Hal has half a head on Hotspur, but it seems to matter not a whit to either of them, as Harry raises his sword and crows, "The hour is come to end the one of us; and would to God thy name in arms were now as great as mine!"

Perhaps Hal's blood is rising at last, or perhaps he draws on his days in Cheapside, mocking and taunting when there's no price to pay. "I'll make it greater ere I part from thee," he sneers. "And all the budding honours on thy crest I'll crop, to make a garland for my head!"

Harry's brow darkens. "I can no longer brook thy vanities," he growls, and lunges for him, blade high.