King Henry IV. William Hazlitt

I pray you; did King Richard then

       Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

       Heir to the crown?

      NORTH.

       He did; myself did hear it.

      HOT.

       Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin King,

       That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.

       But shall it be, that you, that set the crown

       Upon the head of this forgetful man,

       And for his sake wear the detested blot

       Of murderous subornation,—shall it be,

       That you a world of curses undergo,

       Being the agents, or base second means,

       The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?—

       O, pardon me, that I descend so low,

       To show the line and the predicament

       Wherein you range under this subtle King;—

       Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days,

       Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

       That men of your nobility and power

       Did gage them both in an unjust behalf,—

       As both of you, God pardon it! have done,—

       To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,

       And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

       And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken,

       That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off

       By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

       No! yet time serves, wherein you may redeem

       Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves

       Into the good thoughts of the world again;

       Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt

       Of this proud King, who studies day and night

       To answer all the debt he owes to you

       Even with the bloody payment of your deaths:

       Therefore, I say,—

      WOR.

       Peace, cousin, say no more:

       And now I will unclasp a secret book,

       And to your quick-conceiving discontent

       I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous;

       As full of peril and adventurous spirit

       As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud

       On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

      HOT.

       If we fall in, good night, or sink or swim!

       Send danger from the east unto the west,

       So honour cross it from the north to south,

       And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs

       To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

      NORTH.

       Imagination of some great exploit

       Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

      HOT.

       By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,

       To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced Moon;

       Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

       Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

       And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;

       So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

       Without corrival all her dignities:

       But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

      WOR.

       He apprehends a world of figures here,

       But not the form of what he should attend.—

       Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

      HOT.

       I cry you mercy.

      WOR.

       Those same noble Scots

       That are your prisoners,—

      HOT.

       I’ll keep them all;

       By God, he shall not have a Scot of them;

       No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:

       I’ll keep them, by this hand.

      WOR.

       You start away,

       And lend no ear unto my purposes.

       Those prisoners you shall keep;—

      HOT.

       Nay, I will; that’s flat.

       He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

       Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer;

       But I will find him when he lies asleep,

       And in his ear I’ll holla Mortimer!

       Nay,

       I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak

       Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,

       To keep his anger still in motion.

      WOR.

       Hear you, cousin; a word.

      HOT.

       All studies here I solemnly defy,

       Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:

       And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,

       But that I think his father loves him not,

       And would be glad he met with some mischance,

       I’d have him poison’d with a pot of ale.

      WOR.

       Farewell, kinsman: I will talk to you

       When you are better temper’d to attend.

      NORTH.

       Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool

       Art thou, to break into this woman’s mood,

       Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

      HOT.

       Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged with rods,

       Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

       Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

       In Richard’s time,—what do you call the place?—

       A plague upon’t!—it is in Gioucestershire;—

       ‘Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept,

       His uncle York;—where I first bow’d my knee

       Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;—

       When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

      NORTH.

       At Berkeley-castle.

      HOT.

       You say true:—

       Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

       This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

       Look, when his infant fortune came to age,

       And, Gentle Harry Percy, and kind cousin,—

       O, the Devil take such cozeners!—God forgive me!—

       Good uncle, tell your tale; for I have done.

      WOR.

       Nay, if you have