King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me, for accordingly You tread upon my patience; but be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself, Mighty and to be fear'd, than my condition, Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, And therefore lost that title of respect Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud. Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves The scourge of greatness to be us'd on it- And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly. North. My lord- King. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye. O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet endure The moody frontier of a servant brow. Tou have good leave to leave us. When we need 'Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. Exit Worcester. You were about to speak. North. Yea, my good lord. Those prisoners in your Highness' name demanded Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is delivered to your Majesty. Either envy, therefore, or misprision Is guilty of this fault, and not my son. Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toll, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress'd, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd Show'd like a stubble land at harvest home. He was perfumed like a milliner, And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took't away again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff; and still he smil'd and talk'd; And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me, amongst the rest demanded My prisoners in your Majesty's behalf. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pest'red with a popingay, Out of my grief and my impatience Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what- He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds- God save the mark!- And telling me the sovereignest thing on earth Was parmacity for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd So cowardly; and but for these vile 'guns, He would himself have been a soldier.