUEEN ISABEL, the\nPRINCESS KATHARINE, ALICE and other Ladies; the\nDUKE of BURGUNDY, and his train]


plain_text:
Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met!\nUnto our brother France, and to our sister,\nHealth and fair time of day; joy and good wishes\nTo our most fair and princely cousin Katharine;\nAnd, as a branch and member of this royalty,\nBy whom this great assembly is contrived,\nWe do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;\nAnd, princes French, and peers, health to you all!


plain_text:
Right joyous are we to behold your face,\nMost worthy brother England; fairly met:\nSo are you, princes English, every one.


plain_text:
So happy be the issue, brother England,\nOf this good day and of this gracious meeting,\nAs we are now glad to behold your eyes;\nYour eyes, which hitherto have borne in them\nAgainst the French, that met them in their bent,\nThe fatal balls of murdering basilisks:\nThe venom of such looks, we fairly hope,\nHave lost their quality, and that this day\nShall change all griefs and quarrels into love.


plain_text:
My duty to you both, on equal love,\nGreat Kings of France and England! That I have labour'd,\nWith all my wits, my pains and strong endeavours,\nTo bring your most imperial majesties\nUnto this bar and royal interview,\nYour mightiness on both parts best can witness.\nSince then my office hath so far prevail'd\nThat, face to face and royal eye to eye,\nYou have congreeted, let it not disgrace me,\nIf I demand, before this royal view,\nWhat rub or what impediment there is,\nWhy that the naked, poor and mangled Peace,\nDear nurse of arts and joyful births,\nShould not in this best garden of the world\nOur fertile France, put up her lovely visage?\nAlas, she hath from France too long been chased,\nAnd all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,\nCorrupting in its own fertility.\nHer vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,\nUnpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach'd,\nLike prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,\nPut forth disorder'd twigs; her fallow leas\nThe darnel, hemlock and rank fumitory\nDoth root upon, while that the coulter rusts\nThat should deracinate such savagery;\nThe even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth\nThe freckled cowslip, burnet and green clover,\nWanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank,\nConceives by idleness and nothing teems\nBut hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs,\nLosing both beauty and utility.\nAnd as our vineyards, fallows, meads and hedges,\nDefective in their natures, grow to wildness,\nEven so our houses and ourselves and children\nHave lost, or do not learn for want of time,\nThe sciences that should become our country;\nBut grow like savages,--as soldiers will\nThat nothing do but meditate on blood,--\nTo swearing and stern looks, diffused attire\nAnd every thing that seems unnatural.\nWhich to reduce into our former favour\nYou are assembled: and my speech entreats\nThat I may know the let, why gentle Peace\nShould not expel these inconveniences\nAnd bless us with her former qualities.


plain_text:
If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace,\nWhose want gives growth to the imperfections\nWhich you have cited, you must buy that peace\nWith full accord to all our just demands;\nWhose tenors and particular effects\nYou have enscheduled briefly in your hands.


plain_text:
I have but with a cursorary eye\nO'erglanced the articles: pleaseth your grace\nTo appoint some of your council presently\nTo sit with us once more, with better heed\nTo re-survey them, we will suddenly\nPass our accept and peremptory answer.


plain_text:
Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,\nAnd brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester,\nWarwick and Huntingdon, go with the king;\nAnd take with you free power to ratify,\nAugment, or alter, as your wisdoms best\nShall see advantageable for our dignity,\nAny thing in or out of our demands,\nAnd we'll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister,\nGo with the princes, or stay here with us?


plain_text:
Our gracious brother, I will go with them:\nHaply a woman's voice may do some good,\nWhen articles too nicely urged be stood on.


plain_text:
Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:\nShe is our capital demand, comprised\nWithin the fore-rank of our articles.


plain_text:
Fair Katharine, and most fair,\nWill you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms\nSuch as will enter at a lady's ear\nAnd plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?


plain_text:
O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with\nyour French heart, I will be glad to hear you\nconfess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do\nyou like me, Kate?


plain_text:
The princess is the better Englishwoman. I' faith,\nKate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am\nglad thou canst speak no better English; for, if\nthou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king\nthat thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my\ncrown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but\ndirectly to say 'I love you:' then if you urge me\nfarther than to say 'do you in faith?' I wear out\nmy suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so\nclap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady?


