Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.
HOTSPUR.
“But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there,
in respect of the love I bear your house.” He could be contented; why is
he not, then? In respect of the love he bears our house—he shows in
this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some
more. “The purpose you undertake is dangerous”—Why, that’s certain.
’Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my
lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. “The
purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the
time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so
great an opposition.” Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you
are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the
Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid, our friends true and constant:
a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very
good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York
commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zounds, an I were now
by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my
father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen
Glendower? Is there not besides the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to
meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month, and are they not some of them
set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this, an infidel! Ha! You shall see
now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay
open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for
moving such a dish of skim milk with so honourable an action! Hang
him, let him tell the King, we are prepared. I will set forward
tonight.—
Enter Lady Percy.
How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.
LADY PERCY.
O my good lord, why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been
A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed?
Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from thee
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,
And start so often when thou sit’st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks,
And given my treasures and my rights of thee
To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?
In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,
Cry “Courage! To the field!” And thou hast talk’d
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream,
And in thy face strange motions have appear’d,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it, else he loves me not.
HOTSPUR.
What, ho!
Enter a Servant.
Is Gilliams with the packet gone?
SERVANT.
He is, my lord, an hour ago.
HOTSPUR.
Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?
SERVANT.
One horse, my lord, he brought even now.
HOTSPUR.
What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
SERVANT.
It is, my lord.
HOTSPUR.
That roan shall be my throne.
Well, I will back him straight. O Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.
[Exit Servant.]
LADY PERCY.
But hear you, my lord.
HOTSPUR.
What say’st thou, my lady?
LADY PERCY.
What is it carries you away?
HOTSPUR.
Why, my horse, my love, my horse.
LADY PERCY.
Out, you mad-headed ape!
A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen
As you are toss’d with. In faith,
I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will.
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his title, and hath sent for you
To line his enterprise. But if you go—
HOTSPUR.
So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
LADY PERCY.
Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
Directly unto this question that I ask.
In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry,
If thou wilt not tell me all things true.
HOTSPUR.
Away,
Away, you trifler! Love, I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips.
We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns,
And pass them current too.—Gods me, my horse!—
What say’st thou, Kate? What wouldst thou have with me?
LADY PERCY.
Do you not love me? Do you not indeed?
Well, do not, then, for since you love me not,
I will not love myself. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.
HOTSPUR.
Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when I am a-horseback I will swear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth question me
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout.
Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,
This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.
I know you wise, but yet no farther wise
Than Harry Percy’s wife; constant you are,
But yet a woman; and for secrecy,
No lady closer, for I well believe
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.
LADY PERCY.
How? So far?
HOTSPUR.
Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate,
Whither I go, thither shall you go too.
Today will I set forth, tomorrow you.
Will this content you, Kate?
LADY PERCY.
It must, of force.
[Exeunt.]
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg