He never did encounter with Glendower :

I tell thee,

He durst as well have met the devil alone
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not asham'd? But, sirrah, henceforth
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
As will displease you.-My Lord Northumberland,
We license your departure with your son.
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.

[Exeunt K. HENRY, BLUNT, and Train.
Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them:-I will after straight,
And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,
Albeit I make a hazard of my head.

North. What, drunk with choler? stay, and Here comes your uncle.

pause

awhile:

Hot.

Re-enter WORCESTER.

Speak of Mortimer!

Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy, if I do not join with him:

Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood drop by drop i' the dust,
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high i' the air as this unthankful king,
As this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke.

North. Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.

[To WORCESTER.

Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone?
Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;
And when I urg'd the ransom once again
Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

Wor. I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim'd
By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

North. He was: I heard the proclamation:

And then it was when the unhappy king

Whose wrongs in us God pardon!-did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he intercepted did return

To be depos'd, and shortly murdered.

Wor. And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth Live scandaliz'd and foully spoken of

Hot. But, soft, 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 discontents
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 he 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-fac'd 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-fac'd fellowship!

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend. Good cousin, give me audience for awhile.

Hot. I cry you mercy.

Wor.

That are your prisoners,

Those same noble Scots

Hot.
I'll keep them all;
By heaven, 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;
Forbad 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-tongue 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 scourg'd with rods, Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard's time,-what do ye call the place?—
A plague upon 't-it is in Glostershire;-
'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 Berkley 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 assur'd,

Will easily be granted. -You, my lord,

[To NORTHUMBERLAND. Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd, Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate, well belov'd,
The 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 it: 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 reveng'd 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 hanged: Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not packed.-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 wrong 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 villanous 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.