plain_text:
Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for\nyour sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I\nhave neither words nor measure, and for the other, I\nhave no strength in measure, yet a reasonable\nmeasure in strength. If I could win a lady at\nleap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my\narmour on my back, under the correction of bragging\nbe it spoken. I should quickly leap into a wife.\nOr if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse\nfor her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and\nsit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God,\nKate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my\neloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation;\nonly downright oaths, which I never use till urged,\nnor never break for urging. If thou canst love a\nfellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth\nsun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love\nof any thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy\ncook. I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst\nlove me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee\nthat I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the\nLord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou\nlivest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and\nuncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee\nright, because he hath not the gift to woo in other\nplaces: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that\ncan rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do\nalways reason themselves out again. What! a\nspeaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A\ngood leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a\nblack beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow\nbald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax\nhollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the\nmoon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it\nshines bright and never changes, but keeps his\ncourse truly. If thou would have such a one, take\nme; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier,\ntake a king. And what sayest thou then to my love?\nspeak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.


plain_text:
No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of\nFrance, Kate: but, in loving me, you should love\nthe friend of France; for I love France so well that\nI will not part with a village of it; I will have it\nall mine: and, Kate, when France is mine and I am\nyours, then yours is France and you are mine.


plain_text:
No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am\nsure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married\nwife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook\noff. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand\nvous avez le possession de moi,--let me see, what\nthen? Saint Denis be my speed!--donc votre est\nFrance et vous etes mienne. It is as easy for me,\nKate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much\nmore French: I shall never move thee in French,\nunless it be to laugh at me.


plain_text:
No, faith, is't not, Kate: but thy speaking of my\ntongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs\nbe granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou\nunderstand thus much English, canst thou love me?


plain_text:
Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask\nthem. Come, I know thou lovest me: and at night,\nwhen you come into your closet, you'll question this\ngentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to\nher dispraise those parts in me that you love with\nyour heart: but, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the\nrather, gentle princess, because I love thee\ncruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a\nsaving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get\nthee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs\nprove a good soldier-breeder: shall not thou and I,\nbetween Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a\nboy, half French, half English, that shall go to\nConstantinople and take the Turk by the beard?\nshall we not? what sayest thou, my fair\nflower-de-luce?


plain_text:
No; 'tis hereafter to know, but now to promise: do\nbut now promise, Kate, you will endeavour for your\nFrench part of such a boy; and for my English moiety\ntake the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer\nyou, la plus belle Katharine du monde, mon tres cher\net devin deesse?


plain_text:
Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in\ntrue English, I love thee, Kate: by which honour I\ndare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to\nflatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor\nand untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew\nmy father's ambition! he was thinking of civil wars\nwhen he got me: therefore was I created with a\nstubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when\nI come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith,\nKate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear:\nmy comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of\nbeauty, can do no more, spoil upon my face: thou\nhast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou\nshalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better:\nand therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you\nhave me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the\nthoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress;\ntake me by the hand, and say 'Harry of England I am\nthine:' which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine\near withal, but I will tell thee aloud 'England is\nthine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Harry\nPlantagenet is thine;' who though I speak it before\nhis face, if he be not fellow with the best king,\nthou shalt find the best king of good fellows.\nCome, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is\nmusic and thy English broken; therefore, queen of\nall, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken\nEnglish; wilt thou have me?


plain_text:
Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: ma foi, je\nne veux point que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en\nbaisant la main d'une de votre seigeurie indigne\nserviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon\ntres-puissant seigneur.


plain_text:
O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear\nKate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak\nlist of a country's fashion: we are the makers of\nmanners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our\nplaces stops the mouth of all find-faults; as I will\ndo yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your\ncountry in denying me a kiss: therefore, patiently\nand yielding.\n[Kissing her]\nYou have witchcraft in your lips, Kate: there is\nmore eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the\ntongues of the French council; and they should\nsooner persuade Harry of England than a general\npetition of monarchs. Here comes your father.


plain_text:
Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not\nsmooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the\nheart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up\nthe spirit of love in her, that he will appear in\nhis true likeness.


plain_text:
Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you\nfor that. If you would conjure in her, you must\nmake a circle; if conjure up love in her in his true\nlikeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you\nblame her then, being a maid yet rosed over with the\nvirgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the\nappearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing\nself? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid\nto consign to.


