Henry IV, Part II

Please, my loving wife and sweet daughter-in-law, support me in my difficult tasks. Don’t let the grimness of these days be reflected in your faces; don’t add to Percy’s troubles.

I give up; I won’t say any more. Do what you want. Let your wisdom guide you.

For goodness sake, sweet wife, my honor is at stake. Nothing can redeem it except my going.

For God’s sake, don’t go to these wars! Father-in-law, you once broke your word when you had better reason to keep it than you do now. Your own son Percy—my heart’s beloved Harry—looked northward again and again, hoping to see his father coming with an army. But he hoped in vain. Who persuaded you to stay home that time? Two honors were lost in that battle: yours, and your son’s. As for yours, I hope God will make it shine again. As for Harry’s honor, it clung to him like the sun in a pale blue sky, and by its light every knight in England was moved to act bravely. He was the mirror in which noble youths dressed themselves. All men copied his way of walking, except those who had no legs. And talking loudly and quickly—the one flaw nature had given him—became the speech pattern for all brave men. Those who spoke softly and slowly would corrupt their proper speech, just to seem more like Harry. In speech, bearing, and diet; in inclinations toward pleasure, in military actions, and in moods, he was the target, mirror, example, and rulebook that other men followed. And him—Oh wondrous him! Oh miracle of men!—you left him! The best man in the world, unsupported by you, faced the hideous god of war from a position of weakness. His only defense was the sound of his own name, and that is how you left him. Never insult his memory by letting your honor count more with strangers than with him. Leave them alone: Marshal Mowbray and the Archbishop are strong. If my darling Harry had had half their army, I might be hanging on his neck today, talking about Prince Hal’s grave.

For goodness sake, pretty daughter-in-law. You take me out of myself, reminding me again of these past mistakes. But I must go and face danger there or danger will find me somewhere else, where I will be less prepared.

Oh, run to Scotland until these noblemen and their armies have skirmished against the king.

If they make any headway against the King, then join them, and like a steel rod make their strength even stronger. But in the name of the love you feel for us, let them begin on their own. That’s how your son fought. You allowed him to do that, and that’s how I became a widow. If I spend the rest of my life pouring tears on the plant of remembrance, it will never grow tall enough to pay proper tribute to my extraordinary husband.

Come. Come. Go inside with me. My thoughts are like the ocean at high tide—neither coming in nor going out, seeming to stand still. I want to go join the Archbishop, but many thousands of reasons are holding me back. I’ll go to Scotland and wait there till events unfold and my help is called for.