Shakespeare's First Folio Part 296

Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, Lords: And in my Conduct shall your Ladies come, From whom you now must steale, and take no leaue, For there will be a World of Water shed, Vpon the parting of your Wiues and you

Hotsp. Me thinks my Moity, North from Burton here, In quant.i.tie equals not one of yours: See, how this Riuer comes me cranking in, And cuts me from the best of all my Land, A huge halfe Moone, a monstrous Cantle out.

Ile haue the Currant in this place d.a.m.n'd vp, And here the smug and Siluer Trent shall runne, In a new Channell, faire and euenly: It shall not winde with such a deepe indent, To rob me of so rich a Bottome here

Glend. Not winde? it shall, it must, you see it doth

Mort. Yea, but marke how he beares his course, And runnes me vp, with like aduantage on the other side, Gelding the opposed Continent as much, As on the other side it takes from you

Worc. Yea, but a little Charge will trench him here, And on this North side winne this Cape of Land, And then he runnes straight and euen

Hotsp. Ile haue it so, a little Charge will doe it

Glend. Ile not haue it alter'd

Hotsp. Will not you?

Glend. No, nor you shall not

Hotsp. Who shall say me nay?

Glend. Why, that will I

Hotsp. let me not vnderstand you then, speake it in Welsh

Glend. I can speake English, Lord, as well as you: For I was trayn'd vp in the English Court; Where, being but young, I framed to the Harpe Many an English Dittie, louely well, And gaue the Tongue a helpefull Ornament; A Vertue that was neuer seene in you

Hotsp. Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart, I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Then one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie; 'Tis like the forc't gate of a shuffling Nagge

Glend. Come, you shall haue Trent turn'd

Hotsp. I doe not care: Ile giue thrice so much Land To any well-deseruing friend; But in the way of Bargaine, marke ye me, Ile cauill on the ninth part of a hayre.

Are the Indentures drawne? shall we be gone?

Glend. The Moone shines faire, You may away by Night: Ile haste the Writer; and withall, Breake with your Wiues, of your departure hence: I am afraid my Daughter will runne madde, So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

Enter.

Mort. Fie, Cousin Percy, how you crosse my Father

Hotsp. I cannot chuse: sometime he angers me, With telling me of the Moldwarpe and the Ant, Of the Dreamer Merlin, and his Prophecies; And of a Dragon, and a finne-lesse Fish, A clip-wing'd Griffin, and a moulten Rauen, A couching Lyon, and a ramping Cat, And such a deale of skimble-skamble Stuffe, As puts me from my Faith. I tell you what, He held me last Night, at least, nine howres, In reckning vp the seuerall Deuils Names, That were his Lacqueyes: I cry'd hum, and well, goe too, But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious As a tyred Horse, a rayling Wife, Worse then a smoakie House. I had rather liue With Cheese and Garlick in a Windmill farre, Then feede on Cates, and haue him talke to me, In any Summer-House in Christendome

Mort. In faith he was a worthy Gentleman, Exceeding well read, and profited, In strange Concealements: Valiant as a Lyon, and wondrous affable, And as Bountifull, as Mynes of India.

Shall I tell you, Cousin, He holds your temper in a high respect, And curbes himselfe, euen of his naturall scope, When you doe crosse his humor: 'faith he does.

I warrant you, that man is not aliue, Might so haue tempted him, as you haue done, Without the taste of danger, and reproofe: But doe not vse it oft, let me entreat you

Worc. In faith, my Lord, you are too wilfull blame, And since your comming hither, haue done enough, To put him quite besides his patience.

You must needes learne, Lord, to amend this fault: Though sometimes it shew Greatnesse, Courage, Blood, And that's the dearest grace it renders you; Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh Rage, Defect of Manners, want of Gouernment, Pride, Haughtinesse, Opinion, and Disdaine: The least of which, haunting a n.o.bleman, Loseth mens hearts, and leaues behinde a stayne Vpon the beautie of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation

Hotsp. Well, I am school'd: Good-manners be your speede; Heere come your Wiues, and let vs take our leaue.

Enter Glendower, with the Ladies.

Mort. This is the deadly spight, that angers me, My Wife can speake no English, I no Welsh

Glend. My Daughter weepes, shee'le not part with you, Shee'le be a Souldier too, shee'le to the Warres

Mort. Good Father tell her, that she and my Aunt Percy Shall follow in your Conduct speedily.

Glendower speakes to her in Welsh, and she answeres him in the same.

Glend. Shee is desperate heere: A peeuish selfe-will'd Harlotry, One that no perswasion can doe good vpon.

The Lady speakes in Welsh.

Mort. I vnderstand thy Lookes: that pretty Welsh Which thou powr'st down from these swelling Heauens, I am too perfect in: and but for shame, In such a parley should I answere thee.

The Lady againe in welsh.

Mort. I vnderstand thy Kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation: But I will neuer be a Truant, Loue, Till I haue learn'd thy Language: for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as Ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a faire Queene in a Summers Bowre, With rauishing Diuision to her Lute

Glend. Nay, if thou melt, then will she runne madde.

The Lady speakes againe in Welsh.

Mort. O, I am Ignorance it selfe in this

Glend. She bids you, On the wanton Rushes lay you downe, And rest your gentle Head vpon her Lappe, And she will sing the Song that pleaseth you, And on your Eye-lids Crowne the G.o.d of Sleepe, Charming your blood with pleasing heauinesse; Making such difference betwixt Wake and Sleepe, As is the difference betwixt Day and Night, The houre before the Heauenly Harneis'd Teeme Begins his Golden Progresse in the East

Mort. With all my heart Ile sit, and heare her sing: By that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne

Glend. Doe so: And those Musitians that shall play to you, Hang in the Ayre a thousand Leagues from thence; And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend

Hotsp. Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying downe: Come, quicke, quicke, that I may lay my Head in thy Lappe

Lady. Goe, ye giddy-Goose.

The Musicke playes.

Hotsp. Now I perceiue the Deuill vnderstands Welsh, And 'tis no maruell he is so humorous: Byrlady hee's a good Musitian

Lady. Then would you be nothing but Musicall, For you are altogether gouerned by humors: Lye still ye Theefe, and heare the Lady sing in Welsh

Hotsp. I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in Irish

Lady. Would'st haue thy Head broken?

Hotsp. No

Lady. Then be still

Hotsp. Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault

Lady. Now G.o.d helpe thee

Hotsp. To the Welsh Ladies Bed