Kitabı oku: «The First Part of King Henry the Fourth», sayfa 4

Scene II. London. The Palace

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others.

 
  King. Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and I
    Must have some private 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 my blood
    He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
    But thou dost in thy passages of life
    Make me believe that thou art only mark'd
    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 match'd withal and grafted to,
    Accompany the greatness of thy blood
    And hold their level with thy princely heart?
  Prince. 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 devis'd,
    Which oft the ear of greatness needs must bear
    By, smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,
    I may, for some things true wherein my youth
    Hath faulty wand'red and irregular,
    And pardon on lily true submission.
  King. 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 ruin'd, and the soul of every man
    Prophetically do forethink thy fall.
    Had I so lavish of my presence been,
    So common-hackney'd 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 wond'red at;
    That men would tell their children, 'This is he!'
    Others would say, 'Where? Which is Bolingbroke?'
    And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
    And dress'd 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 crowned King.
    Thus did I keep my person fresh and new,
    My presence, like a robe pontifical,
    Ne'er seen but wond'red at; and so my state,
    Seldom but sumptuous, show'd 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 burnt; carded his state;
    Mingled his royalty with cap'ring fools;
    Had his great name profaned 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,
    Enfeoff'd himself to popularity;
    That, being dally 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,
    Such as is bent on unlike majesty
    When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;
    But rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down,
    Slept in his face, and rend'red such aspect
    As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
    Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.
    And in that very line, Harry, standest thou;
    For thou hast lost thy princely privilege
    With vile participation. Not an eye
    But is aweary of thy common sight,
    Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;
    Which now doth that I would not have it do-
    Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
  Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,
    Be more myself.
  King. For all the world,
    As thou art to this hour, was Richard then
    When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh;
    And even as I was then is Percy now.
    Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,
    He hath more worthy interest to the state
    Than thou, the shadow of succession;
    For of no right, nor colour like to right,
    He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
    Turns head against the lion's armed jaws,
    And, Being no more in debt to years than thou,
    Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on
    To bloody battles and to bruising arms.
    What never-dying honour hath he got
    Against renowmed Douglas! whose high deeds,
    Whose hot incursions and great name in arms
    Holds from all soldiers chief majority
    And military title capital
    Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.
    Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,
    This infant warrior, in his enterprises
    Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once,
    Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,
    To fill the mouth of deep defiance up
    And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
    And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
    The Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer
    Capitulate against us and are up.
    But wherefore do I tell these news to thee
    Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
    Which art my nearest and dearest enemy'
    Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
    Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
    To fight against me under Percy's pay,
    To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,
    To show how much thou art degenerate.
  Prince. Do not think so. You shall not find it so.
    And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
    Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!
    I will redeem all this on Percy's head
    And, in the closing of some glorious day,
    Be bold to tell you that I am your son,
    When I will wear a garment all of blood,
    And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
    Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it.
    And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
    That this same child of honour and renown,
    This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
    And your unthought of Harry chance to meet.
    For every honour sitting on his helm,
    Would they were multitudes, and on my head
    My shames redoubled! For the time will come
    That I shall make this Northern youth exchange
    His glorious deeds for my indignities.
    Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
    To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
    And I will call hall to so strict account
    That he shall render every glory up,
    Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
    Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
    This in the name of God I promise here;
    The which if he be pleas'd I shall perform,
    I do beseech your Majesty may salve
    The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.
    If not, the end of life cancels all bands,
    And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
    Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.
  King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this!
    Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.
 

Enter Blunt.

 
    How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.
  Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of.
    Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word
    That Douglas and the English rebels met
    The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.
    A mighty and a fearful head they are,
    If promises be kept oil every hand,
    As ever off'red foul play in a state.
  King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;
    With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;
    For this advertisement is five days old.
    On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;
    On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting
    Is Bridgenorth; and, Harry, you shall march
    Through Gloucestershire; by which account,
    Our business valued, some twelve days hence
    Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.
    Our hands are full of business. Let's away.
    Advantage feeds him fat while men delay. Exeunt.
 

Scene III. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal. Bardolph, am I not fall'n away vilely since this last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown! I am withered like an old apple John. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me. Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long. Fal. Why, there is it! Come, sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous enough: swore little, dic'd not above seven times a week, went to a bawdy house not above once in a quarter- of an hour, paid money that I borrowed- three or four times, lived well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass. Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass- out of all reasonable compass, Sir John. Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop- but 'tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp. Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal. No, I'll be sworn. I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death's-head or a memento mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. if thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be 'By this fire, that's God's angel.' But thou art altogether given over, and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran'st up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years. God reward me for it! Bard. 'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly! Fal. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.

