The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 135

Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

Prince. It may be so. If he have robb'd these men, He shall be answerable; and so farewell.

Sher. Good night, my n.o.ble lord.

Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not?

Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o'clock.

Exit [with Carrier].

Prince. This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's. Go call him forth.

Peto. Falstaff! Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.

Prince. Hark how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

He searcheth his pockets and findeth certain papers.

What hast thou found?

Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord.

Prince. Let's see whit they be. Read them.

Peto. [reads] 'Item. A capon. . . . . . . . . . . . . ii s. ii d.

Item, Sauce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . iiii d.

Item, Sack two gallons . . . . . . . . v s. viii d.

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper. ii s. vi d.

Item, Bread. . . . . . . . . . . . . . ob.'

Prince. O monstrous! but one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we'll read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day. I'll to the court in the morning . We must all to the wars. and thy place shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; and I know, his death will be a march of twelve score. The money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning, and so good morrow, Peto.

Peto. Good morrow, good my lord.

Exeunt.

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ACT III. Scene I.

Bangor. The Archdeacon's house.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Lord Mortimer, Owen Glendower.

Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down?

And uncle Worcester. A plague upon it!

I have forgot the map.

Glend. No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur, For by that name as oft as Lancaster Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven.

Hot. And you in h.e.l.l, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

Glend. I cannot blame him. At my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes Of burning cressets, and at my birth The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shak'd like a coward.

Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother's cat had but kitten'd, though yourself had never been born.

Glend. I say the earth did shake when I was born.

Hot. And I say the earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.

Hot. O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down Steeples and mossgrown towers. At your birth Our grandam earth, having this distemp'rature, In pa.s.sion shook.

Glend. Cousin, of many men I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave To tell you once again that at my birth The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.

These signs have mark'd me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipp'd in with the sea That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, Which calls me pupil or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman's son Can trace me in the tedious ways of art And hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hot. I think there's no man speaks better Welsh. I'll to dinner.

Mort. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?

Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil- By telling truth. Tell truth and shame the devil.

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too?

How scapes he agues, in the devil's name Glend. Come, here's the map. Shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta'en?

Mort. The Archdeacon hath divided it Into three limits very equally.

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, By south and east is to my part a.s.sign'd; All westward, Wales beyond the Severn sh.o.r.e, And all the fertile land within that bound, To Owen Glendower; and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward lying off from Trent.

And our indentures tripart.i.te are drawn; Which being sealed interchangeably (A business that this night may execute), To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish bower, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.

My father Glendower is not ready yet, Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.

[To Glend.] Within that s.p.a.ce you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords; And in my conduct shall your ladies come, From whom you now must steal and take no leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives and you.

Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quant.i.ty equals not one of yours.

See how this river comes me cranking in And cuts me from the best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I'll have the current ill this place damm'd up, And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run In a new channel fair and evenly.

It shall not wind with such a deep indent To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glend. Not wind? It shall, it must! You see it doth.

Mort. Yea, but Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up With like advantage on the other side, Gelding the opposed continent as much As on the other side it takes from you.

Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here And on this north side win this cape of land; And then he runs straight and even.

Hot. I'll have it so. A little charge will do it.

Glend. I will not have it alt'red.

Hot. Will not you?

Glend. No, nor you shall not.

Hot. Who shall say me nay?

Glend. No, that will I.

Hot. Let me not understand you then; speak it in Welsh.

Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you; For I was train'd up in the English court, Where, being but young, I framed to the harp Many an English ditty lovely well, And gave the tongue a helpful ornament- A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot. Marry, And I am glad of it with all my heart!

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree, And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry.

'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag, Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn'd.

Hot. I do not care. I'll give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be gone?

Glend. The moon shines fair; you may away by night.

I'll haste the writer, and withal Break with your wives of your departure hence.

I am afraid my daughter will run mad, So much she doteth on her Mortimer. Exit.

Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

Hot. I cannot choose. Sometimes he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what- He held me last night at least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils' names That were his lackeys. I cried 'hum,' and 'Well, go to!'

But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife; Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill far Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer house in Christendom).

Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, Exceedingly well read, and profited In strange concealments, valiant as a lion, And wondrous affable, and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?

He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come 'cross his humour. Faith, he does.