plain_text:
I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will\nteach her to know my meaning: for maids, well\nsummered and warm kept, are like flies at\nBartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their\neyes; and then they will endure handling, which\nbefore would not abide looking on.


plain_text:
This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer;\nand so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the\nlatter end and she must be blind too.


plain_text:
It is so: and you may, some of you, thank love for\nmy blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city\nfor one fair French maid that stands in my way.


plain_text:
Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities\nturned into a maid; for they are all girdled with\nmaiden walls that war hath never entered.


plain_text:
I am content; so the maiden cities you talk of may\nwait on her: so the maid that stood in the way for\nmy wish shall show me the way to my will.


plain_text:
The king hath granted every article:\nHis daughter first, and then in sequel all,\nAccording to their firm proposed natures.


plain_text:
Only he hath not yet subscribed this:\nWhere your majesty demands, that the King of France,\nhaving any occasion to write for matter of grant,\nshall name your highness in this form and with this\naddition in French, Notre trescher fils Henri, Roi\nd'Angleterre, Heritier de France; and thus in\nLatin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex\nAngliae, et Haeres Franciae.


plain_text:
I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,\nLet that one article rank with the rest;\nAnd thereupon give me your daughter.


plain_text:
Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up\nIssue to me; that the contending kingdoms\nOf France and England, whose very shores look pale\nWith envy of each other's happiness,\nMay cease their hatred, and this dear conjunction\nPlant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord\nIn their sweet bosoms, that never war advance\nHis bleeding sword 'twixt England and fair France.


plain_text:
God, the best maker of all marriages,\nCombine your hearts in one, your realms in one!\nAs man and wife, being two, are one in love,\nSo be there 'twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,\nThat never may ill office, or fell jealousy,\nWhich troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage,\nThrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,\nTo make divorce of their incorporate league;\nThat English may as French, French Englishmen,\nReceive each other. God speak this Amen!


plain_text:
Prepare we for our marriage--on which day,\nMy Lord of Burgundy, we'll take your oath,\nAnd all the peers', for surety of our leagues.\nThen shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;\nAnd may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!\n[Sennet. Exeunt]\nEPILOGUE


plain_text:
Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,\nOur bending author hath pursued the story,\nIn little room confining mighty men,\nMangling by starts the full course of their glory.\nSmall time, but in that small most greatly lived\nThis star of England: Fortune made his sword;\nBy which the world's best garden be achieved,\nAnd of it left his son imperial lord.\nHenry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King\nOf France and England, did this king succeed;\nWhose state so many had the managing,\nThat they lost France and made his England bleed:\nWhich oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,\nIn your fair minds let this acceptance take.


plain_text:
Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!\nComets, importing change of times and states,\nBrandish your crystal tresses in the sky,\nAnd with them scourge the bad revolting stars\nThat have consented unto Henry's death!\nKing Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!\nEngland ne'er lost a king of so much worth.


plain_text:
England ne'er had a king until his time.\nVirtue he had, deserving to command:\nHis brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams:\nHis arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;\nHis sparking eyes, replete with wrathful fire,\nMore dazzled and drove back his enemies\nThan mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.\nWhat should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:\nHe ne'er lift up his hand but conquered.


plain_text:
We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?\nHenry is dead and never shall revive:\nUpon a wooden coffin we attend,\nAnd death's dishonourable victory\nWe with our stately presence glorify,\nLike captives bound to a triumphant car.\nWhat! shall we curse the planets of mishap\nThat plotted thus our glory's overthrow?\nOr shall we think the subtle-witted French\nConjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him\nBy magic verses have contrived his end?


plain_text:
He was a king bless'd of the King of kings.\nUnto the French the dreadful judgement-day\nSo dreadful will not be as was his sight.\nThe battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:\nThe church's prayers made him so prosperous.


plain_text:
The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd,\nHis thread of life had not so soon decay'd:\nNone do you like but an effeminate prince,\nWhom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe.


plain_text:
Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art protector\nAnd lookest to command the prince and realm.\nThy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,\nMore than God or religious churchmen may.


plain_text:
Name not religion, for thou lovest the flesh,\nAnd ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st\nExcept it be to pray against thy foes.


