Henry IV, Part II

Call the earls of Surrey and Warwick. Tell them to read over these letters before they come, and to think carefully about them. Hurry.

Thousands of even my poorest subjects are sleeping right now. Oh sleep! Oh sweet sleep, nature’s gentle healer, what have I done to frighten you? You won’t weigh down my eyelids anymore, or dull my mind to make me forget. Sleep, why do you lie in filthy hovels, stretched out on uncomfortable cots, where insects’ buzzing is the lullaby? Why don’t you lie in the sweet-smelling bedrooms of kings, under opulent canopies, lulled with soft and beautiful music? You drowsy god, why do you lie with the common people in their loathsome beds, leaving the royal bed lonely like a sentry post, or a bell tower? Will you even close the eyes of a ship boy, high up on the whirling mast, and rock him gently in a cradle made of rough, tossing seas and howling winds—winds which take the waves and, curling them over, crashes them through the air with such a deafening noise that they wake death itself? Can you, oh unfair sleep, give rest to a drenched little sailor in the midst of such roughness, and yet deny it to a king? A king on the calmest, stillest night, with everything available for sleep? Then, you happy commoners, put yourselves to bed. The head that wears the crown sleeps uneasily.

Good morning, your highness.

Is it morning, lords?

It’s after one o’clock.

Well, then, good morning to you all, my lords. Have you read the letters I sent you?

We have, your highness.

Then you can tell how sick the kingdom is. There are serious diseases spreading through its body, very near its heart.

The body’s only out of sorts. It can be brought back to full health through good care and some medicine. Northumberland will soon be suppressed.

Oh God! If only we could read the book of destiny! We’d see how time changes everything, bringing mountains low and melting the land—which is tired of being solid and firm—into the sea. We’d see how the beach is sometimes too wide for even the tide to conquer. We’d see how blind luck can make mockeries of men, and how change can affect you in countless ways. If even the happiest youth could read this book, he’d look at the course of his life—the dangers he’s endured, the challenges that still lie ahead—and he’d shut that book, sit down and die. It was less than ten years ago that Richard and Northumberland loved each other. Then two years later, they were at war. Just eight years ago, Northumberland was the man closest to my heart. Like a brother, he devoted himself to me, dedicating both life and limb to my cause. He even challenged Richard on my behalf. But which of you was there— I think it was you, Warwick—when Richard, his eyes brimming with tears because of Northumberland’s rebellion, spoke these words that now seem prophetic: “Northumberland, you are the ladder that Bolingbroke has climbed to get to the throne.” Although, God knows, it wasn’t my intention then to become king. But the country needed it so badly, I was forced to rise up and become great. “The time will come,” Richard continued, “when this terrible sin, growing in size, will break out into corruption.” That’s how he went on. He predicted our current condition, and the collapse of our alliances.

There is a chronicle for every man’s life, which shows what happened to him in times now past. If you study that chronicle, you can prophecy what lies ahead with some accuracy. The seeds of things to come are buried in the things that have already happened. These seeds grow, and become the children of time. King Richard could look at the pattern of what had gone before and predict perfectly that Northumberland’s betrayal—then still a seed—would someday grow larger, if it could find suitable soil to root in. And you’re the only soil it could have found.

Were these things necessary, then? Then we’ll treat them like necessities, even though the very word “necessities” cries out against us. They say the Archbishop and Northumberland have fifty thousand men in their army.

That can’t be, my lord. Rumor, like an echo, doubles the size of our enemy’s army. Please, your highness, go to bed. I swear on my soul that the army you’ve already sent out can win this battle easily. And here’s more good news: I’ve heard for sure that Glendower is dead. You’ve been ill for two weeks now, your majesty. Keeping such irregular hours will surely make things worse.

I’ll listen to your advice. And once we’ve got this civil war in hand, we will, my friends, march to the Holy Land.