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.
My blood has been too cold and measured, Not eager to respond to these insults. And you've found me this way, so accordingly You trample on my patience. But know this: From now on I'll be myself rather than this mild version— Mighty and to be feared, instead of this temperament, Which has been smooth as oil, soft as young down, And therefore lost the title of respect Which proud souls never give except to the proud.
I've been way too calm and patient with you all. You're basically walking over me because I haven't pushed back. But that ends now. I'm going to be someone people actually fear and respect, not this soft version of myself that everyone's been trampling on.
i've been too chill people take advantage not anymore im gonna be the one they fear
Worcester never shouts and never panics — he speaks in measured, lawyerly clauses that do enormous damage quietly. Watch for how he uses the first-person plural ('our house', 'our own hands') to bind the family together while actually steering everyone toward what he wants.
Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it,
And that same greatness too which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.
Our family, my king, doesn't deserve To be punished like this. And that same greatness you're using against us— We helped make it happen.
Your Majesty, our family doesn't deserve this punishment. Especially when we're the ones who helped build your power in the first place.
we helped make you great this punishment is unfair we dont deserve this
Northumberland is the most controlled Percy on stage — he speaks in short, diplomatic lines that try to hold the room together. Watch for how rarely he says anything that commits him to action; he's a man who manages volatility, not one who creates it.
My lord,—
My lord—
My lord—
my lord—
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.
You have good leave to leave us. When we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
Worcester, leave now, because I see Danger and disobedience in your eyes. Sir, your presence is too bold and commanding, And royalty has never been able to tolerate A servant's defiant expression. You're free to go. When I need Your service and advice, I'll send for you.
Worcester, get out of here. I can see the rebellion in your eyes. Your attitude is way too aggressive, and no king can stand a servant looking at him like that. You're dismissed. I'll call for you when I need you.
get out i see the defiance no king tolerates this you're dismissed
You were about to speak.
You were about to say something.
Go ahead, what were you about to tell me?
what were u gonna say?
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 deliver’d to your Majesty.
Either envy, therefore, or misprision
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.
Yes, my lord. Those prisoners you demanded in your Majesty's name— The ones Harry Percy captured at Holmedon— Were not, according to him, withheld as forcefully As has been reported to you. Either jealousy or misunderstanding Is responsible for this problem, not my son.
Yes, Your Majesty. Those prisoners Percy took at Holmedon—the ones you asked for—weren't actually held back as strongly as you've been told. It's either someone's jealousy or a misunderstanding, not Percy's fault.
those prisoners from holmedon werent held back that hard not percys fault its a misunderstanding
Hotspur speaks in explosions — sentences that start somewhere and end up three metaphors later in a completely different place. He interrupts himself, circles back, name-drops battles and river banks and moon-plucking. Watch for how every speech gets longer and more ornate the angrier he gets, until someone has to literally stop him.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
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 smiled 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 question’d me, amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
Out of my grief and my impatience
To be so pester’d with a popinjay,
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 parmacety for an inward bruise,
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous 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.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said,
And I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.
My king, I didn't refuse any prisoners. But I remember, after the fighting ended, When I was dry with rage and exhaustion, Breathless and weak, leaning on my sword, There came a certain lord, neat and carefully dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom, and his newly shaved chin Looked like stubble-land at harvest time. He was perfumed like a perfumer, And between his finger and thumb he held A small perfume box, which again and again He put to his nose, then took away, Which made it angry when it came back, And he took it in offense; still he smiled and talked. And as the soldiers carried dead bodies by, He called them rude brutes, unmannerly, To bring such an ugly body Between the wind and his noble self. With many fancy and delicate words He questioned me, among other things asking For my prisoners on your Majesty's behalf. I then, still smarting from my cold wounds, Out of my pain and my impatience At being pestered by such a chattering fool, Answered carelessly—I don't know what— He should or he shouldn't; but he made me furious To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet, And talk like a waiting lady About guns and drums and wounds—God help us! And telling me the most important thing on Earth Was whale oil for an internal bruise, And that it was great shame, as it was, That this wretched gunpowder should be dug Out of the harmless earth, Which had killed so many good soldiers So cowardly, and if not for these terrible guns, He himself would have been a soldier. This broken, disjointed talk of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said, And I beg you, don't let his report Count as an accusation Between my loyalty and your high Majesty.