plain_text:
Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace:\nLet's to the altar: heralds, wait on us:\nInstead of gold, we'll offer up our arms:\nSince arms avail not now that Henry's dead.\nPosterity, await for wretched years,\nWhen at their mothers' moist eyes babes shall suck,\nOur isle be made a nourish of salt tears,\nAnd none but women left to wail the dead.\nHenry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:\nProsper this realm, keep it from civil broils,\nCombat with adverse planets in the heavens!\nA far more glorious star thy soul will make\nThan Julius Caesar or bright--


plain_text:
My honourable lords, health to you all!\nSad tidings bring I to you out of France,\nOf loss, of slaughter and discomfiture:\nGuienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans,\nParis, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.


plain_text:
What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse?\nSpeak softly, or the loss of those great towns\nWill make him burst his lead and rise from death.


plain_text:
Is Paris lost? is Rouen yielded up?\nIf Henry were recall'd to life again,\nThese news would cause him once more yield the ghost.


plain_text:
No treachery; but want of men and money.\nAmongst the soldiers this is muttered,\nThat here you maintain several factions,\nAnd whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought,\nYou are disputing of your generals:\nOne would have lingering wars with little cost;\nAnother would fly swift, but wanteth wings;\nA third thinks, without expense at all,\nBy guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd.\nAwake, awake, English nobility!\nLet not sloth dim your horrors new-begot:\nCropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms;\nOf England's coat one half is cut away.


plain_text:
Me they concern; Regent I am of France.\nGive me my steeled coat. I'll fight for France.\nAway with these disgraceful wailing robes!\nWounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,\nTo weep their intermissive miseries.


plain_text:
Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance.\nFrance is revolted from the English quite,\nExcept some petty towns of no import:\nThe Dauphin Charles is crowned king of Rheims;\nThe Bastard of Orleans with him is join'd;\nReignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;\nThe Duke of Alencon flieth to his side.


plain_text:
Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness?\nAn army have I muster'd in my thoughts,\nWherewith already France is overrun.


plain_text:
My gracious lords, to add to your laments,\nWherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse,\nI must inform you of a dismal fight\nBetwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.


plain_text:
O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown:\nThe circumstance I'll tell you more at large.\nThe tenth of August last this dreadful lord,\nRetiring from the siege of Orleans,\nHaving full scarce six thousand in his troop.\nBy three and twenty thousand of the French\nWas round encompassed and set upon.\nNo leisure had he to enrank his men;\nHe wanted pikes to set before his archers;\nInstead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges\nThey pitched in the ground confusedly,\nTo keep the horsemen off from breaking in.\nMore than three hours the fight continued;\nWhere valiant Talbot above human thought\nEnacted wonders with his sword and lance:\nHundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him;\nHere, there, and every where, enraged he flew:\nThe French exclaim'd, the devil was in arms;\nAll the whole army stood agazed on him:\nHis soldiers spying his undaunted spirit\nA Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain\nAnd rush'd into the bowels of the battle.\nHere had the conquest fully been seal'd up,\nIf Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward:\nHe, being in the vaward, placed behind\nWith purpose to relieve and follow them,\nCowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.\nHence grew the general wreck and massacre;\nEnclosed were they with their enemies:\nA base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace,\nThrust Talbot with a spear into the back,\nWhom all France with their chief assembled strength\nDurst not presume to look once in the face.


plain_text:
Is Talbot slain? then I will slay myself,\nFor living idly here in pomp and ease,\nWhilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,\nUnto his dastard foemen is betray'd.


plain_text:
O no, he lives; but is took prisoner,\nAnd Lord Scales with him and Lord Hungerford:\nMost of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise.


plain_text:
His ransom there is none but I shall pay:\nI'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne:\nHis crown shall be the ransom of my friend;\nFour of their lords I'll change for one of ours.\nFarewell, my masters; to my task will I;\nBonfires in France forthwith I am to make,\nTo keep our great Saint George's feast withal:\nTen thousand soldiers with me I will take,\nWhose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake.


plain_text:
So you had need; for Orleans is besieged;\nThe English army is grown weak and faint:\nThe Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,\nAnd hardly keeps his men from mutiny,\nSince they, so few, watch such a multitude.


plain_text:
Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,\nEither to quell the Dauphin utterly,\nOr bring him in obedience to your yoke.


plain_text:
I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can,\nTo view the artillery and munition;\nAnd then I will proclaim young Henry king.


plain_text:
To Eltham will I, where the young king is,\nBeing ordain'd his special governor,\nAnd for his safety there I'll best devise.


