Glendower.
Sit Cousin Percy, sit good Cousin Hotspurre:
For by that Name, as oft as Lancaster doth speake of you,
His Cheekes looke pale, and with a rising sigh,
He wisheth you in Heauen.
Hotspur.
And you in Hell, as oft as he heares Owen Glendower
spoke of.
Glendower.
I cannot blame him: At my Natiuitie,
The front of Heauen was full of fierie shapes,
Of burning Cressets: and at my Birth,
The frame and foundation of the Earth
Shak'd like a Coward.
Hotspur.
Why so it would haue done at the same season,
if your Mothers Cat had but kitten'd, though your selfe
had neuer beene borne.
Glendower.
Cousin: of many men
I doe not beare these Crossings: Giue me leaue
To tell you once againe, that at my Birth
Glendower.
The front of Heauen was full of fierie shapes,
The Goates ranne from the Mountaines, and the Heards
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields:
Glendower.
These signes haue markt me extraordinarie,
And all the courses of my Life doe shew,
I am not in the Roll of common men.
Where is the Liuing, clipt in with the Sea,
That chides the Bankes of England, Scotland, and Wales,
Which calls me Pupill, or hath read to me?
Glendower.
And bring him out, that is but Womans Sonne,
Can trace me in the tedious wayes of Art,
And hold me pace in deepe experiments.
Hotspur.
I thinke there's no man speakes better Welsh:
Ile to Dinner.
Mortimer.
Peace Cousin Percy, you will make him mad.
Glendower.
Come, heere's the Mappe:
Shall wee diuide our Right,
According to our three-fold order ta'ne?
Mortimer.
The Arch-Deacon hath diuided it
Into three Limits, very equally:
Hotspur.
Me thinks my Moity, North from Burton here,
In quantitie equals not one of yours:
Hotspur.
See, how this Riuer comes me cranking in,
Hotspur.
It shall not winde with such a deepe indent,
To rob me of so rich a Bottome here.
Glendower.
Not winde? it shall, it must, you see it doth.
Hotspur.
I doe not care: Ile giue thrice so much Land
To any well-deseruing friend;
But in the way of Bargaine, marke ye me,
Ile cauill on the ninth part of a hayre.
Are the Indentures drawne? shall we be gone?
Mortimer.
Fie, Cousin Percy, how you crosse my Father.
Mortimer.
This is the deadly spight, that angers me,
My Wife can speake no English, I no Welsh.