The Complete Works of William Shakespeare · William Shakespeare
SCENE III. Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Lady Percy. How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours. LADY PERCY. O my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offence have I this fortnight been A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed? Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth, And start so often when thou sit’st alone? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks, And given my treasures and my rights of thee To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy? In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d, And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars, Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed, Cry “Courage! To the field!” And thou hast talk’d Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets, Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin, Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain, And all the currents of a heady fight. Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war, And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep, That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream, And in thy face strange motions have appear’d, Such as we see when men restrain their breath On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these? Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, And I must know it, else he loves me not.
HOTSPUR. What, ho! Enter a Servant. Is Gilliams with the packet gone? SERVANT. He is, my lord, an hour ago. HOTSPUR. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff? SERVANT. One horse, my lord, he brought even now. HOTSPUR. What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not? SERVANT. It is, my lord. HOTSPUR. That roan shall be my throne. Well, I will back him straight. O Esperance! Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. [_Exit Servant._] LADY PERCY. But hear you, my lord. HOTSPUR. What say’st thou, my lady? LADY PERCY. What is it carries you away? HOTSPUR. Why, my horse, my love, my horse. LADY PERCY. Out, you mad-headed ape! A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen As you are toss’d with. In faith, I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will. I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir About his title, and hath sent for you To line his enterprise. But if you go— HOTSPUR. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love. LADY PERCY. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly unto this question that I ask. In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry, If thou wilt not tell me all things true. HOTSPUR. Away, Away, you trifler! Love, I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips. We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns, And pass them current too.—Gods me, my horse!— What say’st thou, Kate? What wouldst thou have with me?
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.