Part 58

FALSTAFF. I would you had but the wit, ’twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me, nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine. There’s never none of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards, which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it, makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood, which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts’ extremes. It illumineth the face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, husbanded and tilled with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

Enter Bardolph.

How now, Bardolph?

BARDOLPH. The army is discharged all and gone.

FALSTAFF. Let them go. I’ll through Gloucestershire, and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I have him already tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber.

Enter the King, Warwick, Thomas Duke of Clarence and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester and others.

KING. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, We will our youth lead on to higher fields And draw no swords but what are sanctified. Our navy is address’d, our power collected, Our substitutes in absence well invested, And everything lies level to our wish. Only we want a little personal strength; And pause us till these rebels now afoot Come underneath the yoke of government.

WARWICK. Both which we doubt not but your Majesty Shall soon enjoy.

KING. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, Where is the Prince your brother?

GLOUCESTER. I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.

KING. And how accompanied?

GLOUCESTER. I do not know, my lord.

KING. Is not his brother Thomas of Clarence with him?

GLOUCESTER. No, my good lord, he is in presence here.

CLARENCE. What would my lord and father?

KING. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence. How chance thou art not with the Prince thy brother? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas. Thou hast a better place in his affection Than all thy brothers. Cherish it, my boy, And noble offices thou mayst effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his greatness and thy other brethren. Therefore omit him not, blunt not his love, Nor lose the good advantage of his grace By seeming cold or careless of his will; For he is gracious, if he be observed, He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity: Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he’s flint, As humorous as winter, and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring of day. His temper therefore must be well observed. Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth; But, being moody, give him time and scope, Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, That the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion— As, force perforce, the age will pour it in— Shall never leak, though it do work as strong As aconitum or rash gunpowder.

CLARENCE. I shall observe him with all care and love.

KING. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?

CLARENCE. He is not there today; he dines in London.

KING. And how accompanied? Canst thou tell that?

CLARENCE. With Poins, and other his continual followers.

KING. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds, And he, the noble image of my youth, Is overspread with them; therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death. The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape In forms imaginary th’ unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, When rage and hot blood are his counsellors, When means and lavish manners meet together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril and opposed decay!

WARWICK. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite. The prince but studies his companions Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language, ’Tis needful that the most immodest word Be looked upon and learned; which once attained, Your Highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The Prince will, in the perfectness of time, Cast off his followers, and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live, By which his Grace must mete the lives of other, Turning past evils to advantages.

KING. ’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb In the dead carrion.

Enter Westmoreland.

Who’s here? Westmoreland?

WESTMORELAND. 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 everywhere. The manner how this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your Highness read, With every course in his particular.

KING. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day.

Enter Harcourt.

Look, here’s more news.

HARCOURT. From enemies heaven keep your Majesty; And when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you of! The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, With a great power of English and of Scots, Are by the shrieve of Yorkshire overthrown. The manner and true order of the fight This packet, please it you, contains at large.

KING. And wherefore should these good news make me sick? Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters? She either gives a stomach and no food— Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast And takes away the stomach—such are the rich, That have abundance and enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news, And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy. O me! Come near me, now I am much ill.

GLOUCESTER. Comfort, your Majesty!

CLARENCE. O my royal father!

WESTMORELAND. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up.

WARWICK. 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.

CLARENCE. No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs. Th’ incessant care and labour of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in So thin that life looks through and will break out.

GLOUCESTER. The people fear me, for they do observe Unfather’d heirs and loathly births of nature. The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leap’d them over.

CLARENCE. The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb between, And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles, Say it did so a little time before That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died.

WARWICK. Speak lower, princes, for the King recovers.

GLOUCESTER. This apoplexy will certain be his end.

KING. I pray you take me up, and bear me hence Into some other chamber: softly, pray.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Another chamber.

The King lying on a bed. Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick and others in attendance.

KING. Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends, Unless some dull and favourable hand Will whisper music to my weary spirit.

WARWICK. Call for the music in the other room.

KING. Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

CLARENCE. His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

WARWICK. Less noise, less noise!

Enter Prince Henry.

