How bloodily the sun begins to peer

Henry IV
How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon bulky hill. The day looks pale
At his distemp’rature.
Prince Hal
The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.

For mine own part I could be well content
To entertain the lag end of my life
With quiet hours.

Henry IV
Then with the losers let it sympathize,
For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
 The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester and Vernon.
How now, my Lord of Worcester? ’Tis not well
That 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.
What say you to it? Will you again unknit
This churlish 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,
A prodigy of fear, and a portent
Of broachèd mischief to the unborn times?
Worcester
Hear me, my liege:
For mine own part I could be well content
To entertain the lag end of my life
With quiet hours. For I protest
I have not sought the day of this dislike.
Henry IV
You have not sought it. How comes it then?
Falstaff
Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.
Prince Hal
Peace, chewet, peace.