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Henry IV, Part 1 Scenes

Scene 3

London. The palace.

(King Henry IV; Northumberland; Worcester; Hotspur; Sir Walter Blunt)

The angry King dismisses Worcester from his presence. Hotspur too quarrels with the King, explaining that he refused to send his prisoners because of the insolence of the King’s messenger. He further refuses to hand them over unless the King ransoms Mortimer, captured by the Welsh. The King refuses and leaves, ordering the prisoners to be sent along. Infuriated, Hotspur swears he will rebel against the King, who after all is a usurper who took the crown by force from Richard II. Mortimer was Richard’s official heir, and Hotspur is sure this is why Henry does not wish to ransom him. Hotspur’s father Northumberland and Worcester agree with him, urging that they gain support from the Archbishop of York, and raise troops in Scotland along with making common cause with the Welsh. With all these forces they plan to dethrone Henry and place Mortimer in his place. (313 lines)

Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, with others.


My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me, for accordingly

You tread upon my patience; but be sure

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition,

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,

And therefore lost that title of respect

Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.


Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be us’d on it,

And that same greatness too which our own hands

Have holp to make so portly.


My lord—


Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eye.

O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,

And majesty might never yet endure

The moody frontier of a servant brow.

You have good leave to leave us. When we need

Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

Exit Worcester.

You were about to speak.


Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your Highness’ name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied

As is delivered to your Majesty.

Either envy, therefore, or misprision

Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.


My liege, I did deny no prisoners,

But I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d,

Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new reap’d

Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home.

He was perfumed like a milliner,

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose and took’t away again,

Who therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff—and still he smil’d and talk’d:

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me, amongst the rest demanded

My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,

To be so pest’red with a popingay,

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what—

He should, or he should not—for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, God save the mark!

And telling me the sovereignest thing on earth

Was parmaciti for an inward bruise,

And that it was great pity, so it was,

This villainous saltpeter should be digg’d

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed

So cowardly, and but for these vile guns

He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answered indirectly, as I said,

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.


The circumstance considered, good my lord,

What e’er Lord Harry Percy then had said

To such a person, and in such a place,

At such a time, with all the rest retold,

May reasonably die, and never rise

To do him wrong, or any way impeach

What then he said, so he unsay it now.


Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,

But with proviso and exception,

That we at our own charge shall ransom straight

His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer,

Who, on my soul, hath willfully betray’d

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, that Earl of March

Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then

Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we buy treason? And indent with fears,

When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve;

For I shall never hold that man my friend

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost

To ransom home revolted Mortimer.


Revolted Mortimer!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war; to prove that true

Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,

Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,

When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank,

In single opposition hand to hand,

He did confound the best part of an hour

In changing hardiment with great Glendower.

Three times they breath’d and three times did they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood,

Who then affrighted with their bloody looks,

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,

Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.

Never did base and rotten policy

Color her working with such deadly wounds,

Nor never could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly.

Then let not him be slandered with revolt.


Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him;

He never did encounter with Glendower.

I tell thee,

He durst as well have met the devil alone

As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not asham’d? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland:

We license your departure with your son.

Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.

Exit King with Blunt and Train.


And if the devil come and roar for them,

I will not send them. I will after straight

And tell him so, for I will ease my heart,

Albeit I make a hazard of my head.


What? Drunk with choler? Stay, and pause a while.

Here comes your uncle.

Enter Worcester.


Speak of Mortimer!

’Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul

Want mercy if I do not join with him.

Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high in the air as this unthankful king,

As this ingrate and cank’red Bullingbrook.


Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.


Who struck this heat up after I was gone?


He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners,

And when I urg’d the ransom once again

Of my wive’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale,

And on my face he turn’d an eye of death,

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.


I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim’d

By Richard, that dead is, the next of blood?


He was, I heard the proclamation.

And then it was when the unhappy king

(Whose wrongs in us God pardon!) did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he intercepted did return

To be depos’d, and shortly murdered.


And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth

Live scandaliz’d and foully spoken of.


