The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

>Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to lie himself, Being wanted, he may be more wond’red at By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wish’d-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

So, when this loose behaviour I throw off And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

I’ll so offend to make offence a skill, Redeeming time when men think least I will. Exit.

 

Scene III.

London. The Palace.

 

Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, with others.

 

King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me, for accordingly You tread upon my patience; but be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself, Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition, Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, And therefore lost that title of respect Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.

Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves The scourge of greatness to be us’d on it-And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly.

North. My lord—

King. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye.

O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet endure

The moody frontier of a servant brow.

Tou have good leave to leave us. When we need ‘Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

Exit Worcester.

You were about to speak.

North. Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your Highness’ name demanded Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is delivered to your Majesty.

Either envy, therefore, or misprision Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toll, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap’d Show’d like a stubble land at harvest home.

He was perfumed like a milliner,

And ‘twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took’t away again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff; and still he smil’d and talk’d; And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me, amongst the rest demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pest’red with a popingay,

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what-He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds-God save the mark!-

And telling me the sovereignest thing on earth Was parmacity for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was, This villanous saltpetre should be digg’d Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d So cowardly; and but for these vile ‘guns, He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said,

And I beseech you, let not his report Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Blunt. The circumstance considered, good my lord, Whate’er Lord Harry Percy then had said To such a person, and in such a place, At such a time, with all the rest retold, May reasonably die, and never rise

To do him wrong, or any way impeach

What then he said, so he unsay it now.

King. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, But with proviso and exception,

That we at our own charge shall ransom straight His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d The lives of those that he did lead to fight Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower, Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then, Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve!

For I shall never hold that man my friend Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Hot. Revolted Mortimer?

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, But by the chance of war. To prove that true Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, In single opposition hand to hand,

He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment with great Glendower.

Three times they breath’d, and three times did they drink, Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood; Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, Bloodstained with these valiant cohabitants.

Never did base and rotten policy

Colour her working with such deadly wounds; Nor never could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly.

Then let not him be slandered with revolt.

King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him!

He never did encounter with Glendower.

I tell thee

He durst as well have met the devil alone As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not asham’d? But, sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, Or you shall hear in such a kind from me As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland, We license your departure with your son.-

Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.

Exeunt King, [Blunt, and Train]

Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them, I will not send them. I will after straight And tell him so; for I will else my heart, Albeit I make a hazard of my head.

North. What, drunk with choler? Stay, and pause awhile.

Here comes your uncle.

 

Enter Worcester.

 

Hot. Speak of Mortimer?

Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul Want mercy if I do not join with him!

Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins, And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust, But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer As high in the air as this unthankful king, As this ingrate and cank’red Bolingbroke.

North. Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.

Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

Hot. He will (forsooth) have all my prisoners; And when I urg’d the ransom once again Of my wive’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale, And on my face he turn’d an eye of death, Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

Wor. I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaim’d By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?

North. He was; I heard the proclamation.

And then it was when the unhappy King (Whose wrongs in us God pardon!) did set forth Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he intercepted did return To be depos’d, and shortly murdered.

Wor. And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth Live scandaliz’d and foully spoken of.

Hot. But soft, I pray you. Did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

Heir to the crown?

North. He did; myself did hear it.

Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king, That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you, that set the crown Upon the head of this forgetful man,

And for his sake wear the detested blot Of murtherous subornation-shall it be That you a world of curses undergo,

Being the agents or base second means, The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?

O, pardon me that I descend so low

To show the line and the predicament

Wherein you range under this subtile king!

Shall it for shame be spoken in these days, Or fill up chronicles in time to come, That men of your nobility and power

Did gage them both in an unjust behalf (As both of you, God pardon it! have done) To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

And shall it in more shame be further spoken That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

No! yet time serves wherein you may redeem Your banish’d honours and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again; Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt Of this proud king, who studies day and night To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.

Therefore I say—

Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more;

And now, I will unclasp a secret book, And to your quick-conceiving discontents I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous, As full of peril and adventurous spirit As to o’erwalk a current roaring loud On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

Hot. If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim!

Send danger from the east unto the west, So honour cross it from the north to south, And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

North. Imagination of some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

Hot. By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon, Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fadom line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks, So he that doth redeem her thence might wear Without corrival all her dignities;

But out upon this half-fac’d fellowship!

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend.

Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

Hot. I cry you mercy.

Wor. Those same noble Scots

That are your prisoners—

Hot. I’ll keep them all.

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them!

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.

I’ll keep them, by this hand!

Wor. You start away.

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hot. Nay, I will! That is flat!

He said he would not ransom Mortimer, Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer, But I will find him when he lies asleep, And in his ear I’ll holloa ‘Mortimer.’

Nay;

I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but ‘Mortimer,’ and give it him To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor. Hear you, cousin, a word.

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke; And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales-But that I think his father loves him not And would be glad he met with some mischance, I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale.

Wor. Farewell, kinsman. I