bolingbroke: how far is it, my lord, to berkeley now? northumberland: believe me, noble lord, i am a stranger here. these high wild hills and rough uneven ways draw out our miles and make them wearisome. and yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, making the hard way sweet and delectable. of much less value is my company than your good words. [horse whinnies] but who comes here? my noble uncle! you show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee, whose duty is deceivable and false. my gracious uncle -- tut, tut! you grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle. why have those banished and forbidden legs dared once to touch a dust of england's ground? but then, more why -- why have they dared to march so many miles upon her peaceful bosom, frighting her pale-faced villages with war and ostentation of despised arms? com'st thou because the anointed king is hence? why, foolish boy, the king is left behind, and in my loyal bosom lies his power. were i but now the lord of such hot youth as when brave gaunt, thy father, and myself rescued the black prince, that y

urge it no more, my lord northumberland. the commons will not be satisfied. they shall be satisfied: i'll read enough, when i do see the very book indeed where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. give me the glass, and therein will i read. no deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck so many blows upon this face of mine, and made no deeper wounds? o flattering glass, thou dost beguile me! was this face the face that every day under his household roof did keep ten thousand men? was this the face that, like the sun, did make beholders wink? was this the face that faced so many follies, and was at last out-faced by bolingbroke? a brittle glory shineth in this face -- as brittle as the glory is the face! for there it is, cracked in a hundred shivers. mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, how soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face. the shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed the shadow of your face. say that again. the shadow of my sorrow! ha! let's see: it is very true, my grief lies all within; and these external manners of laments are merely shadows to the