Upon learning that the prince is again

"With Poins and other his continual followers,"

the king breaks out

The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape,
In forms imaginary, the unguided days,

And rotten times, that you shall look upon
When I am sleeping with my ancestors :
For when his headstrong riot hath no curb,
When rage and hot blood are his counsellors,
When means and lavish manners meet together,
O, with what wings shall his affection fly
Toward fronting peril and opposed decay!"

But Shakspeare takes care to remind us that Henry is not radically bad, by a speech which he puts in the mouth of a courtier.

"Warwick. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite :

The prince but studies his companions,

Like a strange tongue; wherein, to gain the language,
'Tis needful that the most immodest word

Be look'd upon and learn'd; which, once attain'd,
Your highness knows, comes to no further use,
But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,

The prince will, in the perfectness of time,
Cast off his followers: and their memory

Shall as a pattern or a measure live,

By which his grace must mete the lives of others,
Turning past evils to advantages."

The illustration is not more apt than it is delicate; but it is in keeping with the manifest intention of the poet.

I must now call in question the incident in which originated the Crown Scene.

This story is in Holinshed, who avowedly took it from Hall. It is also in the old play, which it is evident, to my judgment, suggested to Shakspeare some parts of the speeches.

During his last sickness the king caused his crown (as some write) to be set on a pillow at his bed's head, and suddenly his pangs so sore troubled him that he lay as though all his vital spirits had been from him departed. Such as were about him, thinking verily that he had departed, covered his face with a linen cloth. The prince his son, being hereof advertised, entered into the chamber, took away the crown, and departed. The father being suddenly revived out of that trance, quickly perceived the lack of his crown; and, having knowledge that the prince his son had taken it away, caused him to come before his presence, requiring of him what he meant so to misuse himself. The prince, with a good audacity, answered, Sir, to mine and all men's judgments you seemed dead in this world, wherefore, I, as your next heir-apparent, took that as mine own, and not as yours.' Well, fair son,' said the king, with a great sigh, 'what right I had to it, God knoweth.' 'Well,' said the prince, if you die king, I will have the garland, and trust to keep it with the sword against all my ene

mies, as you have done.' 'Then,' said the king, 'I commit all to God, and remember you to do well.'”*

This passage in his favourite historian entirely justifies Shakspeare in framing a scene which, notwithstanding the objection of Dr. Johnson, I regard as striking and beautiful: though every speech in it contains, as I fear nearly every speech in Shakspeare contains, something that a delicate and correct critic would expunge or alter. Yet it is an excellent scene, in tone, in topics, and (with those exceptions) in language. I know not whether, in respect of this and other passages, my ear deceives me, but to me

The sound does seem an echo to the sense."

I mean, that if the successive passages, different in their tendency, were read to a man ignorant of the English language, he would nevertheless distinguish them properly. In this speech, for instance, he would mark the transition from the solemn remonstrance of the king, to his speculative description of the wild and wanton England which the recklessness of his successor would exhibit. I may be wrong; but, waving this fancy, I will insert a few passages.

"P. Henry. I never thought to hear you speak again." K. Henry. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.

Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair,

That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honours

Before thy hour be ripe? O, foolish youth!

That seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity

Is held from falling with so weak a wind,

That it will quickly drop: my day is dim.

Thou hast stol'n that which, after some few hours,
Were thine without offence; and, at my death,
Thou hast seal'd up my expectation :

Thy life did manifest thou lov'st me not,

And thou wilt have me die assured of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts;
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,

To stab at half an hour of my life.

What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone; and dig my grave thyself;
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse,

Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head:

Only compound me with forgotten dust;

Give that, which gave thee life, unto the worms ;
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;

For now a time is come to mock at form.

Harry the Fifth is crown'd! Up, vanity!

Down, royal state! All you sage counsellors, hence!

And to the English court assemble now,

From every region, apes of idleness!

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum :
Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,
Revel the night; rob, murder, and commit
The oldest sins the newest kinds of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more !*
England will give him office, honour, might;
For the fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog
Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent.”

Then the Prince in a serious strain

"P. Henry. O pardon me, my liege! but for my

tears,

The moist impediments unto my speech,

I had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke,

Ere you with grief had spoke, and I had heard

The course of it so far.

There is your crown, And He that wears the crown immortally, Long guard it yours! If I affect it more Than as your honour, and as your renown, Let me no more from this obedience rise (Which my most true and inward-duteous spirit Teacheth), this prostrate and exterior bending! Heaven witness with me, when I here came in, And found no course of breath within your majesty,

* Then follows a line-England shall double gild his treble guilt-which Warburton expunges as nonsense. Though I agree with Johnson that Shakspeare wrote this, and many others like it, I do not feel bound to extract it. But I do not agree with Johnson, that the prince's speech is not in a higher strain than this unfortunate line.