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So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
your son, North.
Why, he is dead. See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He, that but fears the thing he would not know, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others' eyes, That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton ; Tell thou thy earl, his divination lies; And I will take it as a sweet disgrace, And make thee rich for doing me such wrong:
Mor. You are too great to be by me gainsaid : Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
North. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead. I see a strange confession in thine
eye : Thou shak’st thy head, and hold’st it fear, or sin, To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so: The tongue offends not, that reports his death: And he doth sin, that doth belie the dead; Not he, which says the dead is not alive. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office; and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Remember'd knolling a departing friend.
L. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
Mor. I am sorry, I should force you to believe That which I would to heaven I had not seen : But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,
Rend'ring faint quittance", wearied and out-breath'd,
North. For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
4 Return of blows,
6 Let fall.
Are thrice themselves : hence therefore, thou nice?..
crutch; A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel, Must glove this hand : and hence, thou sickly quoif*, . Thou art a guard too wanton for the head, Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron ; And approach The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring, To frown upon
'd Northumberland! Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not nature's hand Keep the wild flood confin'd! let order die ! And let this world no longer be a stage, To feed contention in a lingering act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, And darkness be the burier of the dead !. Tra. This strained passion doth you wrong, my
lord. L. Bard. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from
Mor. The lives of all your loving complices
Go forth; and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain The stiff-borne action : What hath then befallen,
Or what hath this bold enterprize brought forth,
L. Bard. We all, that are engaged to this loss,
lord, I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, The gentle archbishop of York is up, With well-appointed powers; he is a man, Who with a double surety binds his followers. My lord your son had only but the corps, But shadows, and the shows of men, to fight : For that same word, rebellion, did divide The action of their bodies from their souls : And they did fight with queasiness', constrain'd, As men drink potions; that their weapons only Seem'd on our side, but, for their spirits and souls, This word, rebellion, it had froze them up, As fish are in a pond : But now the bishop Turns insurrection to religion: Suppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts, He's follow'd both with body and with mind; And doth enlarge his rising with the blood Of fair king Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones. Derives from heaven his quarrel, and his cause ; : Tells them, he doth bestride a bleeding land, Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke ; And more?, and less, do flock to follow him.
North. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth, This present grief had wip'd it from my mind. Go in with me; and counsel every man The aptest way for safety, and revenge:
I Against their stomachs.
Get posts, and letters, and make friends with
speed; Never so few, and never yet more need. [Exeunt.
London. A Street,
Enter Sir John FALSTAFF, with his Page bearing
his Sword and Buckler. Fal. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me; I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee, like a sow, that hath overwhelmed all her litter but If the prince put thee into ту
any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgment. I was never manned with an agate 3 till now : but I will set you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel; the juvenal, the prince your master, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand, than he shall get one on his cheek ; and yet he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal : nature may finish it when she will, it is not a hair amiss yet: he may keep it still as a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it; and yet he will be crowing, as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he is almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said master Dumbleton about the satin for my short cloak, and slops?
3 Alluding to little figures cut in agate,