Internet Shakespeare Editions


Jump to line
Help on texts

About this text

  • Title: Henry IV, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1600)
  • Editor: Rosemary Gaby

  • Copyright Rosemary Gaby. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Rosemary Gaby
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Henry IV, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1600)

    The second part of
    Which once in him abated, al the rest
    Turnd on themselues, like dull and heauy lead.
    And as the thing thats heauy in it selfe,
    180Vpon enforcement flies with greatest speed:
    So did our men, heauy in Hot-spurs losse,
    Lend to this weight such lightnesse with their feare,
    That arrowes fled not swifter toward their ayme,
    Than did our souldiers aiming at their safetie,
    185Fly from the field: then was that noble Worcester,
    So soone tane prisoner, and that furious Scot,
    The bloudy Douglas whose well labouring sword,
    Had three times slaine th'appearance of the King,
    Gan vaile his stomacke, and did grace the shame
    190Of those that turnd their backes, and in his flight,
    Stumbling in feare, was tooke: the summe of all
    Is, that the King hath wonne, and hath sent out,
    A speedy power to incounter you my lord,
    Vnder the conduct of yong Lancaster,
    195And Westmerland: this is the news at ful.
    Earle For this I shal haue time enough to mourne,
    In poison there is phisicke, and these newes,
    Hauing beene wel, that would haue made me sicke:
    Being sicke, haue (in some measure) made me wel:
    200And as the wretch whose feuer-weakned ioynts,
    Like strengthlesse hinges buckle vnder life,
    Impacient of his fit, breakes like a fire
    Out of his keepers armes; euen so my limbes,
    Weakened with griefe being now enragde with griefe,
    205Are thrice themselues: hence therfore thou nice crutch,
    A scaly gauntlet now with ioynts of steele
    Must gloue this hand, and hence thou sickly coife,
    Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,
    Which princes, flesht with conquest, ayme to hit:
    210Now bind my browes with yron, and approach
    The raggedst houre that Time and Spight dare bring,
    To frowne vpon th'inragde Northumberland,