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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?
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 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.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady 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. '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.

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[Exeunt.

A Room in the Palace.

Enter King HENRY, Prince of WALES, and Lords.

K. Hen. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of
Wales and I

Must have some conference: but be near at hand,
For we shall presently have need of you.-

[Exeunt Lords.

I know not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in his secret doom, out of blood

my

He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life,

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

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art matched 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

As well as, I am doubtless, I can purge
Myself of many I am charged withal:
Yet such extenuation let me beg

As in reproof of many tales devised—

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear—
By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers,

I may
Hath faulty wandered and irregular

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
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 ruined; and the soul of every man
Prophetically does forethink thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackneyed 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 wondered at ;

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,
Even in the presence of the crownéd king.
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,

Ne'er seen but wondered at: and so my state
Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast,
And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled and soon burned; carded his state;
Mingled his royalty with capering fools,

Had his great name profanéd 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,
Enfeoffed himself to popularity,

That, being daily swallowed by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey, and began

To loathe the taste of 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

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