Your Majesty, I absolutely didn't deny you any prisoners. But here's what happened—after we finished fighting, I was exhausted and furious, bleeding, barely standing. Then this fancy dressed-up lord shows up, looking like he just stepped out of a wedding. He's wearing perfume, constantly sniffing at this little perfume box. As the soldiers are carrying bodies past, he complains that they're being rude bringing dead bodies near him. He keeps asking about prisoners, using all these flowery, ladylike words about military stuff. He was driving me crazy—talking about how gunpowder is such a shame, how whale oil heals bruises, how he'd be a soldier if guns weren't invented. I was bleeding, exhausted, and furious at his nonsense, so I just answered him without thinking. Don't let his version be used against my loyalty to you.
i never refused prisoners but theres this fancy dressed lord wearing perfume sniffing constantly such a chattering fool i was exhausted and hurt just answered carelessly dont believe his version
Blunt speaks once in this scene and exactly once — one clear, measured speech of diplomatic translation. He exists throughout the play as the voice of institutional loyalty, always brief, always steady. Watch for him appearing precisely when the King needs someone sane in the room.
The circumstance consider’d, good my lord,
Whatever Harry Percy then had said
To such a person, and in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest retold,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it now.
Given the circumstances, my lord, Whatever Harry Percy said to that person At that place, at that time, With all the rest understood, Can reasonably be forgotten, and never brought up To wrong him, or in any way accuse him Of what he said then, as long as he doesn't say it now.
Your Majesty, think about the situation. Whatever Percy said to that guy at that moment—considering everything he was going through—shouldn't be held against him now. That was then, this is now.
the circumstances matter what percy said then shouldn't count against him now thats unfair
The scene pivots on what sounds like a bureaucratic dispute: who gets the Scottish prisoners taken at Holmedon? But the stakes are enormous. Under medieval custom, the captor had the right to hold prisoners for ransom — that ransom money was both reward for military service and proof of status. When Henry demands the prisoners without paying Hotspur for them, he's not just being rude. He's effectively stealing the wages of a soldier who risked his life. Worse: he's denying the Percy family the financial windfall they were owed as compensation for their support in putting him on the throne. Hotspur's outrage isn't aristocratic pique. It's the fury of a man who fought a battle, almost died, and came home to find his employer restructuring his compensation package retroactively. The prisoner problem is the breaking point of a patronage system already under strain — and it works as a scene-turning crisis precisely because the grievance is so specific and concrete.
Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,
But with proviso and exception,
That we at our own charge shall ransom straight
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer,
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d
The lives of those that he did lead to fight
Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower,
Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then
Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?
Shall we buy treason and indent with fears
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No, on the barren mountains let him starve;
For I shall never hold that man my friend
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
But he refuses the prisoners with conditions—demanding I pay to ransom straight his brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer. That man has willfully betrayed the soldiers he led to fight against the great magician Glendower—and the Earl of March, we hear, has just married Glendower's daughter. Should my treasury be emptied to bring a traitor home? Should I buy treason when they've already lost and destroyed themselves? No, let him starve in the barren mountains. I will never call a man my friend if his tongue asks me for one penny to ransom this traitor Mortimer.
