I am now of all humors
I am now of all humors that have showed
themselves humors since the old days of Goodman
Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve
o’clock at midnight.
Enter Francis, in haste.
What’s o’clock, Francis?
Anon, anon, sir. Francis exits.
I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of
the north, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast
That ever this fellow should have fewer words
than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His
industry is upstairs and downstairs, his eloquence
the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s
mind, the Hotspur of the north, he that kills me
some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast,
washes his hands, and says to his wife “Fie upon
this quiet life! I want work.” “O my sweet Harry,”
says she, “how many hast thou killed today?”
“Give my roan horse a drench,” says he, and answers
“Some fourteen,” an hour after. “A trifle, a
trifle.” I prithee, call in Falstaff. I’ll play Percy,
and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer
his wife. “Rivo!” says the drunkard. Call in
Ribs, call in Tallow.