Act IIIScene II
London. A Room in the Palace
Enter King Henry, Prince Henry and Lords.
King
Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and IMust have some private conference: but be near at hand,For we shall presently have need of you.
Exeunt Lords.
I know not whether God will have it soFor some displeasing service I have done,That, in His secret doom, out of my bloodHe’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me;But thou dost in thy passages of lifeMake me believe that thou art only mark’dFor the hot vengeance and the rod of heavenTo punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,Could such inordinate and low desires,Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,Such barren pleasures, rude society,As thou art match’d withal, and grafted to,Accompany the greatness of thy blood,And hold their level with thy princely heart?
Prince
So please your Majesty, I would I couldQuit all offences with as clear excuseAs well as I am doubtless I can purgeMyself of many I am charged withal.Yet such extenuation let me begAs, in reproof of many tales devised,By smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,I may for some things true, wherein my youthHath faulty wander’d and irregular,Find pardon on my true submission.
King
God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,At thy affections, which do hold a wingQuite from the flight of all thy ancestors.Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,Which by thy younger brother is supplied,And art almost an alien to the heartsOf all the court and princes of my blood.The hope and expectation of thy timeIs ruin’d, and the soul of every manProphetically do forethink thy fall.Had I so lavish of my presence been,So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men,So stale and cheap to vulgar company,Opinion, that did help me to the crown,Had still kept loyal to possession,And left me in reputeless banishment,A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.By being seldom seen, I could not stirBut like a comet I was wonder’d at,That men would tell their children, “This is he.”Others would say, “Where, which is Bolingbroke?”And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,And dress’d myself in such humilityThat I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts,Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,Even in the presence of the crowned King.Thus did I keep my person fresh and new,My presence, like a robe pontifical,Ne’er seen but wonder’d at, and so my state,Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast,And won by rareness such solemnity.The skipping King, he ambled up and downWith shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,Mingled his royalty, with cap’ring fools,Had his great name profaned with their scorns,And gave his countenance, against his name,To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the pushOf every beardless vain comparative;Grew a companion to the common streets,Enfeoff’d himself to popularity,That, being daily swallow’d by men’s eyes,They surfeited with honey, and beganTo loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a littleMore than a little is by much too much.So, when he had occasion to be seen,He was but as the cuckoo is in June,Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyesAs, sick and blunted with community,Afford no extraordinary gaze,Such as is bent on sun-like majestyWhen it shines seldom in admiring eyes,But rather drowsed and hung their eyelids down,Slept in his face, and render’d such aspectAs cloudy men use to their adversaries,Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full.And in that very line, Harry, standest thou,For thou hast lost thy princely privilegeWith vile participation. Not an eyeBut is a-weary of thy common sight,Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more,Which now doth that I would not have it do,Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
Prince
I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord,Be more myself.
King
For all the worldAs thou art to this hour was Richard thenWhen I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh,And even as I was then is Percy now.Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,He hath more worthy interest to the stateThan thou, the shadow of succession.For of no right, nor colour like to right,He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws,And, being no more in debt to years than thou,Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops onTo bloody battles and to bruising arms.What never-dying honour hath he gotAgainst renowned Douglas! whose high deeds,Whose hot incursions and great name in arms,Holds from all soldiers chief majorityAnd military title capitalThrough all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathing clothes,This infant warrior, in his enterprisesDiscomfited great Douglas, ta’en him once,Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,And shake the peace and safety of our throne.And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,The Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,Capitulate against us and are up.But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,Which art my nearest and dearest enemy?Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,Base inclination, and the start of spleen,To fight against me under Percy’s pay,To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,To show how much thou art degenerate.
Prince
Do not think so, you shall not find it so.And God forgive them that so much have sway’dYour Majesty’s good thoughts away from me!I will redeem all this on Percy’s head,And, in the closing of some glorious day,Be bold to tell you that I am your son,When I will wear a garment all of blood,And stain my favours in a bloody mask,Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame with it.And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights,That this same child of honour and renown,This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.For every honour sitting on his helm,Would they were multitudes, and on my headMy shames redoubled! For the time will come,That I shall make this northern youth exchangeHis glorious deeds for my indignities.Percy is but my factor, good my lord,To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf,And I will call him to so strict accountThat he shall render every glory up,Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.This in the name of God I promise here,The which if He be pleased I shall perform,I do beseech your Majesty may salveThe long-grown wounds of my intemperance.If not, the end of life cancels all bands,And I will die a hundred thousand deathsEre break the smallest parcel of this vow.
King
A hundred thousand rebels die in this.Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.
Enter Sir Walter Blunt.
How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.
Blunt
So hath the business that I come to speak of.Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent wordThat Douglas and the English rebels metThe eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.A mighty and a fearful head they are,If promises be kept on every hand,As ever offer’d foul play in a state.
King
The Earl of Westmoreland set forth today,With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster,For this advertisement is five days old.On Wednesday next you, Harry, shall set forward,On Thursday we ourselves will march.Our meeting is Bridgenorth. And, Harry, youShall march through Gloustershire; by which account,Our business valued, some twelve days henceOur general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.Our hands are full of business. Let’s away,Advantage feeds him fat while men delay.
Exeunt.