But soft, I pray you, did King Richard then

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

Heir to the crown?


He did, myself did hear it.


Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,

That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you, that set the crown

Upon the head of this forgetful man,

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murderous subornation—shall it be

That you a world of curses undergo,

Being the agents or base second means,

The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?

O, pardon me that I descend so low

To show the line and the predicament

Wherein you range under this subtle king!

Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,

Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

That men of your nobility and power

Did gage them both in an unjust behalf

(As both of you—God pardon it!—have done)

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,

And plant this thorn, this canker, Bullingbrook?

And shall it in more shame be further spoken,

That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off

By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

No, yet time serves wherein you may redeem

Your banish’d honors and restore yourselves

Into the good thoughts of the world again;

Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt

Of this proud king, who studies day and night

To answer all the debt he owes to you

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.

Therefore I say—


Peace, cousin, say no more.

And now I will unclasp a secret book,

And to your quick-conceiving discontents

I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous,

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

As to o’erwalk a current roaring loud

On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.


If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim.

Send danger from the east unto the west,

So honor cross it from the north to south,

And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs

To rouse a lion than to start a hare!


Imagination of some great exploit

Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.


By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,

To pluck bright honor from the pale-fac’d moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honor by the locks,

So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

Without corrival all her dignities;

But out upon this half-fac’d fellowship!


He apprehends a world of figures here,

But not the form of what he should attend.

Good cousin, give me audience for a while.


I cry you mercy.


Those same noble Scots

That are your prisoners—


I’ll keep them all!

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them,

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not!

I’ll keep them, by this hand.


You start away,

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.


Nay, I will; that’s flat.

He said he would not ransom Mortimer,

Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer,

But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I’ll holla “Mortimer!”


I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak

Nothing but “Mortimer,” and give it him

To keep his anger still in motion.


Hear you, cousin, a word.


All studies here I solemnly defy,

Save how to gall and pinch this Bullingbrook,

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,

But that I think his father loves him not

And would be glad he met with some mischance,

I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale.


Farewell, kinsman! I’ll talk to you

When you are better temper’d to attend.


Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool

Art thou to break into this woman’s mood,

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!


Why, look you, I am whipt and scourg’d with rods,

Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bullingbrook.

In Richard’s time—what do you call the place?—

A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire—

’Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept—

His uncle York—where I first bow’d my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bullingbrook—


When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh—


At Berkeley castle.


You say true.

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

“Look when his infant fortune came to age”

And “gentle Harry Percy” and “kind cousin”—

O, the devil take such cozeners!—God forgive me!

Good uncle, tell your tale—I have done.


Nay, if you have not, to it again,

We will stay your leisure.


I have done, i’ faith.


Then once more to your Scottish prisoners:

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas’ son your only mean

For powers in Scotland, which, for divers reasons

Which I shall send you written, be assur’d

Will easily be granted.

To Northumberland.

You, my lord,

Your son in Scotland being thus employed,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate well belov’d,

The Archbishop.


Of York, is it not?


True, who bears hard

His brother’s death at Bristow, the Lord Scroop.

I speak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know

Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,

And only stays but to behold the face

Of that occasion that shall bring it on.


I smell it. Upon my life, it will do well.


Before the game is afoot thou still let’st slip.


Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot.

And then the power of Scotland, and of York,

To join with Mortimer, ha?


And so they shall.


In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.


And ’tis no little reason bids us speed,

To save our heads by raising of a head,

For bear ourselves as even as we can,

The King will always think him in our debt,

And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,

Till he hath found a time to pay us home.

And see already how he doth begin

To make us strangers to his looks of love.


He does, he does, we’ll be reveng’d on him.


Cousin, farewell! No further go in this

Than I by letters shall direct your course.

When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,

I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer,

Where you and Douglas and our powers at once,

As I will fashion it, shall happily meet

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,

Which now we hold at much uncertainty.


Farewell, good brother, we shall thrive, I trust.


Uncle, adieu! O, let the hours be short,

Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport!



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