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Your highness knows, comes to no further use,
comb In the dead carrion.-Who's here? Westmoreland ?
West. Health to my sovereign ! and new happiness Added to that that I am to deliver ! Prince John, your son, doth kiss your grace's hand. Mowbray, the bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all, Are brought to the correction of your law; There is not now a rebel's sword unsheathed, But peace puts forth her olive every where. The manner how this action hath been borne, Here at more leisure may your highness read; With every course, in his particular.
K. Hen. O, Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Look! here's more news.
Har. From enemies Heaven keep your majesty ; And, when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell The earl Northumberland, and the lord Bardolph, With a great power of English, and of Scots, Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown. The manner and true order of the fight, This packet, please it you, contains at large.
i The detail contained in prince John's letter.
K. Hen. And wherefore should these good news
make me sick ?
[Swoons. P. Humph. Comfort, your majesty! Cla.
O my royal father! West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself; look up!
War. Be patient, princes; you do know, these fits Are with his highness very ordinary. Stand from him; give him air; he'll straight be well.
Cla. No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs; The incessant care and labor of his mind Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in, So thin, that life looks through, and will break out.
P. Humph. The people fear me; for they do ob
Unfathered heirs,' and loathly birds of nature.
Cla. The river hath thrice flowed, no ebb between:
War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. P. Humph. This apoplex will, certain, be his end. K. Hen. I pray you, take me up, and bear me
hence Into some other chamber; softly, 'pray.
[They convey the King into an inner part of
the room, and place him on a bed.
1 Mure for wall is another of Shakspeare's Latinisms. It was not in frequent use by his contemporaries.
2 That is, equivocal births, monsters.
Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends ;
War. Call for the music in the other room.
Enter PRINCE HENRY.
Who saw the duke of Clarence ? Cla. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. P. Hen. How now! rain within doors, and none
abroad ! How doth the king ?
P. Humph. Exceeding ill.
Heard he the good news yet? Tell it him.
P. Humph. He altered much upon the hearing it.
P. Hen. If he be sick With joy, he will recover without physic. War. Not so much noise, my lords ;-sweet prince,
Cla. Let us withdraw into the other room.
[Exeunt all but P. HENRY.
1 Dull and slow were synonymous. “ Dullness, slowness; tarditas, tardivete. Somewhat dull or slowe; tardiusculus, tardelet;" says Baret. But Shakspeare uses dulness for drowsiness in the Tempest. And Baret has also this sense :- Slow, dull, asleepe, drousie, astonied, heavie; torpidus.” It has always been thought that slow music induces sleep.
2 The hint only of this beautiful scene is taken from Holinshed, p. 541. let me see him. He is not here.
As he, whose brow, with homely biggin' bound,
[Putting it on his head. Which Heaven shall guard ; and put the world's whole
[Exit. K. Hen. Warwick! Gloster! Clarence !
Re-enter WARWICK, and the rest. Cla.
Doth the king call? War. What would your majesty ? How fares your
grace ? K. Hen. Why did you leave me here alone, my
lords? Cla. We left the prince my brother here, my liege, Who undertook to sit and watch by you. K. Hen. The prince of Wales ? Where is he?
1 A biggin was a head-band of coarse cloth; so called because such a forehead-cloth was worn by the Beguines, an order of nuns.
2 i. e. circle; probably from the old Italian rigolo, a small wheel.
VINHVV Nuryavi VVMANYAAN
War. This door is open; he is gone this way.
where we staid. K. Hen. Where is the crown? who took it from my
pillow? War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. K. Hen. The prince hath ta’en it hence ;-go, seek Is he so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death? Find him, my lord of Warwick ; chide him hither.
[Exit WARWICK. This part of his conjoins with my disease, And helps to end me.-See, sons, what things you are ! How quickly nature falls into revolt, When gold becomes her object ! For this the foolish, over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with
care, Their bones with industry ; For this they have engrossed and piled up The cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold ; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts, and martial exercises ; When, like the bee, tolling from every flower The virtuous sweets ; Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey, We bring it to the hive; and, like the bees, Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste Yields his engrossments to the ending father.
Now, where is he that will not stay so long
War. My lord, I found the prince in the next room,