Enter the KING, PRINCE HENRY of Wales, Lord John of LANCASTER, Earl of
WESTMORELAND, BLUNT, and
How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon busky hill. The day looks pale
At his distemp'rature.
The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,
5And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blust'ring day.
Then with the losers let it sympathize,
For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
The trumpet sounds. Enter
How now, my Lord of Worcester? 'Tis not well
10That you and I should meet upon such terms
As now we meet. You have deceived our trust
And made us doff our easy robes of peace
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.
This is not well, my lord; this is not well.
15What say you to it? Will you again unknit
This curlish knot of all-abhorrèd war
And move in that obedient orb again
Where you did give a fair and natural light,
And be no more an exhaled meteor,
20A prodigy of fear and a portent
Of broachèd mischief to the unborn times?