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And many moe corrivals and dear men

Of estimation and command in arms.

Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well oppos'd.

Arch. I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to fear;

And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed.

For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King

Dismiss his power, he means to visit us,

For he hath heard of our confederacy,

And 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him.

Therefore make haste. I must go write again

To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.

Exeunt.

ACT V. Scene I. The King's camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, Sir

Walter Blunt,

Falstaff.

King. How bloodily the sun begins to peer

Above yon busky hill! The day looks pale

At his distemp'rature.

Prince. The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blust'ring day.

King. Theft with the losers let it sympathize,

For nothing can seem foul to those that win.

The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester [and Vernon].

How, now, my Lord of Worcester? 'Tis not well

That you and I should meet upon such terms

As now we meet. You have deceiv'd our trust

And made us doff our easy robes of peace

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.

This is not well, my lord; this is not well.

What say you to it? Will you again unknit

This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light,

And be no more an exhal'd meteor,

A prodigy of fear, and a portent

Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

Wor. Hear me, my liege.

For mine own part, I could be well content

To entertain the lag-end of my life

With quiet hours; for I do protest

I have not sought the day of this dislike.

King. You have not sought it! How comes it then,

Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.

Prince. Peace, chewet, peace!

Wor. It pleas'd your Majesty to turn your looks

Of favour from myself and all our house;

And yet I must remember you, my lord,

We were the first and dearest of your friends.

For you my staff of office did I break

In Richard's time, and posted day and night

To meet you on the way and kiss your hand

When yet you were in place and in account

Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.

It was myself, my brother, and his son

That brought you home and boldly did outdare

The dangers of the time. You swore to us,

And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,

That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state,

Nor claim no further than your new-fall'n right,

The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster.

To this we swore our aid. But in short space

It it rain'd down fortune show'ring on your head,

And such a flood of greatness fell on you-

What with our help, what with the absent King,

What with the injuries of a wanton time,

The seeming sufferances that you had borne,

And the contrarious winds that held the King

So long in his unlucky Irish wars

That all in England did repute him dead-

And from this swarm of fair advantages

You took occasion to be quickly woo'd

To gripe the general sway into your hand;

Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;

And, being fed by us, you us'd us so

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird,

Useth the sparrow- did oppress our nest;

Grew, by our feeding to so great a bulk

That even our love thirst not come near your sight

For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing

We were enforc'd for safety sake to fly

Out of your sight and raise this present head;

Whereby we stand opposed by such means

As you yourself have forg'd against yourself

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,

And violation of all faith and troth

Sworn to tis in your younger enterprise.

King. These things, indeed, you have articulate,

Proclaim'd at market crosses, read in churches,

To face the garment of rebellion

With some fine colour that may please the eye

Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,

Which gape and rub the elbow at the news

Of hurlyburly innovation.

And