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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 commenced in strands afar remote. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood; Nor more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flowerets 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 opposed 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 engaged to fight, Forthwith a power of English shall we levy; Whose arms were moulded in their mothers’ 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 twelve month 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.
We’ve been shaken, so tired and pale from worry, Let’s find a moment for peace to take a breath, And speak briefly about the new wars That are about to start far away. No more will this land drink its own children’s blood; No more will war carve up her fields, Or trample her flowers with the enemy’s horses. Those enemies who just recently fought each other, Like meteors in a troubled sky, Who were all alike, born from the same stuff, Will now, in peaceful order, March together and not be enemies anymore, Against friends, family, and allies. The violence of war, like a badly sharpened knife, Will no longer harm its owner. So, friends, As far as to the tomb of Christ, Whose soldiers we are, fighting under His blessed cross, We will immediately raise an army of English soldiers; Whose strength was made in their mothers’ wombs To chase these enemies on holy ground, Over the fields where those blessed feet Walked, nailed to the bitter cross for our benefit. But this plan of ours is a year old now, And it’s pointless to say we will go now: So we don’t meet today. Let me hear, My dear cousin Westmoreland, What our council decided last night To move this important plan forward.
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.
My lord, this hurry was discussed just yesterday, And many details were set down then: But then a messenger from Wales arrived, Bringing bad news; The worst of it being that the noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire into battle Against the wild and rebellious Glendower, Was captured by that Welshman, A thousand of his men slaughtered; His dead body was so mistreated, So shamefully abused by those Welsh women, That it can hardly be spoken of without great shame.
It seems then that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
It seems that the news of this conflict Has interrupted our plans for the Holy Land.
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.
Yes, my lord, this news, combined with others, Has changed everything. For worse news came from the north: On Holy-rood day, Hotspur, young Harry Percy, And the brave Archibald, that valiant Scot, Met at Holmedon, Where they fought a bloody and sorrowful battle, As we heard from those who were there. The messenger, uncertain of the outcome, Took off during the heat of battle.
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 the 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?
Here’s good news, from Sir Walter Blunt, Fresh off his horse, Covered in dust from the journey Between Holmedon and our palace. And he’s brought us welcome news: The Earl of Douglas has been defeated. Ten thousand Scots, and twenty-two knights, Saw Sir Walter at Holmedon’s field, And were killed. Hotspur also captured many prisoners: Mordake, the Earl of Fife, and the eldest son Of the defeated Douglas; and the Earls of Athol, Murray, Angus, and Menteith. Isn’t this a great prize? A noble victory, cousin, isn’t it?
In faith, It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.
Truly, It’s a victory a prince can be proud of.
Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest 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 my young Harry. O that it could be proved That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine. But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz, Of this young Percy’s pride? the prisoners, Which he in this adventure hath surprised, To his own use he keeps; and sends me word, I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.
Yes, but hearing of it makes me sad, And fills me with envy that my Lord Northumberland Has such a blessed son, A son who is the talk of all honour; Amongst a grove, he’s the strongest tree, The favourite of fortune and glory. While I, by watching his praise, See waste and dishonour mark the brow Of my own son, Harry. I wish it could be proven That a fairy had swapped our children at birth, And mine had been called Percy, his Plantagenet! Then I would have his Harry, and he mine. But let him go from my mind. What do you think, cousin, Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners He captured in this battle, He’s keeping for himself, sending me word That I’ll only get Mordake, Earl of Fife.
This is his uncle’s teaching; this is Worcester, Malevolent to you in all aspects; Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.
This is his uncle’s doing, Worcester, Who is hostile to you in every way, Encouraging Hotspur to defy your authority.
But I have sent for him to answer this; And for this cause awhile we must neglect Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords: But come yourself with speed to us again; For more is to be said and to be done Than out of anger can be uttered.
But I’ve sent for him to answer for this; And for this reason we must delay Our holy mission to Jerusalem. Cousin, next Wednesday we’ll hold a council at Windsor; Inform the lords: But come back to me quickly, For there’s more to discuss and do Than can be said in anger.
I will, my liege.
I will, my lord.