That no persuasion can do good upon.

[She speaks to MORTIMER in Welsh. Mort. I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh

Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens,

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a parley would I answer thee.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that's a feeling disputation:

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learn'd thy language; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division, to her lute.

[She speaks again.

Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

Mort. O! I am ignorance itself in this.

[She speaks again

Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eye-lids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness:
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mort. With all my heart I 'll sit, and hear her sing:
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.
Glend. Do so;

And those musicians that shall play to you,

Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence;
And straight they shall be here, Sit, and attend.

Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down:
Come, quick, quick; that I may lay my head in thy lap.
Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose.

[The Music Plays.

Hot. Now I perceive, the devil understands Welsh;
And 't is no marvel, he is so humorous.
By 'r lady, he 's a good musician.

Lady P. Then, should you be nothing but musical, For you are altogether governed by humours.

Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing

In Welsh.

Hot. I had rather hear, lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
Lady. P. Would'st thou have thy head broken?

Hot. No.

Lady P. Then be still.

Hot. Neither; 't is a woman's fault.

Lady P. Now, God help thee!

Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed.
Lady P. What's that?

Hot. Peace! she sings.

[A Welsh Song by Lady M.

Hot. Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.

Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot. Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker's wife. Not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I live; and, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day: And giv'st such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,

As if thou never walk'dst farther than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a ladely as thou art,
A good-mouth-filling oath; and leave in sooth,
And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,

To velvet-guards, and Sunday-citizens.

Come, sing.

Lady P. I will not sing.

Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be red-breast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours and so come in when ye will.

Glend. Come, come, lord Mortimer; you are as slow,

As hot lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book is drawn: we'll but seal, and then

To horse immediately.

[Exit.

Mort.

With all my heart.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King HENRY, Prince of Wales, and Lords.

K. Hen. Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and 1, Must have some private conference: but be near at hand,

For we shall presently have need of you.
I know not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood
He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life,

Make me believe, that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven,
To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate, and low desires,

[Exeunt Lords.

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?

P. Hen. So please your majesty, I would, I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse,

A's well as, I am doubtless, I can purge
Myself of many I am charg'd withal:
Yet such extenuation let me beg,

As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,

"Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,
By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers,
I may, for some things true, wherein my youth
Hath faulty wander'd, and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.

K. Hen. God pardon thee! - yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite 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 hearts
Of all the court, and princes of my blood.
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd; and the soul of every man
Prophetically does fore-think 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 stir,
But like a comet I was wonder'd at;

That men would tell their children, "This is he:'
Others would say,
'Where? which is Bolingbroke?"

66

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dress'd myself in such humility,

That 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 wan by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled, and soon burn'd: carded his state;
Mingled his royalty with carping fools;

:

Had his great name profaned with their scorns;
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push
Of 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 began

To loathe the taste af sweetness, whereof a little
More 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 eyes,
As, sick and blunted with community,

Afford no extraordinary gaze,

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty,

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;

But rather drowz'd, and hung their eye-lids down,
Slept in his face, and render'd such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.
And in that very line, Harry, stand'st thou;
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege,

With vile participation: not an eye

But is a-weary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more.
Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

P. Hen. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, Be more myself.

K. Ilen.

For all the world,

As thou art to this hour, was Richard then,
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;
And even as I was then, is Percy now.
Now by my scepter, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the state,
Than 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 on
To bloody battles, and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got