Lady. P. Go, ye giddy goose. [The music plays. Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh ; And 't is no marvel, he's 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. Wouldst have thy head broken? 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. Hot. Peace! she sings. [A Welsh song sung by Lady MORTIMER. Hot. Come, Kate, I'll have your song too. Lady. P. Not mine, in good sooth. Hot. Not yours, in good sooth! swear like a comfit-maker's wife. 'Heart! you '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 further than Finsbury. A good mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth,' Lady. P. I will not sing. Hot. 'T is the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so, come in when ye will. [Exit. Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this our book 's drawn; we 'll but seal, and then To horse immediately. Mort. With all my heart. [Exeunt. A Room in the Palace. Enter King HENRY, Prince of WALES, and Lords. K. Hen. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Must have some conference: but be near at hand, [Exeunt Lords. I know not whether God will have it so, my He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me; Make me believe, that thou art only marked Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts, Such barren pleasures, rude society, As thou art matched withal and grafted to, And hold their level with thy princely heart? As well as, I am doubtless, I can purge As in reproof of many tales devised— Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear— I may for some things true wherein my youth Find pardon on my true submission. K. Hen. God pardon thee !—yet let me wonder, Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing Of all the court and princes of my blood. That men would tell their children, ‘This is he;' Others would say,-'Where? which is Boling. broke?' And then I stole all courtesy from Heaven, And dressed myself in such humility That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts, Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, Ne'er seen but wondered at: and so my state Had his great name profanéd with their scorns, That, being daily swallowed by men's eyes, To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little 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 |