PRINCE HENRY That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet78 the son of a woman! His industry79 is upstairs and downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s mind,80 the Hotspur of the north, he that kills me81 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 drench83’, says he, and answers ‘Some fourteen’, an hour after, ‘a trifle, a trifle’. I prithee call in
