And gave the tongue a helpful ornament; A virtue that was never feen in you. Hot. Marry, I'm glad of it with all my heart." But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. Are the indentures drawn? fhall we be gone? Glend. The moon fhines fair, you may away by night; * I will go hafte the writer, and withal Break with your wives of your departure hence: So much the doteth on her Mortimer. SCENE II. my [Exit. father! Mort. Fie, coufin Percy, how you crofs A clipt-wing'd Griffin, and a moulting Raven, He means the writer of the articles. This alludes to an old prophecy which is faid to have induced Owen Glendower to take arms against K, Henry. See Hall's Chron. fel. 20. Worfe Worfe than a fmoaky house, l'ad rather live Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman; In ftrange concealments; valiant as a Lion; As mines of India: fhall I tell you, cousin? Might fo have tempted him as you have done, But do not use it oft, let me intreat you. Wor. In faith, my Lord, you are too wilful-blame, And fince your coming here have done enough To put him quite befides his patience : You must needs learn, Lord, to amend this fault; Hot. Well, I am school'd: good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave, SCENE III. Enter Glendower, with the Ladies. Mort. This is the deadly fpight that angers me, My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. Glend. My daughter weeps, fhe will not part with you, She'll be a foldier too, fhe'll to the wars. Mort. Good father, tell her, fhe and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily. [Glendower peaks to her in Welsh, and fhe answers bim in the fame. Glend Glend. She's defp'rate here: a peevish felf-will'd harlotry, That no perfuafion can do good upon. [The Lady Speaks in Welsh. Mort. I understand thy looks; that pretty Welsh, Which thou pour'ft down from those two fwelling heav'ns, I am too perfect in: and but for fhame, In fuch a parly should I answer thee. - [The Lady again in Welsh; Mort. I understand thy kiffes, and thou mine, And that's a feeling difputation: But I will never be a truant, love, 'Till I have learn'd thy language: for thy tongue Makes Welb as fweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair Queen in a fummer's bower, With ravishing divifion to her lute. Glend. Nay, an if thou melt, then will she run mad. [The Lady Speaks again in Wellhe Mort. O, I am ignorance it felf in this. All on the wanton rushes lay you down, Mort. With all my heart I'll fit, and hear her fing: Glend. Do fo; And tho' th' muficians that shall play to you, Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence; Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap. L. Percy. Go, ye giddy goofe. [The mufick plays. Hot. Now I perceive the devil underftands Welb, and 'tis no marvel he is fo humorous, by'rlady he's a good musician. L, Percy, L. Percy. Then would you be nothing but mufical, for you are altogether govern'd by humours: lye ftill, ye thief, and hear the Lady fing in Welsh. Hot. I had rather hear Lady my brach howl in Irish. L. Percy. Then be ftill. Hot. Neither, 'tis a woman's fault. L. Percy. Now God help thee! Hot. Peace, fhe fings. [Here the Lady fings a Welsh fong. Come, I'll have your fong too. L. Percy. Not mine, in good footh. Hot. Not yours, in good footh! you fwear like a comfit-maker's wife; not you, in good footb; and, as true as I love; and, as God fhall mend me; and, as fure as day: and giveft fuch farcenet furety for thy oaths, as if thou never walk'dft further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a Lady, as thou art, L. Percy, I will not fing. Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be Robin-RedBreaft-teacher: if the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours: and fo come in, when ye will. [Exit. Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as flow, As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this, our book is drawn: we will but feal, Mort. With all my heart. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. WINDSOR. For we shall presently have need of you.- [Exe. Lords. For For fome difpleafing fervice I have done; Make me believe, that thou art only mark'd Such poor, fuch bafe, fuch lewd, fuch mean attaints, As thou art match'd withal and grafted to, Which oft the ear of Greatness needs must hear, Find pardon, on my true fubmiffion. K. Henry. Heav'n pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry, Α |