Lady Percy: But hear you, my lord.
Hotspur: What say’st thou, my lady?
Lady Percy: What is it carries you away?
Hotspur: Why, my horse, my love, my horse.
Lady Percy: Out, you mad-headed ape!
A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen
As you are toss’d with. In faith,
I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will.
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his title, and hath sent for you
To line his enterprise: but if you go —
Hotspur: So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
Lady Percy: Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
Directly unto this question that I ask:
In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry,
An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.
I just. I cannot begin to tell you how much I love them.