PRINCE. Who saw the Duke of Clarence?

CLARENCE. I am here, brother, full of heaviness.

PRINCE. How now, rain within doors, and none abroad? How doth the King?

GLOUCESTER. Exceeding ill.

PRINCE. Heard he the good news yet? Tell it him.

GLOUCESTER. He alt’red much upon the hearing it.

PRINCE. If he be sick with joy, he’ll recover without physic.

WARWICK. Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet prince, speak low; The King your father is disposed to sleep.

CLARENCE. Let us withdraw into the other room.

WARWICK. Will’t please your Grace to go along with us?

PRINCE. No, I will sit and watch here by the King.

[_Exeunt all but the Prince._]

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, Being so troublesome a bedfellow? O polish’d perturbation! golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! Sleep with it now; Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, That scald’st with safety. By his gates of breath There lies a downy feather which stirs not: Did he suspire, that light and weightless down Perforce must move. My gracious lord, my father! This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorced So many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously. My due from thee is this imperial crown, Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. Lo, where it sits, Which God shall guard; and put the world’s whole strength Into one giant arm, it shall not force This lineal honour from me. This from thee Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me.

[_Exit._]

KING. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

Enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence and the rest.

CLARENCE. Doth the King call?

WARWICK. What would your Majesty? How fares your Grace?

KING. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?

CLARENCE. We left the Prince my brother here, my liege, Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

KING. The Prince of Wales! Where is he? Let me see him. He is not here.

WARWICK. This door is open, he is gone this way.

GLOUCESTER. He came not through the chamber where we stay’d.

KING. Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?

WARWICK. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

KING. The Prince hath ta’en it hence. Go seek him out. 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 canker’d 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 pack’d 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.

Enter Warwick.

Now where is he that will not stay so long Till his friend sickness hath determin’d me?

WARWICK. My lord, I found the Prince in the next room, Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks, With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow That tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood, Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

KING. But wherefore did he take away the crown?

Enter Prince Henry.

Lo where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry. Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.

[_Exeunt Warwick and the rest._]

PRINCE. I never thought to hear you speak again.

KING. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth! Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little, for my cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a wind That it will quickly drop. My day is dim. Thou hast stolen that which after some few hours Were thine without offence, and at my death Thou hast seal’d up my expectation. Thy life did manifest thou loved’st me not, And thou wilt have me die assured of it. Thou hid’st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my life. What, canst thou not forbear me half an hour? Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head, Only compound me with forgotten dust. Give that which gave thee life unto the worms. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; For now a time is come to mock at form. Harry the Fifth is crown’d. Up, vanity! Down, royal state! All you sage counsellors, hence! And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness! Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum. Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit The oldest sins the newest kind of ways? Be happy, he will trouble you no more. England shall double gild his treble guilt, England shall give him office, honour, might, For the fifth Harry from curb’d license plucks The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!

PRINCE. O, pardon me, my liege! But for my tears, The moist impediments unto my speech, I had forestall’d this dear and deep rebuke Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard The course of it so far. There is your crown; And He that wears the crown immortally Long guard it yours! If I affect it more Than as your honour and as your renown, Let me no more from this obedience rise, Which my most inward true and duteous spirit Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending. God witness with me, when I here came in, And found no course of breath within your Majesty, How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign, O, let me in my present wildness die And never live to show th’ incredulous world The noble change that I have purposed! Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, And dead almost, my liege, to think you were, I spake unto this crown as having sense, And thus upbraided it: “The care on thee depending Hath fed upon the body of my father; Therefore thou best of gold art worst of gold. Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, Preserving life in med’cine potable; But thou, most fine, most honour’d, most renown’d, Hast eat thy bearer up.” Thus, my most royal liege, Accusing it, I put it on my head, To try with it, as with an enemy That had before my face murder’d my father, The quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy, Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride, If any rebel or vain spirit of mine Did with the least affection of a welcome Give entertainment to the might of it, Let God for ever keep it from my head And make me as the poorest vassal is That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