But he won't give up his prisoners unless I pay to ransom Mortimer—his foolish brother-in-law. That man deliberately betrayed the soldiers he was supposed to lead against Glendower, the great sorcerer. And now we hear the Earl of March just married Glendower's daughter, so Mortimer's connected to the enemy somehow. Why should I empty my wallet to bring a traitor back home? Should I pay for someone else's betrayal when they've already lost everything? No. Let him starve in the mountains. I won't be friends with anyone who asks me for even one penny to ransom this traitor Mortimer.
he won't give prisoners less i ransom mortimer but mortimer's a traitor who betrayed his own men why would i pay to get a traitor back
Revolted Mortimer!
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,
But by the chance of war. To prove that true
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank,
In single opposition hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower.
Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood,
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did bare and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly wounds,
Nor never could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly.
Then let not him be slander’d with revolt.
Mortimer, a traitor! He never betrayed anyone, my king, Except by chance in war. To prove that truth Needs only one witness for all those wounds, Those gaping wounds, which bravely he received, When on the gentle Severn's grassy bank, In one-on-one single combat, He battled the best of Glendower for an hour Exchanging fierce blows with great Glendower. Three times they stopped for breath, and three times they drank, By agreement, from the swift Severn's water, Who then, frightened by their bloody appearance, Ran fearfully through the trembling reeds, And hid its rippling head in the hollow bank, Stained with blood from these valiant fighters. Never did bare and corrupt strategy Wound someone with such deadly wounds. Nor ever could noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly. Then don't let him be shamed with accusations of betrayal.
Mortimer's not a traitor! He lost in war, that's all. Those massive scars on him prove how hard he fought against Glendower in single combat by the river. They fought for an hour, taking breaks to drink. The river itself ran red with their blood. Never did Mortimer back down—he took every hit willingly. Don't shame him with this accusation.
mortimer isnt a traitor he lost in combat fair and square those scars prove his courage he fought glendower for an hour dont shame him
Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him,
He never did encounter with Glendower.
I tell thee, he durst as well have met the devil alone
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland,
We license your departure with your son.—
Send us your prisoners, or you’ll hear of it.
You're lying, Percy, you're lying, He never fought Glendower. I'm telling you, he wouldn't dare face the devil alone Anymore than he would face Owen Glendower. Aren't you ashamed? But listen, from now on Don't let me hear you mention Mortimer. Send me your prisoners with the fastest means possible, Or you will hear from me In a way that will displease you. My Lord Northumberland, We allow your departure with your son. Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear about it.
You're lying, Percy. Mortimer never fought Glendower—he'd be as terrified as if he faced the devil himself. Aren't you ashamed? Stop talking about Mortimer. Send me those prisoners immediately, or you'll regret it. Northumberland, you're dismissed. Get me those prisoners, or there'll be consequences.
youre lying mortimer never fought glendower stop talking about him send me prisoners or else
An if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after straight
And tell him so, for I will ease my heart,
Albeit I make a hazard of my head.
Even if the devil comes and roars demanding them, I won't send them. I will go right after him And tell him so, because I need to ease my heart, Even if it risks my own head.
Even if the devil himself comes screaming for them, I'm not sending them. I'm going to follow the King and tell him exactly that, because I need to get this off my chest, even if it kills me.
even the devil cant have them im gonna tell the king off risk my life if i have to i dont care
What, drunk with choler? Stay, and pause awhile.
Here comes your uncle.
What, drunk with rage? Wait, and slow down. Here comes your uncle.
Are you drunk with anger? Calm down. Your uncle's coming.
chill out angry drunk your uncles here
Speak of Mortimer?
Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul
Want mercy if I do not join with him.
Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins,
And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer
As high in the air as this unthankful King,
As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke.
Talk about Mortimer? God, I will speak of him, and may my soul Lose mercy if I don't join with him. Yes, for his cause I'll empty all these veins, And shed my dear blood drop by drop into the dust, But I will lift the downtrodden Mortimer As high into the air as this ungrateful King, As high as this thankless and corrupted Bolingbroke.
