There is not now a rebel's sword unsheathed,
But peace puts forth her olive every where.
The manner how this action hath been borne,
Here, at more leisure, may your highness read;
With every course, in his particular.1

K. Hen. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,

Which ever in the haunch of winter sings

The lifting up of day. Look! here's more news.

Enter HARCourt.

Har. From enemies Heaven keep your majesty; And, when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you of!

The earl Northumberland, and the lord Bardolph,
With a great power of English and of Scots,
Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown :
The manner and true order of the fight,
This packet, please it you, contains at large.
K. Hen. And wherefore should these good news
make me sick?

Will Fortune never come with both hands full,
But write her fair words still in foulest letters?
She either gives a stomach, and no food,-
Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast,
And takes away the stomach;-such are the rich,
That have abundance, and enjoy it not.

The detail contained in Prince John's letter.

I should rejoice now at this happy news;

And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.

O me! come near me; now I am much ill. [swoons. P. Hum. Comfort, your majesty!

Cla.

O my royal father! West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look

up!

War. Be patient, princes; you do know, these fits Are with his highness very ordinary.

Stand from him; give him air: he'll straight be well.

Cla. No, no; he cannot long hold out these

pangs:

The incessant care and labor of his mind

Hath wrought the mure,1 that should confine it in, So thin, that life looks through, and will break out. P. Hum. The people fear me; for they do ob

serve

Unfather'd heirs,3 and loathly birds of nature:
The seasons change their manners, as the year
Had found some months asleep, and leap'd them

over.

Cla. The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb be

tween;

And the old folk, time's doting chronicles,

Say, it did so, a little time before

That our great grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died.

War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. P. Hum. This apoplex will, certain, be his end. K. Hen. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence

Into some other chamber: softly, pray.

[they convey the King into an inner part of the room, and place him on a bed.

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;
Unless some dull 1 and favorable hand

Will whisper music to my weary spirit.

War. Call for the music in the other room.

K. Hen. Set me the crown upon my pillow

here.

Cla. His eye is hollow, and he changes much.
War. Less noise, less noise.

P. Hen.

Enter PRINCE HENRY.

Who saw the duke of Clarence?

Cla. I am here, brother, full of heaviness.

P. Hen. How now! rain within doors, and none

abroad!

How doth the king?

P. Hum. Exceeding ill.

P. Hen.

Tell it him.

Heard he the good news yet?

P. Hum. He alter'd much upon the hearing it.

P. Hen. If he be sick

With joy, he will recover without physic.

'Melancholy, soothing.

War. Not so much noise, my lords :-sweet

prince, speak low;

The king your father is disposed to sleep.

Cla. Let us withdraw into the other room.

War. Will 't please your grace to go along with us?

king.

P. Hen. No; I will sit and watch here by the
[Exeunt all but Prince Henry.
Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
Being so troublesome a bedfellow?

O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night!-sleep with it now!
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound,
Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!

When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armor worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather, which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father!
This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep,

That from this golden rigol

2

hath divorced

So many English kings. Thy due, from me,

Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood;
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,
Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously: