able such a work to undergo,
To weigh against his opposite; or else
We fortify in paper and in figures,
the names of men instead of men:
Like one that draws the model of a house
Beyond his power to build
it; who, half through,
Gives o'er and leaves his part-created cost
A naked subject to the weeping clouds
waste for churlish winter's tyranny.
Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,
Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd
man of expectation,
I think we are a body strong enough,
Even as we are, to equal with the king.
What, is the king but five and twenty thousand?
To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph.
For his divisions, as the times do brawl,
Are in three
heads: one power against the French,
And one against Glendower; perforce a third
Must take up us: so is
the unfirm king
In three divided; and his coffers sound
With hollow poverty and emptiness.
ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
That he should draw his several strengths together
And come against us in full puissance,
Need not be
If he should do so,
He leaves his back unarm'd, the French and Welsh
Baying him at the heels: never fear
Who is it like should lead his forces hither?
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth:
But who is
substituted 'gainst the French,
I have no certain notice.
ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
Let us on,
And publish the occasion of our arms.
The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;
over-greedy love hath surfeited:
An habitation giddy and unsure
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
thou fond many, with what loud applause
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,
was what thou wouldst have him be!
And being now trimm'd in thine own desires,
Thou, beastly feeder,
art so full of him,
That thou provokest thyself to cast him up.
So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge
glutton bosom of the royal Richard;
And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl'st to find it.
What trust is in
They that, when Richard lived, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd
on his grave:
Thou, that threw'st dust upon his goodly head
When through proud London he came sighing
After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,
Criest now 'O earth, yield us that king again,
And take thou
this!' O thoughts of men accursed!
Past and to come seems best; things present worst.
Shall we go draw our numbers and set on?
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.