Second part of Henry the Fourth Shakespeare's work act iv scene v

PRINCE HENRY

No I will sit and watch here by the King. Exeunt all but the Prince. Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, Being so troublesome a bedfellow? O polish’d perturbation! Golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night, sleep with it now! Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet, As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armor worn in heat of day, That scald’st with safety. By his gates of breath There lies a downy feather which stirs not. Did he suspire, that light and weightless down Perforce must move. My gracious lord! My father! This sleep is sound indeed, this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc’d So many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, Which nature, love, and filial tenderness Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously. My due from thee is this imperial crown, Which as immediate from thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. Puts on the crown. Lo where it sits, Which God shall guard; and put the world’s whole strength Into one giant arm, it shall not force This lineal honor from me. This from thee Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me. Exit KING HENRY THE FOURTH The Prince hath ta’en it hence. Go seek him out. Is he so hasty that he doth suppose This part of his conjoins with my disease, And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are! How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry; For this they have engrossed and pil’d up The cank’red heaps of strange-achieved gold; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts and martial exercises; When like the bee tolling from every flower The virtuous sweets, Our thighs pack’d with wax, our mouths with honey, We bring it to the hive, and like the bees, Are murd’red for our pains. This bitter taste Yields his engrossments to the ending father. 

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