King Henry IV, Part 1 by William Shakespeare (good novels to read in english .TXT) 📕

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 not, to’t again; We’ll stay your leisure.

HOT. I have done, i’faith.

WOR. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. Deliver them up without their ransom straight, And make the Douglas’ son your only mean For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons Which I shall send you written, be assured, Will easily be granted.— [To Northumberland.] You, my lord, Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, Shall secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate, well beloved, Th’ Archbishop.

HOT. Of York, is’t not?

WOR. True; who bears hard His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation, As what I think might be, but what I know Is ruminated, plotted, and set down, And only stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

HOT. I smell’t: upon my life, it will do well.

NORTH. Before the game’s a-foot, thou still lett’st slip.

HOT. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot:— And then the power of Scotland and of York To join with Mortimer, ha?

WOR. And so they shall.

HOT.

In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.

WOR. And ‘tis no little reason bids us speed, To save our heads by raising of a head; For, bear ourselves as even as we can, The King will always think him in our debt, And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay us home: And see already how he doth begin To make us strangers to his looks of love.

HOT. He does, he does: we’ll be revenged on him.

WOR. Cousin, farewell: no further go in this Than I by letters shall direct your course. When time is ripe,— which will be suddenly,— I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer; Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once, As I will fashion it, shall happily meet, To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

NORTH. Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust.

HOT. Uncle, adieu: O, let the hours be short, Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II.

Scene I. Rochester. An Inn-Yard.

[Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.]

1. CAR. Heigh-ho! an’t be not four by the day, I’ll be hang’d: Charles’ wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse’ not pack’d.—What, ostler!

OST. [within.] Anon, anon.

1. CAR. I pr’ythee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, put a few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

[Enter another Carrier.]

2. CAR. Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots; this house is turned upside down since Robin ostler died.

1. CAR. Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of oats rose; it was the death of him.

2. CAR. I think this be the most villainous house in all London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench.

1. CAR. Like a tench! by the Mass, there is ne’er a king in Christendom could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.—What,

ostler! come away and be hang’d; come away.

2. CAR. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing-cross.

1. CAR. ‘Odsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.—What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? An ‘twere not as good a deed as drink to break the pate of thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang’d: hast no faith in thee?

[Enter Gadshill.]

GADS. Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock?

1. CAR. I think it be two o’clock.

GADS. I pr’ythee, lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the stable.

1. CAR. Nay, soft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i’faith.

GADS. I pr’ythee, lend me thine.

2. CAR. Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth a? marry, I’ll see thee hang’d first.

GADS. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

2. CAR. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.— Come, neighbour Muggs, we’ll call up the gentlemen: they will along with company, for they have great charge.

[Exeunt Carriers.]

GADS. What, ho! chamberlain!

CHAM. [Within.] At hand, quoth pick-purse.

GADS. That’s even as fair as—at hand, quoth the chamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from labouring; thou lay’st the plot how.

[Enter Chamberlain.]

CHAM. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight: there’s a franklin in the wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already, and call for eggs and butter; they will away presently.

GADS. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’ clerks, I’ll give thee this neck.

CHAM. No, I’ll none of it: I pr’ythee, keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may.

GADS. What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang, I’ll make a fat pair of gallows; for, if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know’st he is no starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which, for sport-sake, are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters should be look’d into, for their own credit-sake, make all whole. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers; such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zwounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the Commonwealth; or, rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her, and make her their boots.

CHAM. What, the Commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way?

GADS. She will, she will; justice hath liquor’d her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fernseed,—we walk invisible.

CHAM. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fernseed for your walking invisible.

GADS. Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man.

CHAM. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

GADS. Go to; homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

[Exeunt.]

Scene II. The Road by Gadshill.

[Enter Prince Henry and Pointz; Bardolph and Peto at some distance.]

POINTZ. Come, shelter, shelter: I have remov’d Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gumm’d velvet.

PRINCE. Stand close.

[They retire.]

[Enter Falstaff.]

FAL. Pointz!