SCENE III. The Field of Battle, near Shrewsbury. Alarums. Enter EARL OF DOUGLAS and SIR WALTER Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle thus Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek Upon my head? Doug. Know then, my name is Douglas; And I do haunt thee in the battle thus, Because some tell me that thou art a king. Blunt. They tell thee true. Doug. The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought Thy likeness; for, instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; And thou shalt find a king, that will revenge Lord Stafford's death. [Alarums.-They fight.-BLUNT is slain. Enter HOTSPur. Hot. O, Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, I never had triumph'd upon a Scot! Doug. All's done, all's won; here breathless lies the king. Hot. Where? Hot. This, Douglas? no, I know this face full well: A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt; Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day. [Alarums.-Exeunt HOTSPUR and DOUGLAS. Other Alarums. Enter FALSTAFF. Fal. Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here's no scoring, but upon the pate.-Soft! who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt;— there's honour for you: Here's no vanity!—I am as hot as molten lead,-Heaven keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels.-I have led my raggamuffins where they are pepper'd: there's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here? Enter HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, with his Sword broken. P. Hen. What, stand'st thou idle here? lend me thy sword. Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are unreveng'd: lend me thy sword. Fal. O, Hal, I pr'ythee, give me leave to breathe a while.-Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms, as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure. P. Hen. He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. I pr'ythee, lend me thy sword. Fal. Nay, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett'st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt. P. Hen. Give it me: what, is it in the case? Fal. Ay, Hal; 'tis hot, 'tis hot; there's that will sack a city. [The PRINCE draws out a Bottle of Sack. P. Hen. What, is it a time to jest and dally now? [The PRINCE throws it at him, and exit. Fal. If Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so if he do not,-if I come in his, willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there's an end. [Alarums.-Exit. SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field of Battle. Alarums-Excursions. Enter HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, and HOTSPUR. Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. P. Hen. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name. Hot. My name is Harry Percy. P. Hen. Why, then I see A very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy, Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere; Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come P. Hen. I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee; And all the budding honours on thy crest Enter FALSTAFF. [They fight. Fal. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal!-Nay, you shall find no boy's play here, I can tell you. Enter EARL OF DOUGLAS; he strikes at FALSTAFF, who falls down, as if he were dead.-Exit DOUGLAS. -PERCY is wounded, and falls. Hot. O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth: I better brook the loss of brittle life, Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh : O, I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue:-No, Percy, thou art dust, [HOTSPUR dies, P. Hen. For worms, brave Percy: Fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weav'd ambition, how much art thou shrunk! Is room enough:-This earth, that bears thee dead, Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! But not remember'd in thy epitaph !— [He sees FALSTAFF on the Ground. What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spar'd a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee, If I were much in love with vanity. |