FALSTAFF. ’Tis not due yet, I would be loth to pay Him before His day. What need I be so forward with Him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter, honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word, “honour”? What is that “honour”? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth be 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. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The Rebel Camp. Enter Worcester and Vernon. WORCESTER. O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard, The liberal and kind offer of the King. VERNON. ’Twere best he did. WORCESTER. Then are we all undone. It is not possible, it cannot be, The King should keep his word in loving us; He will suspect us still, and find a time To punish this offence in other faults. Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes, For treason is but trusted like the fox, Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d and lock’d up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. Look how we can, or sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our looks, And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, The better cherish’d still the nearer death. 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 hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen. All his offences live upon my head And on his father’s. We did train him on, And, his corruption being ta’en from us, We as the spring of all shall pay for all. Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know In any case the offer of the King. VERNON. Deliver what you will, I’ll say ’tis so. Here comes your cousin. Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind. HOTSPUR. My uncle is return’d. Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland. Uncle, what news? WORCESTER. The King will bid you battle presently. DOUGLAS. Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland. HOTSPUR. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. DOUGLAS. Marry, I shall, and very willingly. [_Exit._] WORCESTER. There is no seeming mercy in the King. HOTSPUR. Did you beg any? God forbid! WORCESTER. 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. Enter Douglas. DOUGLAS. Arm, gentlemen; to arms! For I have thrown A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth, And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it, Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on. WORCESTER. The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the King, And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.