With that he gave his able horse the head,
And, bending forward, struck his agile heels
Againft the panting fides of his poor jade
Up to the rowel-head; and, ftarting fo,
He feem'd in running to devour the way,
Staying no longer queftion.
North. Ha? again:

Said he, young Harry Percy's fpur was cold?

Rebellion had ill luck?

Bard. My lord, I'll tell you;

If my young Lord your fon have not the day,
Upon mine Honour, for a filken point

I'll give my Barony. Ne'er talk of it.

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

Give then fuch inftances of lofs?

Bard. Who he?

He was some hilding fellow, that had ftoll'n
The horse he rode on; and, upon my life,
Spake at adventure. Look, here comes more news.

North.

NE

SCEN

Enter Morton.

III.

Foretels the Nature of a tragic volume: So looks the ftrond, whereon th' imperious flood Hath left a witness'd ufurpation.

E A, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,

Say, Morton, didft thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mort. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord,
Where hateful death put on his ugliest Mask
To fright our Party.

North. How doth my fon, and Brother?
Thou trembleft; and the whiteness in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Even fuch a man, fo faint, fo fpiritlefs,
So dull, fo dead in look, fo woe-be-gone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night,

F 5

And

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'ft it.
This thou would'ft fay: your Son did thus, and thus:
Your brother, thus: fo fought the noble Dowglas :
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds.
But in the end, to stop mine ear indeed,
Thou haft a figh to blow away this praife,
Ending with brother, son, and all are dead!
Mort. Dowglas is living, and your brother, yet;
But for my lord your fon-
North. Why, he is dead.

See, what a ready tongue fufpicion hath !
He, that but fears the thing he would not know,
Hath, by inftinct, knowledge from other's eyes,
That what he fear'd is chanc'd. Yet, Morton, speak:
Tell thou thy Earl, his Divination lies;
And I will take it as a fweet Difgrace,

And make thee rich for doing me fuch wrong.
Mort. You are too Great to be by me gainfaid:
Your fpirit is too true, your fears too certain.

North. Yet for all this, fay not, that Percy's dead. I fee a ftrange confeffion in thine eye :

Thou fhak'ft thy head, and hold'ft it fear, or fin,
To fpeak a truth. If he be flain, fay fo
The tongue offends not, that reports his death:
And he doth fin, that doth belie the dead,
Not he, which says the dead is not alive.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a lofing office: and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a fullen bell,
Remember'd, tolling a departing friend.

Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your fon is dead.
Mort. I'm forry, I fhould force you to believe
That, which, I would to heav'n, I had not feen.
But thefe mine eyes faw him in bloody ftate,
Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
To Henry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down

The

The never-daunted Percy to the earth,

From whence, with life, he never more sprung up.
In few; his death, (whofe fpirit lent a fire.
Even to the dulleft peafant in his Camp).
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the beft-temper'd courage in his troops.
For from his metal was his party fteel'd';
Which once in him rebated, all the rest
Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.
And as the thing, that's heavy in its felf,
Upon enforcement, flies with greateft fpeed;
So did our men, heavy in Hot-fpur's lofs,
Lend to this weight fuch lightness with their fear,
That arrows fled not fwifter toward their aim,
Than did our foldiers, aiming at their safety,
Fly from the field. Then was that noble Wor'fter
Too foon ta'en prifoner: and that furious Scot,
The bloody Dowglas, whofe well-labouring fword
Had three times flain th' appearance of the King,'
'Gan vail his ftomach, and did grace the shame
Of thofe that turn'd their backs; and in his flight,
Stumbling in fear, was took. The fum of all
Is, that the King hath won: and hath sent out
A fpeedy Pow'r to encounter you, my lord,
Under the conduct of young Lancaster
And Westmorland. This is the news at full.

North. For this, I fhall have time enough to mourn. In poifon there is phyfic: and this news,

That would, had I been well, have made me fick,
Being fick, hath in fome measure made me well.
And as the wretch, whofe fever-weaken'd joints,
Like ftrengthlefs hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper's arms; ev'n fo my limbs,
Weaken'd with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,
Are thrice themselves. Hence therefore, thou nice

crutch;

A fcaly gauntlet now with joints of steel

F 6

Muft

Muft glove this hand. And hence, thou fickly quoif,
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,
Which Princes, flefh'd with conqueft, aim to hit.
Now bind my brows with iron, and approach
The ruggedft hour that time and spight dare bring
To frown upon th'enrag'd Northumberland!
Let heav'n kifs earth! now let not nature's hand
Keep the wild flood confin'd; let order die,
And let this world no longer be a ftage
To feed contention in a lingring act:
But let one fpirit of the first-born Cain
Reign in all bofoms, that each heart being set
On bloody courfes, the rude fcene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead!

Bard. This ftrained paffion doth you wrong, my

lord!

Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your

honour.

Mort. The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er To ftormy paffion, muft perforce decay.

You caft th' event of war, my noble lord,

And fumm'd th' account of chance, before you said,
Let us make head: it was your prefurmife,
That, in the dole of blows, your fon might drop:
You knew, he walk'd o'er perils, on an edge
More likely to fall in, than to get o'er:
You were advis'd, his flesh was capable

Of wounds and scars; and that his forward fpirit
Would lift him where moft trade of danger rang'd:
Yet did you fay, Go forth. And none of this,
Though frongly apprehended, could restrain
The fliff-borne action. What hath then befall'n,
Or what hath this bold enterprize brought forth,
More than That being, which was like to be?

Bard. We all, that are engaged to this lofs,
Knew, that we ventur'd on such dang'rous feas,
That, if we wrought out life, 'twas ten to one:
And yet we ventur'd for the gain propos'd,

Choak’d

Choak'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;
And fince we are o'er-fet, venture again.
Come, we will all put forth, body and goods.
Mort. 'Tis more than time; and my moft noble
lord,

I hear for certain, and do speak the truth:
The gentle Arch-bishop of York is up
With well-appointed Powers: he is a man,
Who with a double furety binds his followers.
My lord, your fon, had only but the corps,
But fhadows, and the shews of men to fight.
For that fame word, Rebellion, did divide
The action of their bodies from their souls;
And they did fight with queafiness: constrain'd,
As men drink potions, that their weapons only
Seem'd on our fide: but for their spirits and fouls,
This word, Rebellion, it had froze them up,
As fish are in a pond. But now, the Bishop
Turns Infurrection to Religion;

Suppos'd fincere and holy in his thoughts,
He's follow'd both with body and with mind:
And doth enlarge his Rifing with the blood
Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret ftones ;
Derives from heav'n his quarrel and his caufe;
Tells them, he doth bestride a bleeding land
Gafping for life, under great Bolingbroke:
And more, and lefs, do flock to follow him.
North. I knew of this before: but to speak truth,
This prefent grief had wip'd it from my mind.
Go in with me, and counsel every man
The apteft way for fafety and revenge:

Get pofts, and letters, and make friends with speed;
Never fo few, nor never yet more need.

[Exeunt.

SCENE