My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me, for accordingly You tread upon my patience. But be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself, Mighty and to be feared
Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye. O sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory!
Those prisoners in your Highness' name demanded, Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is delivered to your Majesty: Either envy, therefore, or misprison Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.
We’ll be revenged on him.
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners: Deliver them up without their ransom straight, And make the Douglas’ son your only mean For powers in Scotland, which, for divers reasons Which I shall send you written, be assured Will easily be granted