SIR WALTER BLUNT.

THOMAS PERCY, Earl of Worcester.

HENRY PERCY, Earl of Northumberland.

Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son.
EDMUND MORTIMER, Earl of March.
RICHARD SCROOP, Archbishop of York.
ARCHIBALD, Earl of Douglas.

OWEN GLENDOWER.

SIR RICHARD VERNON.

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

SIR MICHAEL, a friend to the Archbishop of York. POINS.

GADSHILL.

PETO.

BARDOLPH.

LADY PERCY, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer. LADY MORTIMER, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer.

MISTRESS QUICKLY, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

SCENE - England and Wales.

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Enter KING HENRY, LORD JOHN OF LANCASTER, the EARL OF WESTMORELAND, SIR WALTER BLUNT, and others.

King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in stronds afar remote. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood; No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces; those opposed eyes, Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock

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And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more opposed
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master.

Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,

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Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engaged to fight,
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose now is twelve month old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go;

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Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear 30
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,

What yesternight our council did decree
In forwarding this dear expedience.

West. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And many limits of the charge set down.

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But yesternight, when all athwart there came
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
A thousand of his people butchered,-

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Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,
Such beastly shameless transformation,

By those Welsh women done as may not be
Without much shame retold or spoken of.

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King. It seems then that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West. This match'd with other did, my gracious lord;

For more uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the north, and thus it did import:
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour,
As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

King. Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend, Sir Walter Blunt, new-lighted from his horse, Stain'd with the variation of each soil

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;

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And he hath brought us smooth and welcome

news.

The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;

Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights, Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see

On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took