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The First Part of
With the Life and Death of
HENRY Sirnamed Hot-Spur.
A CT I. SCENE I.
Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl
of Westmorland, and others..
No more the thirsty Entrails of this Soil
And furious close of civil Butchery,
West. My Liege, this hafte was hot in question,
K. Henry. It seems then, that the tidings of this Broila Brake off our Business for the Holy Land,
West. This, matcht with other like; my gracious Lord, Far more uneven and unwelcome News Came from the North, and thus it did report : On Holy-rood Day, the gallant Hot.fpur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
K. Henry. Here is a dear and true industrious Friend,
K. Henry. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak’lt me sin, In envy, that my Lord Northumberland Should be the Father of so blest a Son; A San, who is the Theam of Honour's Tongue: Amongst a Grove, the very streightest Plant, Who is sweet Fortune's Minion, and her Pride : Whilft I by looking on the Praise of him, See Rior and Dishonour stain the Brow Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov'd, That fume Night-tripping Fairy had exchang'd, In Cradle Cloaths, our Children where they lay, And callid mine Percy, his Plantagenet; Then would I have his Harry, and he mine: But let him from my Thoughes. What think you Coz, Of this young Percy's Pride? The Prisoners, Which he ii this Adventure hach surpriz'd,
To his own use he keeps, and sends me Word
Weft. This is his Uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,
K. Henry. But I have sent for him to answer this;
P. Henry. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old Sack and unbuttoning thee after Supper, and sleeping upon Benches in the Afternoon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly, which thou woulult truly know. What a Devil haft thou to do with the cime of the Day? unless Hours were Cups of Sack, and Minutes Capons, and Clocks the Tongues of Bawds, and Dials the signs of Leaping-Houses, and the blessed Sun himself a fair hot Wench in Flame-colour'd Taffata, I see no Reason why thou shouldlt be so superfluous, to demand the time of the Day.
Fal. Indeed you come near me now, Hal. For we that take Purses, go by the Moon and seven Stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that wandring Kniglt so fair. And I pray thee, sweet Wag, when thou art King, as God lave thy Grace, Majesty I should say, for Grace thou wilt have rone,
P. Henry. What! none ?
Fal. No, not so much as will serve to be Prologue to an Egg and Butter.
P. Henry. Well, how then ? Come roundly, roundly.
Fal. Marry then, sweet Wag, when thou art King, let not us that are Squires of the Night's Body, be call'd Thieves of the Day's Beauty. Let us be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moon; and let Men say, we be Men of good Government, being go. verned as the Sea is, by our noble and chast Mistress the Moon, under whole Countenance we steal.
P. Henry. Thou say'st well, and it holds well too; for the Fortune of us that are the Moon's Men, doth ebb and flow like the Sea, being govern'd as the Sea is, by the Moon, As for Proof, now: A Purse of Gold most refolutely soatch'd on Monday Night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday Morning; got with swearing, Laid by; and spent with cry, ing, Bring in: Now in as low an Ebb, as the foot of the Lad. der; and by and by in as tigh a flow as the ride of the Gallows.
Fal. Thou say it true, Lad: And is not my Hostess of the Tavern a most sweer Wench? ..
P. Henry. As is the Honey, my old Lad of the Castles and is not a Buff-Terkin a most sweet Robe of durance ?
Fal. How, how? How now mad Wag? What in thy Quips and thy Quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a Buff. Jerkin?'
P. Henry. Why, what a Pox have I to do with my Hostess of the Tavern? .. · Fal. Well, thou hast calld her to a reckoning many a time and ofc.
P. Henry. Did I ever call thee to pay thy Part 2 · Fal. No, I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there;
P. Henry. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my Coin would Aretch, and where it would not, I have us’d my Credit.
Fale Yea, and so us'd it, that were it here apparent, that thou art Heir apparent - But I prithee sweet Wag, shall there be Gallows standing in England when thou art King? and Resolution thus fobb’d as iť is, with the rusty curb of old Facher Antick the Law ? Do not thou when thou art a King; hang a Thief.
P. Henry. No, thou shalt.