PRINCE HAL

By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather which stirs not:
........
This sleep is sound indeed, this is a sleep
That from this golden rigol hath divorced
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 God shall guard: and put the world's whole strength
Into one giant arm, it shall not force
This lineal honour from me.


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