Enter Hostess.

 
    How now, Dame Partlet the hen? Have you enquir'd yet who
pick'd
    my pocket?
  Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? Do you think
I
    keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have enquired,
so
    has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant.
The
    tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.
  Fal. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shav'd and lost many a hair,
and
    I'll be sworn my pocket was pick'd. Go to, you are a woman,
go!
  Host. Who, I? No; I defy thee! God's light, I was never call'd
so
    in mine own house before!
  Fal. Go to, I know you well enough.
  Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you,
Sir
    John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel
to
    beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your
back.
  Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas! I have given them away to bakers'
    wives; they have made bolters of them.
  Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an
ell.
    You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and
    by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.
  Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay.
  Host. He? Alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.
  Fal. How? Poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let
them
    coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks. I'll not pay a
denier.
    What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine
ease
    in mine inn but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a
    seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.
  Host. O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how
oft,
    that that ring was copper!
  Fal. How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup. 'Sblood, an he
were
    here, I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so.
 

Enter the Prince [and Poins], marching; and Falstaff meets

them, playing upon his truncheon like a fife.

 
    How now, lad? Is the wind in that door, i' faith? Must we all
    march?
  Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.
  Host. My lord, I pray you hear me.
  Prince. What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy
husband?
    I love him well; he is an honest man.
  Host. Good my lord, hear me.
  Fal. Prithee let her alone and list to me.
  Prince. What say'st thou, Jack?
  Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and
had my
    pocket pick'd. This house is turn'd bawdy house; they pick
    pockets.
  Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack?
  Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? Three or four bonds of forty
pound
    apiece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.
  Prince. A trifle, some eightpenny matter.
  Host. So I told him, my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say
so;
    and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a
foul-mouth'd
    man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.
  Prince. What! he did not?
  Host. There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.
  Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor
no
    more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for woman-hood,
Maid
    Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you
    thing, go!
  Host. Say, what thing? what thing?
  Fal. What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on.
  Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know
it!
    I am an honest man's wife, and, setting thy knight-hood
aside,
    thou art a knave to call me so.
  Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say
    otherwise.
  Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?
  Fal. What beast? Why, an otter.
  Prince. An otter, Sir John? Why an otter?
  Fal. Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where
to
    have her.
  Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou or any man
knows
    where to have me, thou knave, thou!
  Prince. Thou say'st true, hostess, and he slanders thee most
    grossly.
  Host. So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day you
ought
    him a thousand pound.
  Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?
  Fal. A thousand pound, Hal? A million! Thy love is worth a
million;
    thou owest me thy love.
  Host. Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack and said he would cudgel
    you.
  Fal. Did I, Bardolph?
  Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
  Fal. Yea. if he said my ring was copper.
  Prince. I say, 'tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word
now?
  Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare; but
as
    thou art Prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the
lion's
    whelp.
  Prince. And why not as the lion?
  Fal. The King himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou
think
    I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray God
my
    girdle break.
  Prince. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy
knees!
    But, sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in
    this bosom of thine. It is all fill'd up with guts and
midriff.
    Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou
    whoreson, impudent, emboss'd rascal, if there were anything
in
    thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy
houses,
    and one poor pennyworth of sugar candy to make thee
long-winded-
    if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but
these, I
    am a villain. And yet you will stand to it; you will not
pocket
    up wrong. Art thou not ashamed?
  Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of
innocency
    Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days
of
    villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and
    therefore more frailty. You confess then, you pick'd my
pocket?
  Prince. It appears so by the story.
  Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast. Love thy
    husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt
    find me tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am
pacified.
    -Still? – Nay, prithee be gone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to
the
    news at court. For the robbery, lad- how is that answered?
  Prince. O my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee.
    The money is paid back again.
  Fal. O, I do not like that paying back! 'Tis a double labour.
  Prince. I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.
  Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it
    with unwash'd hands too.
  Bard. Do, my lord.
  Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.
  Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that
can
    steal well? O for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty
or
    thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked
for
    these rebels. They offend none but the virtuous. I laud them,
I
    praise them.
  Prince. Bardolph!
  Bard. My lord?
  Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,
    To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.
 

[Exit Bardolph.]

 
    Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I
    Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.
 