Talk about Mortimer? I absolutely will speak of him. God strike me dead if I don't join with him. I'll bleed for him if I have to, shed every drop into the ground, just to lift Mortimer as high as this ungrateful king, this corrupted Bolingbroke.
ill speak of mortimer for sure ill join with him bleed for him raise him higher than this king
Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.
Brother, the King has driven your nephew to madness.
Brother, the King's made your nephew lose his mind.
the king made him crazy
Who struck this heat up after I was gone?
Who stirred this anger up after I left?
Who got him all fired up after I left?
who wound him up
He will forsooth have all my prisoners,
And when I urged the ransom once again
Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale,
And on my face he turn’d an eye of death,
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.
He insisted on having all my prisoners, And when I brought up the ransom for my wife's brother again, His face turned pale, And he turned a look of death toward me, Trembling at the very mention of Mortimer.
He's demanding all my prisoners. And when I mentioned the ransom for my wife's brother, his face went white and he gave me a deadly stare, literally shaking at Mortimer's name.
he wants all the prisoners mentioned mortimer his face went pale he trembled dying to know why
Everything about this scene belongs to Hotspur — the speeches, the imagery, the rage — but watch what Worcester actually does. He arrives already knowing Henry will dismiss him (and uses the dismissal to gather information: 'Who struck this heat up after I was gone?'). When he returns, he listens to Hotspur exhaust himself, lets Northumberland deliver the historical context he needs, and then delivers the conspiracy plan in under eight lines. He doesn't recruit — he orchestrates. He's known since before this scene that the Archbishop of York is a potential ally; he knows the Douglas connection can be made. The plan is already written. Worcester doesn't make this rebellion happen; he just lets it. That patience is chilling in retrospect, because Worcester's cold calculation will destroy everything in 5-2. The same quality that makes him so useful in 1-3 — the willingness to play a long game without passion — makes him the most dangerous man in the play.
I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaim’d
By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?
I can't blame him. Wasn't he declared By Richard, who is dead, the next in line for the throne?
I can't blame him for it. Didn't Richard declare Mortimer the heir to the throne before he died?
i get it richard said mortimer was heir that scares him
He was; I heard the proclamation.
And then it was when the unhappy King—
Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth
Upon his Irish expedition;
From whence he, intercepted, did return
To be deposed, and shortly murdered.
He was; I heard the proclamation myself. It was when that unlucky King— May God forgive us for his wrongs—left For his Irish campaign. From which he was intercepted and came back To be deposed, and shortly afterward murdered.
He was, I heard it myself. That was when Richard went off to Ireland, got cut off, came back, lost his throne, and got killed shortly after.
he was heir richard proclaimed it then richard went to ireland came back deposed got murdered
And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth
Live scandalized and foully spoken of.
And because of whose death we live Slandered and shamed in the world's eyes.
And because of his murder, we live with scandal and shame all over the world.
and we live with his shame everyone talks trash about us
But soft, I pray you, did King Richard then
Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer
Heir to the crown?
But wait, I'm asking you, did King Richard then Declare my brother Edmund Mortimer Heir to the crown?
Hold on—did Richard actually declare Mortimer heir to the throne?
wait richard declared mortimer heir? for real
He did; myself did hear it.
He did; I heard it myself.
He did. I heard him say it.
yeah he did i heard it
Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin King,
That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.
But shall it be that you that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man,
And for his sake wear the detested blot
Of murderous subornation—shall it be,
That you a world of curses undergo,
Being the agents, or base second means,
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?
O, pardon me, that I descend so low,
To show the line and the predicament
Wherein you range under this subtle King.
Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,
Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
That men of your nobility and power
Did gage them both in an unjust behalf
(As both of you, God pardon it, have done)
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?
And shall it in more shame be further spoken,
That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off
By him for whom these shames ye underwent?
No, yet time serves wherein you may redeem
Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves
Into the good thoughts of the world again:
Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt
Of this proud King, who studies day and night
To answer all the debt he owes to you
Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.
