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Thou art a guard too wanton for the head

Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.

Now bind my brows with iron; and approach

The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring

To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland!

Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand

Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage

To feed contention in a ling'ring act;

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set

On bloody courses, the rude scene may end

And darkness be the burier of the dead!

LORD BARDOLPH.

This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

MORTON.

Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

The lives of all your loving complices

Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er

To stormy passion, must perforce decay.

You cast th' event of war, my noble lord,

And summ'd the account of chance before you said

'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise

That in the dole of blows your son might drop.

You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge,

More likely to fall in than to get o'er;

You were advis'd his flesh was capable

Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd;

Yet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain

The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n,

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth

More than that being which was like to be?

LORD BARDOLPH.

We all that are engaged to this loss

Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas

That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one;

And yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd

Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;

And since we are o'erset, venture again.

Come, we will put forth, body and goods.

MORTON.

'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord,

I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:

The gentle Archbishop of York is up

With well-appointed pow'rs. He is a man

Who with a double surety binds his followers.

My lord your son had only but the corpse,

But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;

For that same word 'rebellion' did divide

The action of their bodies from their souls;

And they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd,

As men drink potions; that their weapons only

Seem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls

This word 'rebellion'- it had froze them up,

As fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop

Turns insurrection to religion.

Suppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He's follow'd both with body and with mind;

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood

Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones;

Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;

Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,

Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;

And more and less do flock to follow him.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

This present grief had wip'd it from my mind.

Go in with me; and counsel every man

The aptest way for safety and revenge.

Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed-

Never so few, and never yet more need. Exeunt

SCENE II. London. A street

Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, with his PAGE bearing his sword and buckler

FALSTAFF.

Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water? PAGE. He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he knew for. FALSTAFF. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything that intends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelm'd all her litter but one. If the Prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd with an agate till now; but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver,