THE

SECOND PART

O F

King HENRY IV.

O'

I,

ACT I.

INDUCTION.

Enter RUMOUR, painted full of Tongues. PEN your ears: for which of you will stop The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks? from the orient to the drooping weft, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth. Upon my tongues continual flanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports: I fpeak of peace, while covert enmity, Under the smile of fafety, wounds the world And who but Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful mufters and prepar'd defence, Whilft the big ear, fwoln with fome other griefs, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, And no fuch matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by furmifes, jealoufies, conjectures ;

And

And of fo eafie and fo plain a stop,

That the blunt monfter with uncounted heads,
The ftill-difcordant wavering multitude
Can play upon it. But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize
Among my houfhold? Why is Rumour here?
I run before King Harry's victory,
Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury

Hath beaten down young Hot-fpur and his troops 3
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
Ev'n with the rebels blood. But what mean I
To speak fo true at firít? my office is
To noife abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell
Under the wrath of noble Hot-fpur's fword;
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 Hot-fpur's father, old Northumberland,
Lyes crafty-fick. The pofts 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 fmooth comforts falfe, worse than true wrongs.

SCENE I. Northumberland's Caftle.

[Exit

Enter Lord Bardolph; the Porter at the door. Bard. Who keeps the gate here, hoa? where is the Earl Port. What fhall I fay 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 fome ftratagem.

The times are wild: Contention, like a horfe
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,

And

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 wifh :

The King is almost wounded to the death:
And in the fortune of my Lord your fon,

Prince Harry flain outright; and both the Blunts
Kill'd by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John,
And Weftmorland, and Stafford, fled the field.
And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John,
Is prifoner to your fon. O, fuch a day,
So fought, fo follow'd, and fo fairly won,
Came not 'till now, to dignifie the times
Since Cafar's fortunes!

North. How is this deriv'd?

Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?

Bard. I fpake 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 fervant Travers, whom I fent

On Tuesday laft, to liften 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 horfe: He afk'd the way to Chefter; and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury? He told me that rebellion had ill luck, And that young Harry Percy's fpur was cold. With that he gave his able horse the head, And bending forward, ftruck his agile heels Against the panting fides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head, and starting fo, H 3

He

He feem'd in running to devour the way,
Staying no longer question.
North. Ha? again:

Said he young Harry Percy's fpur was cold ?
Rebellion had ill luck?

Bard, My Lord, I'll tell you.

If my young Lord your fon hath not the day,
Upon mine honour, for a filken point
I'll give my barony. Ne'er talk of it.

North. Why should the gentleman, that rode by Travers, Give then fuch inftances of lofs ?

Bard. Who, he?

He was fome hilding fellow, that had ftol'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 trond, whereon th' imperious flood
Hath left a witness'd ufurpation.

Say, Morton, didft 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 fon, and brother?
Thou trembleft; and the whitenefs in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Even fuch a man, fo faint, fo fpiritlefs,
So dull, fo dead in look, fo 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'ft it.
This thou would'ft fay: your fon did thus, and thus;
Your brother, thus: fo fought the noble Douglas :
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds.
But in the end, to ftop mine ear indeed,
Thou haft a figh to blow away this praife,
Ending with, brother, fon, and all are dead!
Mort. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;

But

North. Why, he is dead.

See what a ready tongue suspicion hath ;

He that but fears the thing he would not know,
Hath, by inftinet, knowledge from other eyes,

That what he fear'd is chanc'd. Yet, Morton, fpeak 4
Tell thou thy Earl, his divination lies;

And I will take it as a fweet difgrace,

And make thee rich for doing me fuch wrong.

Mort. You are too great, to be by me gainfaid: Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.

North. You, for all this, fay not that Percy's dead,
I fee a ftrange confeffion in thine eye :

Thou fhak'ft thy head, and hold'ft it fear, or fin,
To speak a truth: if he be slain, fay fo:
The tongue offends not, that reports his death:
And he doth fin that doth belie the dead,
Not he, which fays the dead is not alive.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a lofing office: and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a fullen bell,
Remember'd, tolling a departing friend,

Bard. I cannot think, my Lord, your fon is dead,
Mort. I'm forry I should force you to believe
That, which I would to heav'n I had not feen.
But these mine eyes faw him in bloody ftate,
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 fprung up.
In few; his death, whofe fpirit lent a fire
Even to the dulleft 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-fpur's lofs,

Lend