Therefore, I say—
Well, then I can't fault my cousin the King For wanting him to starve on barren mountains. But can it be that you who placed the crown On this forgetful man's head, And for his sake wear the mark Of murderous assistance—can it be That you'll suffer a world of curses, Being the agents, or secondary means, The ropes, the ladder, or the executioner rather? Pardon me for stooping so low, To show the path and the position You hold under this subtle King. Will it be a shame to speak in these days, Or appear in history books to come, That men of your nobility and power Gave both their strength to an unjust cause (As both of you, God forgive it, did) To remove Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke? And will it be even more shameful to hear That you're fooled, cast aside, and rejected By him for whose sake you suffered these shames? No, there's still time to restore Your banished honors and recover yourselves Into the good will of the world again. Retaliate against the scornful and shameful treatment Of this proud King, who schemes day and night To pay all his debt to you Right with the bloody price of your deaths. Therefore, I say—
Okay, so I can't blame the King for wanting Mortimer to starve. But here's what kills me: you two put the crown on this guy's head. You're wearing the mark of his crime. You risked everything to put him in power. And for what? So he can cast you aside? So you'll be remembered as the murderers who killed Richard and put up this fake king? There's still time to fix this. You can restore your reputations, get the world's respect back. Punish this King who's only planning how to destroy you both as payment. So here's what I think—
you put him on the throne risk everything he casts you out you look like murderers richard was innocent theres still time fix this revenge
Peace, cousin, say no more.
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontents
I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and adventurous spirit
As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.
Peace, cousin, say nothing more. And now I'll open a secret book, And to your quick-ready discontent I'll read you material deep and dangerous, As full of peril and bold risk As crossing a loud roaring river On the unstable footing of a spear.
Stop, cousin. Don't say another word. I've got a secret plan for you. It's dangerous stuff—like trying to cross a wild river on one leg while balancing on a spear.
stop talking i got a secret plan dangerous stuff risky business
If we fall in, good night, or sink or swim!
Send danger from the east unto the west,
So honour cross it from the north to south,
And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
If we fall in, so be it, sink or swim! Send danger from the east to the west, Let honor cross it from the north to the south, And let them fight. Oh, blood stirs more To wake a lion than to start a hare!
So what if we fall in? Either way, we go. Let danger come from wherever—we'll meet honor coming the other way and they'll collide. Blood boils more when you're fighting something real instead of running from something weak.
we'll do it sink or swim let danger and honor clash blood stirs for real combat
Imagination of some great exploit
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.
His imagination of some great deed Drives him past the limits of reason.
He's so caught up imagining this grand exploit that he can't think straight.
hes dreaming too big lost all reason
By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks,
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without corrival all her dignities.
But out upon this half-faced fellowship!
By Heaven, it seems easy to steal bright honor from the pale moon, Or dive into the ocean's bottom, Where no measuring line can reach the ground, And pull up drowned honor by the hair, So whoever frees her from there could wear All her dignities without any rival. But curse this half-hearted giving up!
By God, I'd rip honor straight out of the moon if I could, or dive to the deepest part of the ocean and drag up drowned honor. Whoever saves her gets all the glory without sharing it. But I hate this half-hearted backing down we're all doing.
id grab honor from the moon dive to the ocean bottom get all the glory myself no sharing curse this half-measure crap
He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.—
Good cousin, give me audience for a while.
He grasps for lots of images here, But not the actual thing he should focus on. Good cousin, give me your attention.
He's caught up in all these wild metaphors but missing the actual point. Cousin, listen to me.
hes got great ideas but missing the point listen to me
I cry you mercy.
I beg your pardon.
