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No 3, on the barren mountains let him starve;
Hot. Revolted Mortimer?
wou:ds,Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, In fingle oppolition, 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 Upon'agreement, of swift Severn's flood; [drinkg. Who then affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, And hid his crispe head in the hollow bank, Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. Never did bare and rotten policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds; Nor never could the noble Mortimer Receive fo many, and all willingly; Then let him not be slander'd with revolt.
K. Henry. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou beliels. He never durst encounter with Glendo wer; [hiin : He durst as well have met the devil alone, As Owen Glendower for an enemy. Art not asham'd? but, firrah, froin this hour, 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 displeale you.—My Lord Northumberland, We licence your departure with your fon. -Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.
[Exit K. Henry. Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them, I will not send them. - I'll after strait, And tell him so; for I will eaie my heart, Although it be with liazard of iny head.
North. What, drunk with choler? stay, and pause Here comes your uncle.
[a while; Enter Worceller. Hot. Speak of Mortimer? Yes, I will speak of him; and let my soul Want mercy, if I do not join with him. In his behalf I'll empty ail these veins, And shed my dear blood drop by drop in duft, But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer As high i'th'air as this unthankful King, As this ingrate and cankred Bolingbroke. North. Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.
[To Worcester. Wor. Who strook this heat up, afier I was gone.
Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners; And when I urg'd the rantom once again Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale, And on my face he turn'd an eye of death, Trembling ev'n at the name of Mortimer.
IVor. I cannot blame him; was he pot proclaim'd, By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?
North. He was; I heard the proclamation; And then it was, when ihe unhappy King (Whose wrongs in us, God pardon!) did let forth Upon his Irish expedition, From whence he, intercepted, did return To be depos'd, and thortly murdered.
lor. And for whose death, we in the world's wide Live scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of. [mouth
Hot. But foft, I pray you. Did King Richard then Proclaim my broiher Mortiiner Heir to the crown?
North. He did: myself did hear it.
Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his coufin King, That wilh'd him on the barren mountains starv'de But shall it be that you!, that set the crown Upon the head of this forgetful man, did for his fake wear the detelted blot Of murd'rous fubornation? fhall it be That you a world of curses undergo, Being the agents or base ficond icans,
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?
deaths: Therefore, I say
Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more:
Hot. If he fall in, good night, or link or swim. -
North. Imagination of some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience,
Hot By Heav'n), methinks, it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon; Or dive into the bottom of the detp, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned Honour by the locks; So he, that doib redeein her thence, miglit wear
Without corrival all her dignities.
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. Thöfe fame noble Scots,
Hot. I'll keep them all ;
Wor. You start away,
Hot. I will; that's flat.
Hot All studies here I folemnly defy,
Wor. Farewell, my kinsman! I will taik to you V hen you are better temper’d to attend. North. Why, what a walp-tongu'd and impatient
'Twas where the mad-cap Duke his uncle kept
North. At Berkley castle.
Hot. You say true :
Wor. Nay, if you have not, to't again;
Hst. I have done, i'faith.
Hot. York, is't not?
Wor. True, who bears hard His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation, As what, I think, might be; but what, I know, Is ruminated, plotted and set down ; And only stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
Hot. I smell it. On my life it will do well. North. Before the game's a-foot, thou still lett'st
Hot. It cannot chule but be a noble plot; [flip. And then the power of Scotland, and of York, To join with Mortimer-ha!
• Alluding to what passed in King Richard, AA IL Sc. l. Johnjon.