all the rest To whom they are directed. If you knew How much they do to import, you would make haste. My good lord, I guess their tenor. Like enough you do. To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly given to understand, The king with mighty and quick-raised power Meets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael, What with the sickness of Northumberland, Whose power was in the first proportion, And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence, Who with them was a rated sinew too And comes not in, o'er-ruled by prophecies, I fear the power of Percy is too weak To wage an instant trial with the king. Why, my good lord, you need not fear; There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer. No, Mortimer is not there. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there is my Lord of Worcester and a head Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen. And so there is: but yet the king hath drawn The special head of all the land together: The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt; And moe corrivals and dear men Of estimation and command in arms. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed. I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to fear; And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed: For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king Dismiss his power, he means to visit us, For he hath heard of our confederacy, And 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him: Therefore make haste. I must go write again To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael. How bloodily the sun begins to peer Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale At his distemperature. The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, And by his hollow whistling in the leaves Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 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 curlish knot of all-abhorred war? And move in that obedient orb again Where you did give