University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A court of the Castle.—Enter Westmoreland, meeting Arthur, with a falcon.
West.
How flies she, Arthur?

Ar.
Faithful to the lure,
My lord, and bold upon the wing as eagles.

West.
Thank my Lord Marshal with the Tangier barb.
See him caparisoned, and led by Hubert.
What tidings from the North?

Ar.
Berwick is free.
The Borderers stole away on Michael's eve.

West.
A raid of Murray's: so I wrote the King.
Who brought the news?

Ar.
The Regent's courier passed, at dawn,
For London.

West.
Spoke you with him?

Ar.
Yes, my lord.

West.
What brings he else?

Ar.
Nothing of any moment.
Rothsay is dead, and Percy fled from court.

West.
Percy!

Ar.
The Hotspur's son.

West.
Fled!—Whither?

Ar.
Westward,
Some say, with young Lord Douglas to the Isles;
Though others think to France.

West.
Degenerate stripling!—Fled!—How long ago?

Ar.
Two months, my lord, he doth report, and more.

West.
If but a spark— (Pausing)
—No fear,—one night on straw
Would send him with a quartan home to nurse.
But this curled minion's father, long ago,
Had shook my gates with Scotland at his back;
Or, baffled there, like some grey Palmer knocked,
With scrip, and scallop, craving charity,
Harper, or Beadsman, muttering for the damned,
And drenched our hospitable hearths with blood.
Rough Hotspur, sooner than in exile languish,
Ay, rather, if the spleen of fight were on,
Unarmed would mount, and, with a frail ash spear,
Tilt with the Fiend, than speak in courtesy.

Ar.
What thinks my lord? Were this fierce chief alive,
Or any valiant scion of his stock,
Would Henry, on submission at his throne,
Restore their honors?

West.
Restore!—Northumberland is mine: who takes
Must win it. Percy lorded o'er the North
Too proudly, and is sunk to rise no more.
The Sire and the Son set Bolingbroke aloft,
Meaning to rule the King they made; but soon
Finding a check on their omnipotence,
Their vengeful arms they turned; denounced his ruin;
Drew half the kingdom to revolt, and clave,
Almost, the diadem.

Ar.
Audacious traitors!

West.
Their fortune hit the planetary hour
They, erring, thought, and sun and moon must bow,
With humble adoration, to the Star
Of their nativity. And, had not I
Outwitted York, dispersed his power, and seized
Mowbray and him, we now had drudged for bread,
Cursing the pittance doled by Mortimer;
While grey-beard Percy gored us with his rule,
Counting each drop expiatory blood
For Hotspur's death.

Ar.
And does my lord fear aught from Hotspur's son?

West.
The Piper? Lady Regent's toilet-man?
Whose soul, in travail of a sonnet, faints,
Seven times a day, entranced upon a lute?
Alack! down-beds, perfumes, carpets, and ladies,
He covets more than cold night-watches, sheathed
In arms, steel pillows, and the smell of war.

Ar.
Strange tales of him the crones and Gypsies tell.
Some say the noble babe was stolen by Fairies,
Who left a changeling imp: some, that Night-hags
Blasted the cradle—

West.
Would the name were blasted,
Rased and forgot! Rebellion 's in their ashes,
And taints the air that blows upon my vassals.
Fools cry, A miracle! when nature sports.
'T was thus when Edward's lion-mettled stock
To Richard shrunk. The Scottish Regent strove
To rear him up a scourge and thorn to me;
Schooled him in every noble exercise,
And sought the promise of his youth to prove,
For, in his boyhood, sparks like Percy shone;
But 't was a bootless toil.—Look to the steed.

(Exit.)
Ar.
Buried in the dear ashes thou dishonorest,
That spark, proud Westmoreland, thou 'lt find
Alive for fatal mischief. Blest delusion!
For once, thank Heaven, my better star prevails.

(Exit.)