[Exit Poins.]

 
    Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple Hall
    At two o'clock in the afternoon.
    There shalt thou know thy charge. and there receive
    Money and order for their furniture.
    The land is burning; Percy stands on high;
    And either they or we must lower lie. [Exit.]
  Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come.
    O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!
 

Exit.

ACT IV. Scene I. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury

Enter Harry Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.

 
  Hot. Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking truth
    In this fine age were not thought flattery,
    Such attribution should the Douglas have
    As not a soldier of this season's stamp
    Should go so general current through the world.
    By God, I cannot flatter, I defy
    The tongues of soothers! but a braver place
    In my heart's love hath no man than yourself.
    Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.
  Doug. Thou art the king of honour.
    No man so potent breathes upon the ground
    But I will beard him.
 

Enter one with letters.

 
  Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. -
    What letters hast thou there? – I can but thank you.
  Messenger. These letters come from your father.
  Hot. Letters from him? Why comes he not himself?
  Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick.
  Hot. Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick
    In such a justling time? Who leads his power?
    Under whose government come they along?
  Mess. His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord.
  Wor. I prithee tell me, doth he keep his bed?
  Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth,
    And at the time of my departure thence
    He was much fear'd by his physicians.
  Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole
    Ere he by sickness had been visited.
    His health was never better worth than now.
  Hot. Sick now? droop now? This sickness doth infect
    The very lifeblood of our enterprise.
    'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.
    He writes me here that inward sickness-
    And that his friends by deputation could not
    So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet
    To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
    On any soul remov'd but on his own.
    Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
    That with our small conjunction we should on,
    To see how fortune is dispos'd to us;
    For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
    Because the King is certainly possess'd
    Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
  Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us.
  Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off.
    And yet, in faith, it is not! His present want
    Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good
    To set the exact wealth of all our states
    All at one cast? to set so rich a man
    On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
    It were not good; for therein should we read
    The very bottom and the soul of hope,
    The very list, the very utmost bound
    Of all our fortunes.
  Doug. Faith, and so we should;
    Where now remains a sweet reversion.
    We may boldly spend upon the hope of what
    Is to come in.
    A comfort of retirement lives in this.
  Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,
    If that the devil and mischance look big
    Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.
  Wor. But yet I would your father had been here.
    The quality and hair of our attempt
    Brooks no division. It will be thought
    By some that know not why he is away,
    That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
    Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence.
    And think how such an apprehension
    May turn the tide of fearful faction
    And breed a kind of question in our cause.
    For well you know we of the off'ring side
    Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement,
    And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence
    The eye of reason may pry in upon us.
    This absence of your father's draws a curtain
    That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
    Before not dreamt of.
  Hot. You strain too far.
    I rather of his absence make this use:
    It lends a lustre and more great opinion,
    A larger dare to our great enterprise,
    Than if the Earl were here; for men must think,
    If we, without his help, can make a head
    To push against a kingdom, with his help
    We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.
    Yet all goes well; yet all our joints are whole.
  Doug. As heart can think. There is not such a word
    Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.
 

Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

 
  Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.
  Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.
    The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
    Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.
  Hot. No harm. What more?
  Ver. And further, I have learn'd
    The King himself in person is set forth,
    Or hitherwards intended speedily,
    With strong and mighty preparation.
  Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,
    The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,
    And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside
    And bid it pass?
  Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms;
    All plum'd like estridges that with the wind
    Bated like eagles having lately bath'd;
    Glittering in golden coats like images;
    As full of spirit as the month of May
    And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
    Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
    I saw young Harry with his beaver on
    His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
    Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
    And vaulted with such ease into his seat
    As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds
    To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus
    And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
  Hot. No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March,
    This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come.
    They come like sacrifices in their trim,
    And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war
    All hot and bleeding Will we offer them.
    The mailed Mars Shall on his altar sit
    Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire
    To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
    And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse,
    Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt
    Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales.
    Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
    Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse.
    that Glendower were come!
  Ver. There is more news.
    I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
    He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
  Doug. That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet.
  Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
  Hot. What may the King's whole battle reach unto?
  Ver. To thirty thousand.
  Hot. Forty let it be.
    My father and Glendower being both away,
    The powers of us may serve so great a day.
    Come, let us take a muster speedily.
    Doomsday is near. Die all, die merrily.
  Doug. Talk not of dying. I am out of fear
    Of death or death's hand for this one half-year.
 

Exeunt