Sorry, I'll listen.
my bad go on
Hotspur's long speech about the perfumed courtier (1-3-011) is one of Shakespeare's most brilliant pieces of comic portraiture — vivid, specific, physically present. But notice how it works: Hotspur starts with a legal defence ('I denied no prisoners') and ends forty lines later talking about gunpowder philosophy. He gets so absorbed in the telling that the story almost becomes an entertainment. This is his characteristic problem. He starts addressing a question and ends up somewhere completely different, because every image triggers another image, every injustice reminds him of three more, and the emotional momentum carries him past whatever practical point he meant to make. Northumberland calls it 'imagination of some great exploit / drives him beyond the bounds of patience.' Worcester calls it 'he apprehends a world of figures here / but not the form of what he should attend.' His rhetoric is a portrait of a man whose relationship with ideas is entirely emotional. That's why he's thrilling and why he dies: he cannot subordinate the feeling to the strategy.
Those same noble Scots
That are your prisoners—
These very same noble Scots Whom you're holding captive—
Those Scottish nobles you captured—
the scots youre holding
I’ll keep them all;
By God, he shall not have a Scot of them,
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.
I’ll keep them, by this hand!
I'll keep them all. By God, he won't have a single Scot of them, No, not even if a Scot would sell his soul, he won't have any. I'll keep them, by my hand!
I'm keeping every single one of them. God knows, the King won't get a single Scot from me—not even if it means their salvation. They're mine, I swear it.
keeping them all the king gets zero scots im not giving them up nope
You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes:
Those prisoners you shall keep—
You're running away, And not listening to my plan. Those prisoners you shall keep—
You're not listening. Stop running off. Keep those prisoners—
youre not listening keep the prisoners stop running away
Nay, I will: that’s flat.
He said he would not ransom Mortimer,
Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer,
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I’ll holla “Mortimer!”
Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but “Mortimer”, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.
No, I will; that's final. He said he wouldn't ransom Mortimer, Forbade me to mention Mortimer, But I'll find him when he's sleeping, And in his ear I'll shout "Mortimer!" No, I'll get a talking bird trained to say Nothing but "Mortimer", and give it to him, To keep his anger always hot.
That's final. The King said no ransom for Mortimer, told me not to even say his name. Fine. I'll find him sleeping and scream "Mortimer!" in his ear. Better yet, I'll get a parrot trained to say nothing but "Mortimer" and put it in his room just to drive him crazy.
thats final im keeping them ill find the king sleeping scream mortimer get a bird to say it drive him nuts
Hear you, cousin, a word.
Listen, cousin, one word.
Cousin, just one word.
cousin wait
All studies here I solemnly defy,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
But that I think his father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some mischance—
I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale.
I reject every other pursuit here, Except how to make Bolingbroke suffer: And that sword-and-dagger Prince of Wales, Except I think his father doesn't love him, And would be happy if he met with disaster— I would poison him with a pot of ale.
I don't care about anything except tormenting Bolingbroke. And that sword-waving Prince of Wales—I'd poison him with a cheap beer if I thought his father wouldn't miss him.
i only care about hurting bolingbroke and that prince of wales id poison him with beer if i could get away with it
Farewell, kinsman. I will talk to you
When you are better temper’d to attend.
Goodbye, cousin. I'll talk to you When you're in a better mood to listen.
Farewell. We'll talk when you've calmed down.
see you later when youre chill
Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool
Art thou to break into this woman’s mood,
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
What a fool you are, stung by a wasp's anger, Breaking into this emotional outburst, Listening to no one but yourself!
You're an impatient fool, absolutely furious, acting like a hysterical mess and refusing to listen to anyone but yourself.
youre such a fool stung by rage listening to no one just yourself
Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged with rods,
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
In Richard’s time—what do you call the place?
A plague upon’t! It is in Gloucestershire.
’Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept,
His uncle York, where I first bow’d my knee
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,
’Sblood, when you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.
Why, I'm beaten and whipped with rods, Stung by ants, whenever I hear About this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard's time—what do you call that place? Cursed! It's in Gloucestershire. It's where the wild Duke, his uncle, stayed, His uncle York, where I first bowed my knee To this king of false smiles, this Bolingbroke, God's blood, when you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.
