Enter FITZWATER. Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of Carlisle. Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy, Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it 'joy thy life; So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife: For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a Coffin. A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand, Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead, VOL. IV. M Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe, grow: Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent: I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood from off my guilty hand :March sadly after; grace my mournings here, In weeping after this untimely bier. [Exeunt. PERSONS REPRESENTED. KING HENRY THE FOURTH. Sons to the King. Friends to the King. THOMAS PERCY, Earl of Worcester. HENRY PERCY, Earl of Northumberland. SIR MICHAEL, a Friend of the Archbishop. OWEN GLENDOWER. SIR RICHARD VERNON. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. GADSHILL. POINS. LADY PERCY, Wife to Hotspur, and Sister to Mortimer. LADY MORTIMER, Daughter to Glendower, and Wife to Mortimer. MRS. QUICKLY, Hostess of a Tavern in Eastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers and Attendants. SCENE-England. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE I. ACT I. 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 now, in mutual, well beseeming ranks, (Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engag'd to fight), Forthwith a power of English shall we levy, Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb, To chase these pagans, in those holy fields, Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet, Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd For our advantage, on the bitter cross. |