SCENE I.
Northumberland's castle, at Warkworth.
The Porter at 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.
-- 442 --
Port.
His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard;
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 minute now
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.
Bard.
Noble earl,
I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
North.
Good, an heaven will!
Bard.
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!
North.
How is this deriv'd?
Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?
Bard.
I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence;
A gentleman well bred, and of good name,
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.
-- 443 --
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 forspent2 note
with speed,
That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloody'd 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 3 notearmed heels
Against the panting sides of his 4 note
poor jade
Up to the 5 noterowel-head; and, starting so,
6 note
He seem'd in running to devour the way,
-- 444 --
Staying no longer question.
North.
Ha!—Again.
Said he, young Harry Percy's spur was cold?
Of Hotspur7 note
, coldspur? that rebellion
Had met ill luck?
Bard.
My lord, I'll tell you what;—
If my young lord your son have not the day,
Upon mine honour, for a 8 notesilken 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 9 notesome hilding fellow, that had stol'n
The horse he rode on; and, upon my life,
Spoke at adventure. Look, here comes more news.
Enter Morton.
North.
Yea, this man's brow, 1 notelike to a title-leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragick volume:
So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood
Hath left a witness'd usurpation.—
Say, Morton, did'st thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mort.
I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
-- 445 --
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 cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, 2 note
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 would'st thou 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.
Mort.
Douglas is living, and your brother, yet:
But for my lord your son,—
North.
Why, he is dead.
See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
He, that but fears the thing he would not know,
-- 446 --
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.
Mort.
You are too great to be by me gainsaid:
3 noteYour spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
North.
4 note
Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead.
I see a strange confession in thine eye:
Thou shak'st thy head; and 5 notehold'st it fear, or sin,
To speak a truth. 6 noteIf he be slain, say so:
The tongue offends not, that reports his death:
And he doth sin, that doth belie the dead;
-- 447 --
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,9Q0719
Remember'd knolling a departing friend.
Bard.
I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
Mort.
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 quittance7 note
, wearied and out-breath'd,
To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the earth,
From whence with life he never more sprung up.
In few, his death (whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp)
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the best temper'd courage in his troops:
8 note
For from his metal was his party steel'd;
-- 448 --
Which once in him abated, all the rest
Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.
And as the thing that's heavy in itself,
Upon enforcement, flies with greatest speed;
So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,
Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear,
That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim,
Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,
Fly from the field: Then was that noble Worcester
Too soon ta'en prisoner: and that furious Scot,
The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword
Had three times slain the appearance of the king,
9 note
'Gan vail his stomach, and did grace the shame
Of those that turn'd their backs; and, in his flight,
Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all
Is,—that the king hath won; and hath sent out
A speedy power, to encounter you, my lord,
Under the conduct of young Lancaster,
And Westmoreland: this is the news at full.
North.
For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
In poison there is physick; and these news
Having been well, that would have made me sick9Q0720,
Being sick, have in some measure made me well:
And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joints,
-- 449 --
Like strengthless hinges, 1 notebuckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper's arms; even so my limbs,
Weaken'd with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,
Are thrice themselves9Q0721: 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
2 note
The rugged'st hour that time and spight dare bring,
To frown upon the enrag'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,
3 noteAnd darkness be the burier of the dead!
Bard.
4 note
This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord:
-- 450 --
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 stormy passion, must perforce decay.
5 note
You cast the event of war, my noble lord,
And summ'd the account of chance, before you said,—
Let us make head. It was your presurmise,
That, in the dole of blows6 note
your son 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 capable9Q0722
Of wounds, and scars; and that his forward spirit
Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd;
Yet did you say,—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,
-- 451 --
More than that being which was like to be?
Bard.
We all, that are engaged to this loss,
Knew that we ventur'd on such dangerous seas,
That, if we wrought out life, 'twas ten to one:
And yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd
Choak'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;
And, since we are o'er-set, venture again.
Come, we will all put forth; body, and goods.
Mort.
'Tis more than time: And, my most noble lord,
I hear for certain, and do speak the truth,—
7 noteThe 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 shews 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;
8 noteTells them, he doth bestride a bleeding land,
Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;
-- 452 --
9 noteAnd 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:
Get posts, and letters, and make friends with speed;
Never so few, and never yet more need.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
