Enter King Henry IV, the Princes Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester, Warwick, and others
Now, lords, if God doth give successful end To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, We will our youth lead on to higher fields And draw no swords but what are sanctified. Our navy is address'd, our power collected, Our substitutes in absence well invested, And every thing lies level to our wish: Only, we want a little personal strength; And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot, Come underneath the yoke of government.
Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence. How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas; Thou hast a better place in his affection Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy, And noble offices thou mayst effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his greatness and thy other brethren: Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love, Nor lose the good advantage of his grace By seeming cold or careless of his will; For he is gracious, if he be observed: He hath a tear for pity and a hand Open as day for melting charity: Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he's flint, As humorous as winter and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring of day. His temper, therefore, must be well observed: Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When thou perceive his blood inclined to mirth; But, being moody, give him line and scope, Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, That the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion— As, force perforce, the age will pour it in— Shall never leak, though it do work as strong As aconitum or rash gunpowder.
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds; And he, the noble image of my youth, Is overspread with them: therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death: The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape In forms imaginary the unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, When rage and hot blood are his counsellors, When means and lavish manners meet together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril and opposed decay!
My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite: The prince but studies his companions Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language, 'Tis needful that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learn'd; which once attain'd, Your highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The prince will in the perfectness of time Cast off his followers; and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live, By which his grace must mete the lives of others, Turning past evils to advantages.
'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb In the dead carrion.
Who's here? Westmoreland?
Health to my sovereign, and new happiness Added to that that I am to deliver! Prince John your son doth kiss your grace's hand: Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all Are brought to the correction of your law; There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd But peace puts forth her olive every where. The manner how this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your highness read, With every course in his particular.
O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day.
Look, here's more news.
From enemies heaven keep your majesty; And, when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you of! The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, With a great power of English and of Scots Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown: The manner and true order of the fight This packet, please it you, contains at large.
And wherefore should these good news make me sick? Will fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters? She either gives a stomach and no food; Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast And takes away the stomach; such are the rich, That have abundance and enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news; And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy: O me! come near me; now I am much ill.
Be patient, princes; you do know, these fits Are with his highness very ordinary. Stand from him. Give him air; he'll straight be well.
No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs: The incessant care and labour of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in So thin that life looks through and will break out.
The people fear me; for they do observe Unfather'd heirs and loathly births of nature: The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leap'd them over.
The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between; And the old folk, time's doting chronicles, Say it did so a little time before That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died.