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THOMAS PERCY, earl of Worcester.
HENRY PERCY, earl of Northumberland.
SCROOP, archbishop of York.
ARCHIBALD, earl of Douglas.
SIR RICHARD VERNON.
SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
SIR MICHAEL, a friend of the archbishop of York.
LADY PERCY, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer.
LADY MORTIMER, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mor
MRS. QUICKLY, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.
Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.
'KING HENRY IV.
London. A room in the palace.
Enter KING HENRY, WESTMORELAND, SIR WALTER BLUNT, and others.
K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
Let us indulge in a short interval of peace, that we may recover breath to propose new wars.
? Strands, banks of the sea.
All of one nature, of one substance bred,-
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
West. My liege, this haste was hot in question,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,
By those Welsh women done, as may not be,
K. Hen. It seems then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the north, and thus it did import :-
At Holmedon met,
Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
K. Hen. Here is a dear and true-industrious
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The earl of Douglas is discomfited;
Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights, Balk'd' in their own blood, did sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took
To beaten Douglas; and the earls of Athol,
And is not this an honorable spoil?
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?
It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.
K. Hen. Yea, there thou makest me sad, and makest me sin
In envy that my lord Northumberland
Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved,
Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Piled up in a heap.