Act 1, Scene 1

Original Text

*London. The Palace. Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland, [Sir Walter Blunt,] with others.* KING. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.

Modern English

*London. The palace. The King enters with Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.* KING. Shaken as we are, pale with worry, let our frightened peace catch its breath just long enough to gasp out the news of fresh wars to be fought in distant lands.

Original Text

KING. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood. No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery, Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks March all one way and be no more oppos'd Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies.

Modern English

KING. No more shall this thirsty soil smear its lips with the blood of its own children. No more shall war's trenches gouge her fields, nor bruise her flowers with the iron hooves of marching enemies. Those opposing eyes, which, like meteors in a troubled sky, all of one nature, born of one substance, recently met in the violent shock and furious close of civil slaughter, shall now in well-matched ranks march together as one and no longer fight against neighbors, kin, and allies.

Original Text

KING. The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ — Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engag'd to fight — Forthwith a power of English shall we levy, Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb To chase these pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd For our advantage on the bitter cross.

Modern English

KING. The edge of war, like a knife badly sheathed, shall no longer cut its master. So, my friends, as far as Christ's tomb itself — in whose service, under whose blessed cross, we are sworn and pledged to fight — we'll raise an English army at once, men whose limbs were shaped in the womb to drive these pagans from those holy fields across whose acres walked the blessed feet which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed, for our salvation, to the bitter cross.

Original Text

KING. But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old, And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go. Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, What yesternight our Council did decree In forwarding this dear expedience.

Modern English

KING. But this plan of ours is now a year old, and pointless to repeat that we will go. That isn't why we meet today. Tell me instead, my dear cousin Westmoreland, what our Council decided last night in pushing forward this important mission.

Original Text

WESTMORELAND. My liege, this haste was hot in question And many limits of the charge set down But yesternight; when all athwart there came A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news; Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against the irregular and wild Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, A thousand of his people butchered; Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, Such beastly shameless transformation, By those Welshwomen done as may not be Without much shame retold or spoken of.

Modern English

WESTMORELAND. My lord, the urgency was hotly debated and many limits of the campaign were set just last night, when right across our plans came a messenger from Wales with heavy news. The worst was this: noble Mortimer, leading the men of Herefordshire to fight against the wild and lawless Glendower, was captured by that Welshman's rough hands, a thousand of his troops butchered; and the dead bodies were so foully treated, so beastly and shamelessly disfigured by those Welshwomen, that the details cannot be retold or even spoken of without shame.

Original Text

KING. It seems then that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

Modern English

KING. It seems, then, that the news of this disaster broke off our business for the Holy Land.

Original Text

WESTMORELAND. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord; For more uneven and unwelcome news Came from the North, and thus it did import: On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there, Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald, That ever-valiant and approved Scot, At Holmedon met, Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour; As by discharge of their artillery And shape of likelihood the news was told; For he that brought them, in the very heat And pride of their contention did take horse, Uncertain of the issue any way.

Modern English

WESTMORELAND. That news combined with worse, my gracious lord; for even uglier and more unwelcome news came from the North, and it ran like this: on Holy-rood Day, the gallant Hotspur — young Harry Percy — and brave Archibald, that ever-valiant and respected Scot, met at Holmedon and spent a sad and bloody hour there; the discharge of artillery and signs of likelihood reported it that way, for the man who brought the news, in the very heat and pride of the contest, took horse, uncertain of the outcome either way.

Original Text

KING. Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend, Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse, Stain'd with the variation of each soil Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours, And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is discomfited; Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights, Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see On Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took Mordake Earl of Fife and eldest son To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol, Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith. And is not this an honourable spoil? A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?

Modern English

KING. Here is a dear, hardworking friend, Sir Walter Blunt, just dismounted from his horse, stained with the dirt of every county between Holmedon and this seat of ours, and he has brought us smooth and welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is defeated; ten thousand bold Scots and twenty-two knights, heaped in their own blood, Sir Walter saw on Holmedon's plains. As prisoners, Hotspur took Mordake, Earl of Fife and eldest son to defeated Douglas, and the Earls of Athol, Murray, Angus, and Menteith. Now isn't that an honorable haul? A gallant prize? Cousin, isn't it?

Original Text

WESTMORELAND. In faith, it is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

Modern English

WESTMORELAND. Truly, it's a conquest a prince could boast of.

Original Text

KING. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin In envy that my Lord Northumberland Should be the father to so blest a son — A son who is the theme of honour's tongue, Amongst a grove the very straightest plant; Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride; Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, See riot and dishonour stain the brow Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov'd That some night-tripping fairy had exchang'd In cradle clothes our children where they lay, And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.

Modern English

KING. Yes, and there you make me sad, and make me sin in envy that Lord Northumberland should be the father of so blessed a son — a son who's the talk of every man of honor, the straightest plant in the whole grove, sweet Fortune's favorite and her pride; while I, looking at the praise heaped on him, see riot and dishonor stain the brow of my young Harry. Oh, if only it could be proved that some mischievous fairy had switched our children in their cradles where they lay, and called mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then I would have his Harry, and he mine.

Original Text

KING. But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz, Of this young Percy's pride? The prisoners Which he in this adventure hath surpris'd To his own use he keeps, and sends me word I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

Modern English

KING. But enough of him. What do you think, cousin, of young Percy's pride? The prisoners he took in his recent campaign he keeps for his own use, and sends me word I shall have only Mordake, Earl of Fife.

Original Text

WESTMORELAND. This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you in all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

Modern English

WESTMORELAND. This is his uncle's coaching — Worcester's, who hates you in every way, and who makes Hotspur preen and bristle up his youthful crest against your dignity.

Original Text

KING. But I have sent for him to answer this; And for this cause awhile we must neglect Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we Will hold at Windsor. So inform the lords; But come yourself with speed to us again; For more is to be said and to be done Than out of anger can be uttered.

Modern English

KING. But I've summoned him to answer for this; and for this reason we must, for now, set aside our holy purpose for Jerusalem. Cousin, on Wednesday next we'll hold council at Windsor. So inform the lords, but come yourself back to us quickly; there is more to be said and done than I can manage to speak in anger.

Original Text

WESTMORELAND. I will, my liege. *Exeunt.*

Modern English

WESTMORELAND. I will, my lord. *They exit.*

King Henry IV, Part 1

Act 1, Scene 1

Act 1, Scene 1