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INDUCTION.

WARKWORTH. Before NORTHUMBERLAND's Castle. Enter RUMOUR, painted full of Tongues.

Rum. OPEN

PEN your ears; for which of you will stop
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks?
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth:
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
I speak of peace, while covert enmity,
Under the smile of safety, wounds the world:
And who but Rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful musters, and prepar'd defence;
Whilst the big year, swoln with some other grief,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it. But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize

Among my household? Why is Rumour here?
I run before king Harry's victory;
Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury,

Hath beaten down young Hotspur, and his troops,
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion

Even with the rebels' blood. But what mean I
To speak so true at first? my office is

To noise abroad,--that Harry Monmouth fell

Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword;
And that the king before the Douglas' rage
Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death.
This have I rumour'd through the peasant towns
Between that royal field of Shrewsbury
And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,
Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland,
Lies crafty-sick: the post comes tiring on,
And not a man of them brings other news
Than they have learn'd of me; From Rumour's tongues
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true

wrongs.

[Exit.

[graphic][merged small]

The Porter before the Gate; Enter LORD BARDOLPH. Bard. WHO keeps the gate here, ho?-Where is the Porter. What shall I say you are?

[earl?

Bard. Tell thou the earl, That the lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

Porter. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard; Please it your honour, knock but at the gate,

And he himself will answer.

Bard.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

Here comes the earl.

[now

North. What news, lord Bardolph ? every minute Should be the father of some stratagem: The times are wild; contention, like a horse Full of high-feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him.

Noble earl,

Bard.
I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
North. Good, an heaven will!

Bard.
The king is almost wounded to the death;
And, in the fortune of my lord, your son,
Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts
Kill'd by the hand of Douglas: young prince John,
And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field;
Aud Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk sir John,
Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day,

As good as heart can wish.

So fought, so follow'd, and so fairly won,
Came not, till now, to dignify the times,
Since Cæsar's fortunes!

North. Saw you

How is this deriv'd? the field? came you from Shrewsbury? Bard. I spake with one, my lord, that came from A gentleman well bred, and of good name, [thence;

That freely render'd me these news for true..

North. Here comes my servant, Travers, whom I sent

On Tuesday last to listen after news.

Bard. My lord, I over-rode him on the way; And he is furnish'd with no certainties,

More than he haply may retail from me.

Enter TRAVERS.

North. Now, Travers, what good tidings come with you?

Tra. My lord, sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd, Out-rode me. After him, came, spurring-hard, A gentleman almost forspent with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse: He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him I did demand, what news from Shrewsbury. He told me, that rebellion had bad luck, And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold: With that, he gave his able horse the head, And, bending forward, struck his armed heels Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head; and, starting so, He seem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question.

North.

Ha!- -Again.

Said he, young Harry Percy's spur was cold?
Of Hotspur, coldspur? that rebellion

Had met ill luck?

Bard.

My lord, I'll tell you what;

If my young lord, your son, has not the day,
Upon mine honour, for a silken point

I'll give my barony: never talk of it.

North. Why should the gentleman, that rode by Travers,

Give then such instances of loss?

Bard.
Who, he?
He was some hilding fellow, that had stol'n
The horse he rode on; and, upon my life,

Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.
Enter MORTON.

North. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretels the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood
Hath left a witness'd usurpation.

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask,
To fright our party.

North.

How doth my son, and brother? Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy check Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd: But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue, And I my Percy's death, ere thou report'st it. This thou wouldst say,-Your son did thus, and thus; Your brother, thus; so fought the noble Douglas; Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds: But in the end, to stop mine ear indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, Ending with-brother, son, and all are dead.

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