Warkworth. Before Northumberland's Castle. Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues.
Rum. Open your ears;
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks ?
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my posthorse, 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 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, swol'p with some other grief,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
And so such matter? Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy 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 held 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
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
Please it your Honour, knock but at the gate, And he himself will answer.
North. What news, Lord Bardolph ? e
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.
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; youngPrince 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 Caesar's fortunes
North. How is this derived?
Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbifty ? 1
Bard. I spake with one my Lord, that came
A gentleman well bred, and of good name, H That freely render d me these news for true suf North. Here comes my servant Travers
paula'emd whom I senti Ils bange On Tuesday last to listen after news ed yd bas Bard, My Lord, I over-rode him on the way; And he is furnish with no certainties, More than he haply may retail from me,
North. Now, Travers, what good tidings
daw.comes with you?
sir John Umfrevile turn'd'
A 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 7/
He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him gr
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 kos
Up to the rowel-heads and 9 starting so,
lle 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?
Bard. My Lord, I'll tell you what;
If my young lord your son have not the day,
Up mine honour, for a silken point 28 2018
I'll give my barony: never talk of it.
North, Why should the gentleman, that rode by Travers, Give then such instances of loss? Pilot fr Bard Who, he? I A Mob. 9 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.
Enter MORTON. Ja sul c't and mo
01 Northis Yea, this man's brow, like to a titleJuJ 07 leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragick volume:
So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood
Hath left a witness'd usurpation.
Say, Morton, didst thon come from Shrewsbury ?
Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble Lord;
Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask,
To fright our party.
|