INDUCTION.

Enter RUMOUR, * ^notepainted full of Tongues.
Open your ears: for which of you will stop
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks?
I, from the orient to the drooping west
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth.
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of ^{a note}men with false reports:
I speak of peace, while covert enmity
Under the smile of safety, wounds the world:
And who but Rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence,
Whilst the big year, swoln with some other griefs,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easie and so plain a stop,
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant-wavering multitude
Can play upon it. But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize
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 Hot-spur and his troops;
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
Even with the rebels blood. But what mean I
To speak ^{b note}so true at first? my office is
To noise abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell
Under the wrath of noble Hot-spur's sword;
And that the King before the Dowglas 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 hole of ragged stone,
Where Hot-spur'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. [Ex. SCENE I. Northumberland's Castle. Enter Lord Bardolph, and the Porter at one door.

Bard.
Who keeps the gate here, hoa? 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 orchard;
Please it your honour knock but at the gate,
And he himself will answer. Enter Northumberland.

Bard.
Here's 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, if 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 Dowglas; 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 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. SCENE II. Enter Travers.

North.
Now Travers, what good tidings come with you?

Tra.
My lord, Sir 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, struck his ^{c note}agile 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?
Rebellion had ill luck?

Bard.
My lord, I'll tell you.
If my young lord your son have not the day,
Upon mine honour, for a silken point
I'll give my barony. Ne'er talk of it.

North.
Why should the gentleman that rode by Travers
Give then such instances of loss?

Bard.
Who he?

He was some † ^notehilding fellow, that had stol'n
The horse he rode on; and upon my life
Spake at adventure. Look, here comes more news. SCENE III. Enter Morton.

North.
Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretels the nature of a tragick volume:
So looks the strond, ^{d note}whereon th' 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 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-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, ere he his tongue:
And I, my Percy's death, ere thou report'st it.
This thou would'st say: your son did thus, and thus;
Your brother, thus: so fought the noble Dowglas.
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.
Dowglas 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 other 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 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,
Remember'd, tolling a departing friend.

Bard.
I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.

Mort.
I'm 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 Hot-spur'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 Wor'ster
Too soon ta'en prisoner: and that furious Scot,
The bloody Dowglas 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 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 pow'r t' 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,
That would, had I been well, have made me sick,
Being sick, hath in some measure made me well.
And as the wretch whose feaver-weaken'd joints,
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper's arms; ev'n so my limbs
Weaken'd 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!
&plquo;Let heav'n kiss earth! now let not nature's hand
&plquo;Keep the wild flood confin'd; let order die,
&plquo;And let this world no longer be a stage
&plquo;To feed contention in a ling'ring act:
&plquo;But let one spirit of the first-born Cain
&plquo;Reign in all bosoms, that each heart being set
&plquo;On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,
&plquo;And darkness be the burier of the dead!

^{e note}Bard.
This strained passion 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 stormy passion, must perforce decay.
^{f note}You cast th' 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 blows, 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 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 dang'rous 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:
^{g note}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 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:
Get posts, and letters, and make friends with speed,
Never so few, nor never yet more need. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Street in London. Enter Sir John Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler.

Fal.

Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?

Page.

He said, Sir, the water itself was a good ^{h note}healthy water. But for the party that own'd it, he might have more diseases than he knew for.

Fal.

Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. 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 my self, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee, like a Sow, that hath ovewhelmed all her litter, but one. If the Prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgment. Thou whorson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap, than to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd with an agot '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 Juvenil, the Prince your master! whose chin is not yet fledg'd; I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand, than he shall get one on his cheek: yet he will not stick to say, his face is a face-royal. Heav'n may finish it when it 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 batchelor. He may keep his own grace, but he is almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Mr. Dombledon, about the satten for my short cloak and slops?

Page.

He said, Sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph: he would not take his bond and yours, he lik'd not the security.

Fal.

Let him be damn'd like the glutton, may his tongue be hotter, a whorson Achitophel, a rascally-yea-forsooth-knave, to bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security? the whorson-smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is thorough with them in honest taking up, then they must stand upon security: I had as lief they would put rats-bane in my mouth, as offer to stop it with security. I looked he should have sent me two and twenty yards of satten, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in security, for he hath the horn of abundance. And the lightness of his wife shines through it, and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where's Bardolph?

Page.

He's gone into Smithfield to buy your worship a horse.

Fal.

I bought him in Pauls, and he'll buy me a horse in Smithfield. If I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were mann'd, hors'd, and wiv'd.