I'm beaten and stung like I've been covered in ants whenever I think about that politician Bolingbroke. In Richard's day—what's that place called? The one in Gloucestershire where his uncle York held court? That's where I first knelt before this smiling fraud Bolingbroke, when you both came back from Ravenspurgh.
im beaten stung by ants thinking of bolingbroke in gloucestershire where i first knelt to him that smiling fake
At Berkeley castle.
Berkeley Castle.
Berkeley Castle.
berkeley castle
You say true.
Why, what a candy deal of courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
“Look, when his infant fortune came to age,”
And, “Gentle Harry Percy,” and “kind cousin.”
O, the devil take such cozeners!—God forgive me!
Good uncle, tell your tale. I have done.
You're right. What excessive politeness That fawning dog showed me back then! "Look, when his young fortune came to maturity," And, "Gentle Harry Percy," and "kind cousin." Oh, the devil take such cheats! God forgive me! Good uncle, tell your story. I'm finished.
That's right. God, the excessive flattery that greedy bastard poured on me. "Wait till his fortune grows up" and "Dear Harry Percy" and "my good cousin." The devil take all those frauds. Forget I said that. Go ahead, Uncle, tell me your plan. I'm listening now.
right he was so fake so much flattery devil take cheaters god forgive me tell your plan uncle
Nay, if you have not, to it again,
We will stay your leisure.
Well, if you're not ready, go on, We'll wait for you.
If you're not done, keep going. We've got time.
keep going we can wait
When Hotspur calls the King 'this forgetful man' who wears the fruits of what the Percies planted, he's stating a historical fact the audience of 1598 would have known: Bolingbroke could not have become Henry IV without Percy support. Northumberland and Worcester were central to the rebellion that toppled Richard II — and both are now paying the price for it. Shakespeare's history plays make a consistent argument: usurpation poisons everything it touches. Henry IV will spend his reign haunted by the manner of his accession. His guilt about Richard's death — and the debt he owes to those who enabled it — is the structural fault running through his whole rule. The Percies' grievance isn't just true in 1-3; it's true in 2 Henry IV when Northumberland finally rebels, and it's the shadow that makes Henry V's legitimacy feel hard-won rather than inherited. The rebels aren't entirely wrong. That's what makes the play morally interesting.
I have done, i’faith.
I'm done, truly.
I'm really done this time.
im done for real
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners;
Deliver them up without their ransom straight,
And make the Douglas’ son your only mean
For powers in Scotland, which, for divers reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assured
Will easily be granted.—[_To Northumberland._] You, my lord,
Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d,
Shall secretly into the bosom creep
Of that same noble prelate well beloved,
The Archbishop.
Then once more about your Scottish prisoners. Deliver them up without ransom payment at once, And use the Douglas' son as your only way To get power in Scotland, which for various reasons Which I'll send you in writing, I assure you Will easily be granted. To Northumberland: You, my lord, Your son in Scotland working in this way, Shall secretly slip into the confidence Of that same beloved noble Church leader, The Archbishop.
Right. Release those Scottish prisoners without demanding ransom. Use the Douglas' son as your connection to get Scottish military support—which I'll explain in writing and which you'll easily get. Northumberland, while your son is in Scotland, he'll slip into the Archbishop's inner circle.
release the scots no ransom use the douglas son get scottish power easily done northumberland your son gets close to the archbishop
Of York, is it not?
The Archbishop of York, isn't it?
The Archbishop of York?
archbishop of york
True, who bears hard
His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
And only stays but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
True, he carries resentment For his brother's death at Bristol, Lord Scroop. I'm not speaking based on what might happen, But on what I know is being planned, Plotted, and settled, Waiting only for the right moment To put it into action.
