The First Part of King Henry the Fourth. Уильям Шекспир

        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 commenc'd 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 flow'rets 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

          And furious close of civil butchery,

          Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks

          March all one way and be no more oppos'd

          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-

          Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross

          We are impressed and engag'd to fight-

          Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

          Whose arms were moulded in their mother's 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 twelvemonth old,

          And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go.

          Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear

          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

          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;

          Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,

          Such beastly shameless transformation,

          By those Welshwomen done as may not be

          Without much shame retold or spoken of.

        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,

          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

          Mordake Earl of Fife and eldest son

          To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,

          Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

          And is not this an honourable spoil?

          A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?

        West. In faith,

          It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

        King. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin

          In envy that my Lord Northumberland

          Should be the father to so blest a son-

          A son who is the theme of honour's tongue,

          Amongst a grove the very straightest plant;

          Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride;

          Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,

          See riot and dishonour stain the brow

          Of