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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 : fo shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
Blunt. I was not born to yield, thou haughty Scot; And thou thalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford's death.
Fight, Blunt is flain. Enter Hotspur. Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmnedon thus, I never had triumph'd o'er a Scot. Doug. All's done, all's won; here breathless lies the
king. Hot. Where? Doug. Here,
Hot. This, Douglas ? no, I know this face full well: A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt; Semblably furnish'd like the king himself.
Doug. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes !
Hot. The king hath many marching in his coats.
Doug. Now by my sword, I will kill all his coats;
Hot. Up, and away ;
Other alarums. Enter Falfaff. Fal. Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here, here's no scoring, but upon the pate. Soft! who are thou? Sir Walter Blunt ;-there's honour for you: "Here's no vanity !-I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too: 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 but 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 Prince Henry.
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 Y sure.
P. Henry. He is, indeed, and living to kill thee. I prythee, lend me thy sword.
Fal. Nay, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
P. Henry. Give it me: What, is it in the case ?
Fal. Ay, Hal; 'tis hot, 'tis hot; there's that will fack a city.
[The Prince draws out a bottle of fack. P. Henry. What, is it a time to jeft and dally now?
[Tbrows it at him, and exit. * Here's no vanity !]-ironically. “ Here's no knavery !"
TAMING OF THE Shrew, Vol. II. p. 296. Gr#. * Turk Gregory]—Pope Gregory the Seventh-Hildebrand, $ Sure.)-safe, sertainly disposed of him.
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 fir Walter hath : Give me life : which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlook'd for, and there's an end.
s c EN E IV.
Anotber. Part of the Field.
Alorums. Excursions. Enter the King, the Prince, Lord
John of Lancaster, and the Earl of Westmoreland. K. Henry. Harry, withdraw thyself ; thou bleed'st tog
much: Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.
Lan. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.
P. Henry. I beseech your majesty, make up,
K. Henry. I will do so :-
Weft. Come, my lord, I will lead you to your tent.
P. Henry. Lead me, my lord ? I do not need your help: And heaven forbid, a shallow scratch should drive The prince of Wales from such a field as this ; Where ftain'd nobility lies trodden on, And rebels' arms triumph in massacres ! Lan. We breathe too long :- Come, cousin Westmore
land, Our duty this way lies; for heaven's fake, come.
[Exeunt P. John and Weft. P. Henry. By heaven, thou hast deceiv'd me, Lancaster, I did not think thee lord of such a spirit :
Before, I lov'd thee as a brother, John;
K. Henry. I saw him hold lord Percy at the point,
P. Henry. O, this boy
Doug. I fear, thou art another counterfeit;
[They fight; the King being in danger, enter Prince Henry. P. Henry. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up again! the spirits Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms: It is the prince of Wales, that threatens thee; Who never promiseth, but means to pay.
[They fight, Douglas flyeth. Cheerly, my lord; How fares your grace ?
a' but be.
Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,
K. Henry. Stay, and breathe a-while :
P. Henry. O heaven! they did me too much injury,
your son. K. Henry. Make up to Clifton, I'll to sir Nicholas Gawley.
P. Henry. Why, then I see
Hot. Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come
P. Henry. I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee; And all the budding honours on thy crest I'll crop to make a garland for
head. Hot. I can no longer brook thy'vanities. [Fight. loft opinion ; ]-character“my loft opinion.