Right. He's angry about his brother's death at Bristol—Lord Scroop. This isn't guesswork—it's something that's already being planned, plotted, and arranged. We just need the right moment to execute it.
he hates the king brother died at bristol not guessing already planned just waiting for the moment
I smell it. Upon my life it will do well.
I smell it coming. On my life, it will work well.
I can sense it. I swear it'll work out perfectly.
i feel it will work swear it
Before the game is afoot thou still let’st slip.
Before the game even begins, you're already running ahead.
We haven't even started and you're already getting ahead of yourself.
the games not even started and youre already ahead
Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot;
And then the power of Scotland and of York
To join with Mortimer, ha?
Well, it can only be a noble plan. And then Scotland and York joining together With Mortimer—what about that?
It has to be a good plan. Scotland and York teaming up with Mortimer? That's perfect.
gotta be a great plan scotland york and mortimer together damn
And so they shall.
And so they will.
And they will.
they will
In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.
In fact, it's extremely well planned.
Honestly, it's perfectly aimed.
perfectly planned 10/10
And ’tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads by raising of a head;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The King will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home:
And see already how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.
And there's good reason to hurry, To save our heads by raising an army. No matter how carefully we behave, The King will always think he owes us something, And we'll think we deserve more, Until he finds time to destroy us. And see how he's already starting To treat us like strangers, no longer with favor.
We need to move fast. The only way to save our lives is to raise an army against him. Even if we play it safe, the King will always feel like he owes us, and he'll be looking for a moment to eliminate us. You can already see it—he's starting to act cold toward us.
gotta hurry raise an army king feels like he owes us but hell destroy us already acting cold we can see it
He does, he does, we’ll be revenged on him.
He does, he does. We'll get revenge on him.
You're right. We're going to make him pay.
yeah well get revenge
Cousin, farewell. No further go in this
Than I by letters shall direct your course.
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,
I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer,
Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.
Cousin, goodbye. Don't go further with this Than my letters direct you. When the time is right, which will be soon, I'll escape to Glendower and Lord Mortimer, Where you and Douglas, and our armies, Will meet as I arrange it, To hold our fortunes in our own strong hands, Which right now we hold without certainty.
Goodbye, cousin. Don't do anything I don't tell you in writing. When the moment's right—and it'll be soon—I'll slip away to meet with Glendower and Mortimer. You, Douglas, and all our forces will meet up the way I arrange it. Then we hold our own fate in our hands instead of hoping for the best.
goodbye follow my letters time is almost here ill meet glendower mortimer you douglas forces gather well hold our fate ourselves
Farewell, good brother; we shall thrive, I trust.
Goodbye, my good brother. We'll succeed, I trust.
Goodbye, brother. I think we're going to win this.
bye brother well succeed i believe it
Uncle, adieu. O, let the hours be short,
Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!
Uncle, goodbye. Let the hours pass quickly, Till battles and blows and sounds of pain cheer us on!
Uncle, goodbye. I can't wait for this. Let the hours fly by until we're in actual battle, bleeding, groaning—that's the victory we're after.
uncle bye hope the hours fly till we fight for real bleeding groaning thats our victory
The Reckoning
The scene turns on the gap between what the Percies did and what they got for it: they helped make Henry king, and now he treats them like servants who've forgotten their place. Hotspur's rage is volcanic and barely containable — his father and uncle have to physically stop him from chasing the King down the corridor. By the end, rebellion isn't something that happens to this family; it's something they choose, together, in a room, with terrifying calm.
If this happened today…
Imagine you were one of three early employees who took huge personal and financial risks to help a startup founder get to Series A. Now the company is worth $2 billion, the founder is on magazine covers, and your stock options have been quietly restructured so that what you thought was 10% is now 0.3%. You go in for a meeting — expecting at least acknowledgment — and the founder basically tells you to shut up and be grateful you still have jobs. One of you loses it in the meeting. The other two pull him out to the parking lot and say: okay, we have his board seat number, his lead investor's cell number, and a lawyer on retainer. It's time.