plain_text:
Each hath his place and function to attend:\nI am left out; for me nothing remains.\nBut long I will not be Jack out of office:\nThe king from Eltham I intend to steal\nAnd sit at chiefest stern of public weal.


plain_text:
[Exeunt]\n[Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and]\nREIGNIER, marching with drum and Soldiers]


plain_text:
Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens\nSo in the earth, to this day is not known:\nLate did he shine upon the English side;\nNow we are victors; upon us he smiles.\nWhat towns of any moment but we have?\nAt pleasure here we lie near Orleans;\nOtherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts,\nFaintly besiege us one hour in a month.


plain_text:
They want their porridge and their fat bull-beeves:\nEither they must be dieted like mules\nAnd have their provender tied to their mouths\nOr piteous they will look, like drowned mice.


plain_text:
Let's raise the siege: why live we idly here?\nTalbot is taken, whom we wont to fear:\nRemaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury;\nAnd he may well in fretting spend his gall,\nNor men nor money hath he to make war.


plain_text:
Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on them.\nNow for the honour of the forlorn French!\nHim I forgive my death that killeth me\nWhen he sees me go back one foot or fly.\n[Exeunt]\n[Here alarum; they are beaten back by the English]\nwith great loss. Re-enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER]


plain_text:
Who ever saw the like? what men have I!\nDogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled,\nBut that they left me 'midst my enemies.


plain_text:
Salisbury is a desperate homicide;\nHe fighteth as one weary of his life.\nThe other lords, like lions wanting food,\nDo rush upon us as their hungry prey.


plain_text:
Froissart, a countryman of ours, records,\nEngland all Olivers and Rowlands bred,\nDuring the time Edward the Third did reign.\nMore truly now may this be verified;\nFor none but Samsons and Goliases\nIt sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!\nLean, raw-boned rascals! who would e'er suppose\nThey had such courage and audacity?


plain_text:
Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd slaves,\nAnd hunger will enforce them to be more eager:\nOf old I know them; rather with their teeth\nThe walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege.


plain_text:
I think, by some odd gimmors or device\nTheir arms are set like clocks, stiff to strike on;\nElse ne'er could they hold out so as they do.\nBy my consent, we'll even let them alone.


plain_text:
Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd:\nHath the late overthrow wrought this offence?\nBe not dismay'd, for succor is at hand:\nA holy maid hither with me I bring,\nWhich by a vision sent to her from heaven\nOrdained is to raise this tedious siege\nAnd drive the English forth the bounds of France.\nThe spirit of deep prophecy she hath,\nExceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome:\nWhat's past and what's to come she can descry.\nSpeak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,\nFor they are certain and unfallible.


plain_text:
Go, call her in.\n[Exit BASTARD OF ORLEANS]\nBut first, to try her skill,\nReignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place:\nQuestion her proudly; let thy looks be stern:\nBy this means shall we sound what skill she hath.


plain_text:
Reignier, is't thou that thinkest to beguile me?\nWhere is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind;\nI know thee well, though never seen before.\nBe not amazed, there's nothing hid from me:\nIn private will I talk with thee apart.\nStand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile.


plain_text:
Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter,\nMy wit untrain'd in any kind of art.\nHeaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased\nTo shine on my contemptible estate:\nLo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs,\nAnd to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks,\nGod's mother deigned to appear to me\nAnd in a vision full of majesty\nWill'd me to leave my base vocation\nAnd free my country from calamity:\nHer aid she promised and assured success:\nIn complete glory she reveal'd herself;\nAnd, whereas I was black and swart before,\nWith those clear rays which she infused on me\nThat beauty am I bless'd with which you see.\nAsk me what question thou canst possible,\nAnd I will answer unpremeditated:\nMy courage try by combat, if thou darest,\nAnd thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.\nResolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate,\nIf thou receive me for thy warlike mate.


plain_text:
Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms:\nOnly this proof I'll of thy valour make,\nIn single combat thou shalt buckle with me,\nAnd if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;\nOtherwise I renounce all confidence.


plain_text:
I am prepared: here is my keen-edged sword,\nDeck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side;\nThe which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine's\nchurchyard,\nOut of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.


plain_text:
Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me:\nImpatiently I burn with thy desire;\nMy heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.\nExcellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,\nLet me thy servant and not sovereign be:\n'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.


