Henry IV, Part 1: Act 5

The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.

You have deceived our trust
And made us doff our easy robes of peace
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.

What with our help, what with the absent king,
What with the injuries of a wanton time,
The seeming sufferances that you had borne,
And the contrarious winds that held the King
So long in his unlucky Irish wars
That all in England did repute him dead

You took occasion to be quickly wooed
To gripe the general sway into your hand

We were enforced for safety sake to fly
Out of your sight and raise this present head,
Whereby we stand opposèd by such means
As you yourself have forged against yourself
By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,
And violation of all faith and troth
Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.

These things indeed you have articulate,
Proclaimed at market crosses, read in churches,
To face the garment of rebellion
With some fine color that may please the eye
Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,
Which gape and rub the elbow at the news
Of hurlyburly innovation.

And never yet did insurrection want
Such water colors to impaint his cause,
Nor moody beggars starving for a time
Of pellmell havoc and confusion.

And never yet did insurrection want
Such water colors to impaint his cause,
Nor moody beggars starving for a time
Of pellmell havoc and confusion.

For my part, I may speak it to my shame,
I have a truant been to chivalry,
And so I hear he doth account me too.

For my part, I may speak it to my shame,
I have a truant been to chivalry,
And so I hear he doth account me too.

And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,
Albeit considerations infinite
Do make against it.

But if he will not yield,
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,
And they shall do their office.

Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship.

I would be loath to pay Him before His day.

What is in that word “honor”? What is that “honor”? Air. A trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ’Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead.

But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.

But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.

My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot;
It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,
And an adopted name of privilege—
A harebrained Hotspur governed by a spleen.

I told him gently of our grievances,
Of his oath-breaking, which he mended thus
By now forswearing that he is forsworn.

He calls us “rebels,” “traitors,” and will scourge
With haughty arms this hateful name in us.

Tell me, tell me,
How showed his tasking? Seemed it in contempt?

There did he pause, but let me tell the world:
If he outlive the envy of this day,
England did never owe so sweet a hope
So much misconstrued in his wantonness.

Cousin, I think thou art enamorèd
On his follies.

Cousin, I think thou art enamorèd
On his follies.

O gentlemen, the time of life is short;
To spend that shortness basely were too long
If life did ride upon a dial’s point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

The King comes on apace.

Sound all the lofty instruments of war,
And by that music let us all embrace,
For, heaven to Earth, some of us never shall
A second time do such a courtesy.

I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered.

Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are yet unrevenged.

What, is it a time to jest and dally now?

How fares your Grace?

Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succor sent,
And so hath Clifton.

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,
Nor can one England brook a double reign
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.

This earth that bears thee dead
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

And even in thy behalf I’ll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remembered in thy epitaph.

Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remembered in thy epitaph.

’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too.

The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life.

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.