LITMIR.BIZ

      SCENE III.

       Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.

       Table of Contents

      [Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.]

      HOT. —But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your House.—He could be contented; why is he not, then? In respect of the love he bears our House!—he shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous;—Why, that’s certain: ‘tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain; the time itself unsorted; and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition.— Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zwounds! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? is there not, besides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimm’d milk with so honourable an action! Hang him! let him tell the King: we are prepared. I will set forward tonight.— [Enter Lady Percy.]

      How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.

      LADY.

       O, my good lord, why are you thus alone?

       For what offence have I this fortnight been

       A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed?

       Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from thee

       Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?

       Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,

       And start so often when thou sitt’st alone?

       Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;

       And given my treasures and my rights of thee

       To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?

       In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d,

       And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars;

       Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;

       Cry Courage! to the field! And thou hast talk’d

       Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,

       Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

       Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

       Of prisoners ransomed, and of soldiers slain,

       And all the ‘currents of a heady fight.

       Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

       And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep,

       That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

       Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream;

       And in thy face strange motions have appear’d,

       Such as we see when men restrain their breath

       On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?

       Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

       And I must know it, else he loves me not.

      HOT.

       What, ho!

      [Enter a Servant.]

      Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

      SERV.

       He is, my lord, an hour ago.

      HOT.

       Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

      SERV.

       One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

      HOT.

       What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

      SERV.

       It is, my lord.

      HOT.

       That roan shall be my throne.

       Well, I will back him straight: O esperance!—

       Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

      [Exit Servant.]

      LADY.

       But hear you, my lord.

      HOT.

       What say’st thou, my lady?

      LADY.

       What is it carries you away?

      HOT.

       Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

      LADY.

       Out, you mad-headed ape!

       A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

       As you are toss’d with. In faith,

       I’ll

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