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Among my houshold? 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 posts come 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.
The Porter before the Gate; Enter Lord BARDOLPH. Bard. Who keeps the gate here, ho?-Where is
the earl ? Port. What shall I say you are? Bard.
Tell thou the earl, That the lord Bardolph doth attend him here. Port. His lordship is walk'd forth into the or
chard; Please it your honour, knock but at the gate, And he himself will answer.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. Bard.
Here comes the earl. North. What news, lord Bardolph? every mi
nute now Should be the father of some stratagem:2 The times are wild; contention, like a horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,
And bears down all before him.
I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
North. Good, an heaven will!
As good as heart can wish:-
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;
And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk sir John,
Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day,
So fought, so follow'd, and so fairly won,
Came not, till now, to dignify the times,
Since Cæsar's fortunes !
How is this deriv'd? Saw you the field ? came you from Shrewsbury ? Bard. I spake with one, my lord, that came
A gentleman well bred, and of good name,
That freely render'd me these news for true.
North. Here comes my servant, Travers, whom
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.
North. Now, Travers, what good tidings come 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.
Said he, young Harry Percy's spur was cold?
Of Hotspur, coldspur? that rebellion
Had met ill luck!
My lord, I'll tell
you If my young
your son have 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
Give then such instances of loss?
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.
North. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-
forspent -) To forspend is to waste, to exhaust.
silken point -] A point is a string tagged, or lace.
some hilding fellow,] For hilderling, i. e. base, degene-
like to a title-leaf,] It may not be amiss to observe, that, in the time of our poet, the title-page to an elegy, as well
Foretells the nature of a tragick 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.
How doth my son, and brother?
Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek
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
But Priam found the fire, ere he is tongue,
And I my Percy's death, ere thou report'st it.
This thou would'st say,—Your son did thus, and
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.
Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet :
But, for my lord your son, -
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,
as every intermediate leaf, was totally black. I have several in my possession, written by Chapman, the translator of Homer, and ornamented in this manner. STEEVENS.
a witness'd usurpation.] i. e. an attestation of its ravage.