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Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks,
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without corrival all her dignities:

But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend.— Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

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By God, he shall not have a Scot of them;

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.
I'll keep them, by this hand.

Wor.

You start away

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hot.
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer;
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I'll holla-Mortimer!'
Nay,

Nay, I will that's flat

I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him,

To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor. Hear you, cousin; a word.

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy,

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of
Wales,

But that I think his father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some mischance,
I'd have him poisoned with a pot of ale.

Wor. Farewell, kinsman: I will talk to you
When you are better tempered to attend.

North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool

Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Hot. Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with rods,

Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard's time,—what do ye call the place?—
A plague upon 't-it is in Glostershire ;—

'T was where the madcap duke his uncle kept, —
His uncle York,-where I first bowed my knee
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,
'Sblood!

When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

North. At Berkley Castle.

Hot. You say true :

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
Look,-' when his infant fortune came to age,'

And, gentle Harry Percy,' — and, 'kind

cousin,'

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O, the devil take such cozeners!-God forgive

me!

Good uncle, tell your tale; for I have done.
Wor. Nay, if you have not, to 't again;
We'll stay your leisure.

Hot.

I have done, i' faith.

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.
Deliver them up without their ransom straight,
And make the Douglas' son your only mean
For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assured,
Will easily be granted.-[To NORTHUMBERLAND.]
-You, my lord,

Your son in Scotland being thus employed,
Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate well-beloved,
The archbishop.

Hot. Of York, is 't not?

Wor. True; who bears hard

His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,

And only stays but to behold the face

Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

Hot. I smell 't: upon my life, it will do well. North. Before the game 's afoot, thou still lett'st

slip.

Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble

plot :

And then the power of Scotland and of York,—
To join with Mortimer, ha?

And so they shall.

Wor.
Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aimed.
Wor. And 't is no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads by raising of a head;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The king will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home.
And see already how he doth begin

To make us strangers to his looks of love.

Hot. He does, he does: we'll be revenged on

him.

Wor. Cousin, farewell :- No further go in this

Than I by letters shall direct your course.
When time is ripe,--which will be suddenly,--
I'll steal to Glendower, and Lord Mortimer;
Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

North. Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust.

Hot. Uncle, adieu.-O, let the hours be short, Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-Rochester.

An Inn Yard.

Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.

1 Car. Heigh-ho!

An't be not four by the

day, I'll be hanged: Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not packed. What, ostler!

Ostler. [Within.] Anon, anon.

1 Car. I pr'ythee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

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