Wor. The King will bid you Battel presently.
Dow. Defi him by the Lord of Westmorland.
Hot. Lord Dowglass; go you and tell him fo.
Dow. Marry and thall, and very willingly.

Exit Dowglafs.

Wor. There is no feeming Mercy in the King.
Hot. Did you beg any? God forbid.
Wer. I told him gently of our Grievances,
Of his Oath-breaking; which he mended thus,
By now forfwearing that he is forfworn,
He calls us Rebels, Traitors, and will scourge
With haughty Arms, this hateful Name in us.
Enter Dowglafs.

Dow. Arm, Gentlemen, to Arms, for I have thrown
A brave Defiance in King Henry's Teeth:

And Westmorland that was ingag'd did bear it,
Which cannot chule but bring him quickly on.

Wor. The Prince of Wales ftept forth before the King,
And, Nephew, challeng'd you to fingle Fight.
Hot. O, would the Quarrel lay upon our Heads,
And that no Man might draw fhort Breath to Day,
But I and Harry Monmouth. Tell me, tell me,
How fhew'd his Talking? Seem'd it in Contempt?
Ver. No by my Soul: I never in my Life
Did hear a Challenge urg'd more modeftly,
Unless a Brother fhould a Brother dare,
To gentle Exercife and proof of Arms.
He gave you all the Duties of a Man,
Trim'd up your Praifes with a princely Tongue,
Spoke your Defervings like a Chronicle,
Making you ever better than his Praise,
By ftill difpraifing Praife, valu'd with you:
And which became him like a Prince indeed,
He made a blufhing Cital of himself,

And chide his trewant Youth fo with a Grace,
As if he mafter'd there a double Spirit
Of teaching and of learning inftantly:
There did he paufe. But let me tell the World,
If he out-live the Envy of this Day,
England did never owe fo fweet a Hope,
So much minfconftrued in his Wantonnefs.

Hot.

Hot. Coufin, I think thou art enamoured
On his Follies; never did I hear
Of any Prince fo wild at Liberty.

But be he as he will, yet once e'er Night,
I will embrace him with a Soldier's Arm,
That he shall fhrink under my Courtefie.

Arm, arm with speed. And Fellows, Soldiers, Friends,
Better confider what you have to do,

Than I, that have not well the Gift of Tongue,
Can lift your Blood up with Perfuafion.

Enter a Messenger.

Mef. My Lord, here are Letters for you.
Hot. I cannot read them now.

O Gentlemen, the time of Life is short:
To spend that Shortnefs bafely were too long,
Tho' Life did ride upon a Dial's Point,
Still ending at the Arrival of an Hour.
And if we live, we live to tread on Kings:
If die; brave Death, when Princes die with us.
Now for our Confciences, the Arms are fair,
When the Intent for bearing them is just.

Enter another Meffenger.

Mef. My Lord, prepare, the King comes on apace.
Hot. I thank him, that he cuts me from my Tale,

For I profefs not talking: Only this,

Let each Man do his beft. And here I draw my
Whofe worthy Temper I intend to ftain
With the bleft Blood that I can meet withal,
In the Adventure of this perilous Day.
Now Efperance, Percy, and fet on:
Sound all the lofty Inftruments of War,
And by that Mufick, let us all embrace:
For Heav'n to Earth, fome of us never fhall,
A fecond time do fuch a courtefie.

Sword,

They embrace, then Exeunt. The Trumpets found, the King entreth with his Power,alarm unto the Battel. Then enter Dowglafs and Sir Walter Blunt.

Blunt. What is thy Name, that in Battel thus thou croffeft

What Honour doft thou feek upon my Head?
Dow. Know then, my Name is Dowglass,

(me?

And I do haunt thee in the Battel thus,
Because fome tell me, that thou art a King.

Blunt

Blunt. They tell thee true.

Dow. The Lord of Stafford dear to Day hath bought Thy Likeness; for inftead of thee, King Harry, This Sword hath ended him, fo fhall it thee,

Unless thou yield thee as a Prifoner.

Blunt. I was not born to yield, thou haughty Scot,
And thou shalt find a King that will revenge
Lord Stafford's Death.

Fight, Blunt is flain, then enter Hot-fpur.

Hot. O Dowglafs, hadft thou fought at Holmedon thus, I never had triumphed o'er a Scot.

Dow. All's done, all's won, here breathlefs lyes the King. Hot. Where?

Dow. Here.

Hot. This, Douglass? No, I know this Face full well:
A gallant Knight he was, his Name was Blunt,
Semblably furnish'd like the King himself.

Dow. Ah! Fool go with thy Soul whither it goes,
A borrow'd Title haft thou bought too dear.
Why didst thou tell me, that thou wert a King?
Hot. The King hath many marching in his Coats.
Dow. Now by my Sword, I will kill all his Coats,
I'll murther all his Wardrobe Piece by Piece,
Until I meet the King.