KING. O my son, God put it in thy mind to take it hence, That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love, Pleading so wisely in excuse of it! Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed, And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, By what by-paths and indirect crook’d ways I met this crown, and I myself know well How troublesome it sat upon my head. To thee it shall descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation, For all the soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem’d in me But as an honour snatch’d with boisterous hand, And I had many living to upbraid My gain of it by their assistances, Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears Thou seest with peril I have answered; For all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument. And now my death Changes the mood, for what in me was purchased, Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort; So thou the garland wear’st successively. Yet though thou stand’st more sure than I could do, Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green; And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out; By whose fell working I was first advanced And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displaced; which to avoid, I cut them off, and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy Land, Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so That strength of speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God, forgive, And grant it may with thee in true peace live!

PRINCE. My gracious liege, You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me; Then plain and right must my possession be, Which I with more than with a common pain ’Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.

Enter Lord John of Lancaster and others.

KING. Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster.

LANCASTER. Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

KING. Thou bring’st me happiness and peace, son John, But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown From this bare wither’d trunk. Upon thy sight My worldly business makes a period. Where is my Lord of Warwick?

PRINCE. My Lord of Warwick!

Enter Warwick and others.

KING. Doth any name particular belong Unto the lodging where I first did swoon?

WARWICK. ’Tis call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord.

KING. Laud be to God! Even there my life must end. It hath been prophesied to me many years, I should not die but in Jerusalem, Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land. But bear me to that chamber; there I’ll lie; In that Jerusalem shall Harry die.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT V

SCENE I. Gloucestershire. Shallow’s house.

Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph and Page.

SHALLOW. By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away tonight. What, Davy, I say!

FALSTAFF. You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow.

SHALLOW. I will not excuse you, you shall not be excused. Excuses shall not be admitted, there is no excuse shall serve, you shall not be excused. Why, Davy!

Enter Davy.

DAVY. Here, sir.

SHALLOW. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy, let me see, Davy, let me see. Yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excused.

DAVY. Marry, sir, thus: those precepts cannot be served; and again, sir—shall we sow the hade land with wheat?

SHALLOW. With red wheat, Davy. But for William cook, are there no young pigeons?

DAVY. Yes, sir. Here is now the smith’s note for shoeing and plough-irons.

SHALLOW. Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you shall not be excused.

DAVY. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had. And, sir, do you mean to stop any of William’s wages, about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair?

SHALLOW. He shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook.

DAVY. Doth the man of war stay all night, sir?

SHALLOW. Yea, Davy, I will use him well: a friend i’ th’ court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy, for they are arrant knaves, and will backbite.

DAVY. No worse than they are backbitten, sir, for they have marvellous foul linen.

SHALLOW. Well conceited, Davy. About thy business, Davy.

DAVY. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Woncot against Clement Perkes o’ th’ hill.

SHALLOW. There is many complaints, Davy, against that Visor. That Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge.

DAVY. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir, but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his friend’s request. An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have served your worship truly, sir, this eight years; and if I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore I beseech your worship let him be countenanced.

SHALLOW. Go to; I say he shall have no wrong. Look about, Davy.

[_Exit Davy._]

Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph.

BARDOLPH. I am glad to see your worship.

SHALLOW. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master Bardolph; and welcome, my tall fellow [_to the Page_]. Come, Sir John.

FALSTAFF. I’ll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow.

[_Exit Shallow._]

Bardolph, look to our horses.

[_Exeunt Bardolph and Page._]

If I were sawed into quantities, I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits’ staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men’s spirits and his. They, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices: he, by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man. Their spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock together in consent, like so many wild-geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of being near their master: if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another. Therefore let men take heed of their company. I will devise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions, and he shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up!

SHALLOW. [_Within_.] Sir John!

FALSTAFF. I come, Master Shallow, I come, Master Shallow.

[_Exit._]

SCENE II. Westminster. The palace.

Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief Justice, meeting.

WARWICK. How now, my Lord Chief Justice, whither away?

CHIEF JUSTICE. How doth the King?

WARWICK. Exceeding well. His cares are now all ended.

CHIEF JUSTICE. I hope, not dead.

WARWICK. He’s walk’d the way of nature, And to our purposes he lives no more.