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HENRY IV.

ACT I. SCENE I,

Northumberland's Castle.

Enter Lord Bardolph; the Porter at the door.

W

BARDOLPH.

HO keeps the gate here, hoa? where is the
Earl?

Port. What fhall I fay you are?
Bard. Tell thou the Earl,

The fecond Part of Henry IV, The Tranfactions comprized in this Hiftory take up about nine Years. The Action commences with the Account of Hot-fpur's being defeated and killed; and clofes with the Death of K. Henry IV, and the Coronation of K. Henry V. THEOBALD.

Mr. Upton thinks these two plays improperly called the firft and fecond parts of Henry the fourth. The firft play ends, he fays, with the peaceful fettlement of Henry in the kingdom by the defeat of the rebels. This is hardly true, for the re

bels are not yet finally fuppreffed. The fecond, he tells us, fhews Henry the fifth in the various lights of a good-natured rake, till, on his father's death, he affumes a more manly character. This is true; but this reprefentation gives us no idea of a dramatick action. These two plays will appear to every reader, who fhall perufe them without ambition of critical discoveries, to be fo connected that the fecond is merely a fequel to the firft; to be two only because they are too long to be one,

That

That the lord Bardolph doth attend him here.
Port. His lordfhip is walk'd forth into the Orchard;
Please it your Honour, knock but at the gate,
And he himself will anfwer.

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 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 almoft wounded to the death:
And in the fortune of my lord your Son,

Prince Harry flain outright; and both the Blunts
Kill'd by the hand of Dowglas; 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 dignify 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 thefe news for true.
North. Here comes my fervant Travers, whom I
fent

father of fome firatagem.] Stratagem, for vigorous action.

WARBURTON.

On

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 retain 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 fpurring hard A gentleman, almoft fore-fpent 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 horfe the head, And, bending forward, ftruck his agile heels Against the panting fides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head; and, ftarting fo, He feem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer queftion.

North. Ha?-again

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

Bard. My lord, I'll tell you;

If my young lord your fon have not the day,
Upon mine Honour, for a 'filken point
I'll give my Barony. Ne'er talk of it.

Rowel-head] I think that

I have obferved in old prints the rowel of thofe times to have been 4

only a fingle spike.

Silken point.] A point is a firing tagged, or lace.

North.

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 ftoll'n
The horse he rode on; and, upon my life,
Spake at adventure. Look, here comes more news.

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North. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretels the nature of a tragick volume.
So looks the ftrond, whereon th' imperious flood
Hath left a witnefs'd ufurpation.

Say, Morton, didit 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 whiteness in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Even fuch a man, fo faint, fo fpiritlefs,

2

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'st 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;

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But in the end, to ftop mine ear indeed,
Thou haft a figh to blow away this prafe,
Ending with brother, fon, and all are dead!
Mort. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;
But for my lord your fon

North. Why, he is dead.

See, what a ready tongue fufpicion hath.

He, that but but fears the thing he would not know,
Hath, by instinct, knowledge from other's eyes,
That what he fear'd is chanc'd. Yet, Morton, fpeak,
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 fpirit is too true, your fears too certain.
North. Yet for all this, fay not, that Percy's dead.
I fee a strange confeffion in thine eye,

3 Your Spirit.] The impref. fion upon your mind, by which you conceive the death of your fon.

4

Yet for all this, fay not, &c.] The contradiction in the first part of this fpeech might be imputed to the diftraction of Northumberland's mind, but the calmness of the reflection, contained in the laft lines, feems not much to countenance fuch a fuppofition. I will venture to diftribute this paffage in a manner which will, I hope, feem more commodious, but do not wish the reader to forget, that the most commodious is not always the true reading.

Bard. Yet for all this, fay not
that Percy's dead.
North. I fee a ftrange confef.
fion in thine eye,

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