Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Who with willing soul
But thou the King.
If heart's presages be not vain,
For thou hast wrought
And, for these great affairs do ask some charge,
And straight am nothing:
I do beseech your majesty, impute his words
Thy overflow of good converts to bad,
Be feared and kill with looks
Marry. God forbid!
As Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here.
Banish us both and send the king with me.
Discomfortable cousin,
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
Stirred up by God,
Yes, my good lord,
Then, England's ground, farewell!
Spurred, galled
Whose duty is deceivable and false.
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Not whence thou com'st.
Northumberland.
I will be satisfied;
By pardoning my transgressing boy.
To meet at London, London's king in woe.
But whate'er I be,
Which else would post until it had returned
End in a word,
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
But heaven hath a hand in these events,
Thy pains, Willoughby, shall not be forgot.
For, ere the six years that he hath to spend
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
Even in condition of the worst degree,
With humble and familiar courtesy,
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle.
My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
Is dead.
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
Hold thy peace!
Plucked four away.
Well, well. HE CHUCKLES
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
If that come short,
Demi-paradise,
Be merry, for our time of stay is short.
Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee.
And for the right of that
So proudly as if he disdained the ground.
Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him.
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
Myself,
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Your care is gain of care, by new care won
He should have had a volume of farewells.
SOBBING
How sour sweet music is,
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,
For I resign to thee.
Think what you will,
I see thy glory like a shooting star
On this side my hand, and on that side yours.
And laboured all I could to do him right.
I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
That no man enter till my tale be done.
His plate, his goods, his money and his lands.
A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey.
Peruse this writing here,
That he had not so trimmed and dressed his land
On Wednesday next we solemnly set down our coronation.
I am in health,
Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck
If then, we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Being ne'er so little urged, another way
Grows strong and great in substance and in power.
To his unstaid youth?
We are enforced to farm our royal realm,
Add an immortal title to your crown!
For their advantage and your highness' loss.
Shall be accomplished
For I have given here my soul's consent
I breathe and see thee ill.
Not all the water in the rough, rude sea
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe,
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.
Be it known unto you I do remain as neuter.
Whither you will,
HE CHUCKLES
That I have worn so many winters out,
Were brass impregnable.