Act IScene I
London. A Room in the Palace
Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland with others.
King
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,And breathe short-winded accents of new broilsTo be commenced in strands afar remote.No more the thirsty entrance of this soilShall daub her lips with her own children’s blood,No more shall trenching war channel her fields,Nor bruise her flow’rets with the armed hoofsOf hostile paces: those opposed eyes,Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,All of one nature, of one substance bred,Did lately meet in the intestine shockAnd furious close of civil butchery,Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,March all one way, and be no more opposedAgainst acquaintance, kindred, and allies.The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,As far as to the sepulchre of Christ—Whose soldier now, under whose blessed crossWe are impressed and engaged to fight—Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,Whose arms were molded in their mothers’ wombTo chase these pagans in those holy fieldsOver whose acres walked those blessed feetWhich fourteen hundred years ago were nailedFor our advantage on the bitter cross.But this our purpose now is twelve month old,And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go;Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hearOf you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,What yesternight our Council did decreeIn forwarding this dear expedience.
Westmoreland
My liege, this haste was hot in question,And many limits of the charge set downBut yesternight, when all athwart there cameA post from Wales loaden with heavy news,Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer,Leading the men of Herefordshire to fightAgainst the irregular and wild Glendower,Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,A thousand of his people butchered,Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,Such beastly shameless transformation,By those Welshwomen done, as may not beWithout much shame retold or spoken of.
King
It seems then that the tidings of this broilBrake off our business for the Holy Land.
Westmoreland
This, matched with other did, my gracious lord,For more uneven and unwelcome newsCame from the North, and thus it did import:On Holy-rood day the gallant Hotspur there,Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,That ever-valiant and approved Scot,At Holmedon met, where they did spendA sad and bloody hour;As by discharge of their artillery,And shape of likelihood, the news was told;For he that brought them, in the very heatAnd pride of their contention did take horse,Uncertain of the issue any way.
King
Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,Stained with the variation of each soilBetwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,Balked in their own blood, did Sir Walter seeOn Holmedon’s plains; of prisoners Hotspur tookMordake, Earl of Fife and eldest sonTo beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.And is not this an honourable spoil,A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?
Westmoreland
In faith, it is a conquest for a prince to boast of.
King
Yea, there thou mak’st me sad, and mak’st me sinIn envy that my Lord NorthumberlandShould be the father to so blest a son,A son who is the theme of honour’s tongue,Amongst a grove the very straightest plant,Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride;Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,See riot and dishonour stain the browOf my young Harry. O, that it could be provedThat some night-tripping fairy had exchangedIn cradle-clothes our children where they lay,And called mine Percy, his Plantagenet!Then would I have his Harry, and he mine:But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners,Which he in this adventure hath surprisedTo his own use he keeps, and sends me wordI shall have none but Mordake, Earl of Fife.
Westmoreland
This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester,Malevolent to you in all aspects,Which makes him prune himself, and bristle upThe crest of youth against your dignity.
King
But I have sent for him to answer this;And for this cause awhile we must neglectOur holy purpose to Jerusalem.Cousin, on Wednesday next our Council weWill hold at Windsor, so inform the lords:But come yourself with speed to us again,For more is to be said and to be doneThan out of anger can be uttered.
Westmoreland
I will, my liege.
Exeunt.