Hot. Up and away.

Our Soldiers ftand full fairly for the Day.

Alarm, enter Falstaff folus.

[Exeunt.

Fal. Though I could fcape fhot-free at London, I fear the Shot here: Here's no fcoring, but upon the Pate. Soft, who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt, there's Honour for you; here's no Vanity; I am as hot as moulten Lead, and as heavy too: Heav'n keep Lead out of me, I need no more Weight than mine own Bowels. I have led my Rag-o-' Muffians where they are pepper'd; there's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they for the Towns end to beg during Life. But who comes here?

Enter Prince Henry.

P. Henry. What ftand'ft thou idle here? lend me thy Sword, Many a noble Man lyes ftark and ftiff

Under the Hoofs of vaunting Enemies,

Whose Deaths are unreveng'd. Prithee lend me thy Sword.

Fal.

Fal. O Hal, I prithee give me leave to breath a while. Turk Gregory never did fuch Deeds in Arms, as I have done this Day. I have paid Percy, I have made him fure. P. Henry. He is indeed, and living to kill thee:

I prithee lend me thy Sword.

Fal. Nay, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'ft not my Sword: but take my Pistol if thou wilt.

P. Henry. Give it me: What, is it in the Cafe?
Fal. Ay Hal, 'tis hot: There's that will fack a City.

[The Prince draws out a Bottle of Sack. P. Henry. What, is it a time to jeft and dally now?

[Throws it at him, and Exit.

Fal. If Percy be alive, I'll pierce him; if he do come in my way, fo; if he do not, if I come in his, willingly, let him make a Carbonado of me. I like not fuch grinning Honour as Sir Walter hath: Give me Life, which if I can fave, fo; if not, Honour comes unlook'd for, and there's an end. [Exit.

Alarm, Excursions, Enter the King, the Prince, Lord John of Lancaster, and the Earl of Weftmorland.

K. Henry. I prithee, Harry, withdraw thy felf, thou bleedeft too much: Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him. Lan. Not I, my Lord, unless I did bleed too.

P. Henry. I bef ech your Majefty make up, Leaft your Retirement do amaze your Friends. K. Henry. I will do fɔ:

My Lord of Westmorland, lead him to his Tent.

Weft. Come my Lord, I'll lead you to your Tent.

P. Henry. Lead me, my Lord! I do not need your Help, And Heav'n forbid a fhallow Scratch fhould drive

The Prince of Wales from fuch a Field as this,
Where ftain'd Nobility lyes trodden on,
And Rebels Arms triumph in Maffacres.

Lan. We breath too long; come Coufin Westmorland, Our Duty this Way lyes, for Heav'ns fake come.

P. Henry. By Heav'n thou haft deceiv'd me, Lancaster, I did not think thee Lord of fuch a Spirit:

Before,

Before, I lov'd thee as a Brother, John;

But now, I do refpect thee as my

Soul.

K. Henry. I faw him hold Lord Percy at the Point, With luftier Maintenance than I did look for

Of fuch an ungrown Warrior.

P. Henry. O this Boy, lends Mettle to us all. [Exit. Énter Dowglafs.

Dow. Another King? They grow like Hydra's Heads: I am the Douglass fatal to all thofe

That wear thole Colours on them. What art thou

That counterfeit'ft the Perfon of a King?

[Heart

K. Henry. The King himself; who, Dowglass, grieves at So many of his Shadows thou haft met, And not the very King. I have two Boys Seek Percy and thy felf about the Field; But feeing thou fall'ft on me fo luckily I will affay thee: So defend thy felf. Dow. I fear thou art another Counterfeit; And yet in faith thou bear'st thee like a King: But mine I am fure thou art, who e'er thou be,

And thus I win thee. [They fight: The King being in Danger, Enter Prince Henry.

P. Henry. Hold up thy Head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up again: The Spirits

Of valiant Sherly, Stafford, Blunt, are in my Arms;
It is the Prince of Wales that threats thee,
Who never promifeth, but means to pay,

[They fight, Dowglafs flyeth.
Chearly, my Lord; how fares your Grace?
Sir Nicholas Gawfey hath for Succour fent,
And fo hath Clifton: I'll to Clifton ftreight.
K. Henry. Stay, and breath a while.
Thou haft redeem'd my loft Opinion,
And fhew'd thou mak'it fome tender of my Life
In this fair Rescue thou haft brought to me.

P. Henry. O Heav'n, they did too much Injury,
That ever faid I hearkned to your Death.
If it were fo, I might have let alone
The infulting Hand of Dowglafs over you,
Which would have been as fpeedy in your end,

As