Bard.
Who keeps the Gate, hoa?
Where is the Earl?

Porter.
What shall I say you are?

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. Enter Northumberland.

Bard.
Here comes the Earl.

North.
What news, Lord Bardolph? Ev'ry 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, and Heav'n 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 Dowglass, young Prince John,
And Westmorland, 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 dignifie 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 this News for true.

North.
Here comes my Servant Travers, whom I sent
On Tuesday last, to listen after News. Enter Travers.

Bard.
My Lord, I over-rode him on the way.
And he is furnish'd with no Certainties,
More than he, happily, may retail from me.

North.
Now Travers, what good Tidings comes from you?

Tra.
My Lord, John Umfrevil turn'd me back
With joyful Tidings; and being better hors'd
Out-rode me. After him, came spurring hard

A Gentleman, almost fore-spent 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 ill Luck,
And that young Harry Percy's Spur was cold.
With that he gave his able Horse the Head,
And, bending forward, strook his able 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 Hot-spur, cold Spur, 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 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 hielding Fellow, that had stol'n
The Horse he rode on; and upon my Life
Spake at adventure. Look, here comes more News. Enter Morton.

North.
Yea, this Man's Brow, like to a Title-leaf,
Foretels the Nature of a Tragick Volume:
So looks the Strond, when 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,
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest Mask
To fright our Party.

North.
How doth my Son, and Brother?
Thou trembl'st; 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-be-gone,
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, e'er he his Tongue:
And I, my Percy's Death, e'er thou report'st it.
This, thou would'st say: Your Son did thus, and thus;
Your Brother, thus. So fought the noble Dowglass,
Stopping my greedy Ear with their bold Deeds.
But in the end, to stop my Ear indeed,
Thou hast a Sigh, to blow away this Praise,
Ending with Brother, Son, and all are dead.

Mort.
Dowglass 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,
Hath by Instinct, knowledge from others Eyes,
That what he fear'd is chanc'd. 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.
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
Remembred, 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 Heav'n I had not seen.
But these mine Eyes saw him in bloody State,
Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
To Henry 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.
For from his Metal was his Party steel'd;
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 it self,
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 Dowglass, whose well-labouring Sword
Had three times slain th' Appearance of the King,
'Gan vail his Stomach, and did grace the Shame
Of those that turn'd their back: 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 Westmorland. This is the News at full.

North.
For this, I shall have time enough to mourn.
In Poison there is Physick: And this News,
Having been well, that would have made me sick,
Being sick, hath in some measure made me well.
And as the Wretch, whose Feaver-weakened Joints,
Like strengthless Hinges, buckle under Life,
Impatient of his Fit, breaks like a Fire
Out of his Keeper's Arms; even so, my Limbs,
Weakned with grief, being now inrag'd with grief,
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 Spight dare bring,
To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland.
Let Heav'n kiss Earth: Now let not Nature's Hand

Keep the wild Flood confin'd; let Order die,
And let the World no longer be a Stage
To feed Contention in a lingring 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.

Bard.
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.
You cast th' Event of War, my noble Lord,
And sum'd the account of Chance, before you said
Let us make Head: It was your Presurmise,
That in the dole of Blows, your Son might drop.
You knew he walk'd o'er Perils, on an Edge
More likely to fall in, then to get o'er:
You were advis'd his Flesh was capable
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-born 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 Loss,
Knew that we ventur'd on such dangerous Seas,
That if we wrought out Life, was 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:
The gentle Arch-Bishop 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 Heav'n his Quarrel, and his Cause:
Tells them, he doth bestride a bleeding Land,
Gasping for Life, under great Bullingbroke,
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:
Get Posts, and Letters, and make Friends with speed,
Never so few, nor never yet more need. [Exeunt.

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