Your highness knows, comes to no further use, By which his grace must mete the lives of others; K. Hen. 'Tis seldom-when the bee doth leave her comb In the dead carrion.-Who's here? Westmoreland? Enter WESTMORELAND. West. 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. K. Hen. O, Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Look! here's more news. Enter HARCourt. Har. From enemies Heaven keep your majesty ; The earl Northumberland, and the lord Bardolph, 1 The detail contained in prince John's letter. K. Hen. And wherefore should these good news make me sick? Will fortune never come with both hands full, [Swoons. Cla. O my royal father! West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself; look up! War. 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. Cla. No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs; The incessant care and labor of his mind Hath wrought the mure,1 that should confine it in, serve Unfathered heirs,2 and loathly birds of nature. The seasons change their manners, as the year Say, it did so, a little time before That our great grandsire, Edward, sicked and died. War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. P. Humph. This apoplex will, certain, be his end. K. Hen. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence Into some other chamber; softly, 'pray. [They convey the King into an inner part of the room, and place him on a bed. 1 Mure for wall is another of Shakspeare's Latinisms. It was not in frequent use by his contemporaries. 2 That is, equivocal births, monsters. Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends; Will whisper music to my weary spirit. War. Call for the music in the other room. P. Hen. Enter PRINCE HENRY. Who saw the duke of Clarence? Cla. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. P. Hen. How now! rain within doors, and none abroad! How doth the king? P. Humph. Exceeding ill. P. Hen. Tell it him. Heard he the good news yet? P. Humph. He altered much upon the hearing it. P. Hen. If he be sick With joy, he will recover without physic. War. Not so much noise, my lords ;-sweet prince, speak low; The king your father is disposed to sleep. Cla. Let us withdraw into the other room. War. Will't please your grace to go along with us? O polished perturbation! golden care! 1 Dull and slow were synonymous. 'Dullness, slowness; tarditas, tardivete. Somewhat dull or slowe; tardiusculus, tardelet;" says Baret. But Shakspeare uses dulness for drowsiness in the Tempest. And Baret has also this sense:-" Slow, dull, asleepe, drousie, astonied, heavie; torpidus." It has always been thought that slow music induces sleep. 2 The hint only of this beautiful scene is taken from Holinshed, p. 541. As he, whose brow, with homely biggin1 bound, [Putting it on his head. Which Heaven shall guard; and put the world's whole strength Into one giant arm, it shall not force This lineal honor from me. This from thee K. Hen. Warwick! Gloster! Clarence ! Cla. Re-enter WARWICK, and the rest. [Exit. Doth the king call? War. What would your majesty? How fares your grace ? K. Hen. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords? Cla. We left the prince my brother here, my liege, Who undertook to sit and watch by you. K. Hen. The prince of Wales? Where is he? let me see him. He is not here. 1 A biggin was a head-band of coarse cloth; so called because such a forehead-cloth was worn by the Beguines, an order of nuns. 2 i. e. circle; probably from the old Italian rigolo, a small wheel. War. This door is open; he is gone this way. where we staid. K. Hen. Where is the crown? who took it from my pillow? War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. K. Hen. 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 cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold; Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey, Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste Re-enter WARWICK. Now, where is he that will not stay so long Till his friend sickness hath determined me? War. My lord, I found the prince in the next room, Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks; With such a deep demeanor in great sorrow, 1 Accumulations. |