Tra. My Lord, 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 flopp'd by me, to breathe his bloodied Horfe
He ask'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 Spur was cold.
With that he gave his able Horfe the Head,
And, bending forward, ftrook his able Heels
Against the panting Sides of his poor Jade,
Up to the Rowel-head, and starting fo,
He feem'd in running to devour the way,
Staying no longer Question.
Said he young Harry Percy's Spur was cold?
Of Hot-fpur, 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 filken Point
Ill give my Barony. Never talk of it.
Noth. Why fhould the Gentleman that rode by Travers Give then fuch Inflances of Lofs?
He was fome heilding Fellow, that had stoľn
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,
Foretells the Nature of a Tragick Volume:
So looks the Strond, when the Imperious Flood
Hath left a witness'd Ufurpation.
Say, Morton, did't thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mort. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble Lord,
Where hateful Death puc on his ugliest Mask
To fright our Party.
North. How doth my Son, 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 fpiritless,
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 wouldft fay: Your Son did thus, and thus ;
Your Brother, thus. So fought the noble Dowglafs,
Stopping my greedy Ear with their bold Deeds.
But in the end, to ftop mine Ear indeed,
Thou haft a Sigh, to blow away this Praife,
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 Sufpicion 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 fpeak, Morton,
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. Yet for all this, fay not that Percy's dead.
I see a strange Confeffion in thine Eye:
Thou fhak'ft thy Head, and hold'ft it Fear, or Sin,
To fpeak a Truth. If he be flain, say so:
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
Remembred, knolling a departing Friend.
Bard. I cannot think, my Lord, your Son is dead.
Mort. I am forry I fhould force you to believe
That, which I would to Heav'n I had not feen.
But thefe mine Eyes faw him in bloody State,
Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
To Henry Monmouth, whofe fwift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the Earth,
From whence, with Life, he never more fprung up.
In few; his Death, whofe Spirit 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 reft
Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy Lead:
And as the thing that's heavy in it felf,
Upon enforcement, flies with greatest speed 1
So did our Men, heavy in Hot fpur's lofs,
Lend to this weight fuch lightness with their fear,
That Arrows fled not swifter toward their Aim,
Than did our Soldiers, aiming at their fafety,
Fly from the Field. Then was that noble Worcester
Too foon ta'en Prifoner: And that furious Scot,
The bloody Dowglafs, whofe well-labouring Sword
Had three times flain 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 fum of all,
Is, that the King hath won: And bath feat out
A fpeedy Power, to encounter you, my Lord,
Under the Conduct of young Lancaster
And Westmorland. This is the News at full.
North. For this, I fhall have time enough to mourn.
In Poifon there is Phyfick: And this News,
Having been well, that would have made me fick,
Being fick, hath in fome measure made me well.
And as the Wretch, whofe Feaver-weakened Joints,
Like ftrengthlefs Hinges, buckle under Life,
Impatient of his Fit, breaks like a Fire
Out of his Keeper's Arms; even fo, my Limbs,
Weakened with Grief, being now inrag'd with Grief,
Are thrice themselves. Hence therefore thou nice Crutch,
A fcaly Gauntlet now, with Joints of Steel
And hence thou fickly Quoif,
Thou art a Guard too wanton for the Head,
Which Princes flesh'd with Conqueft, aim to hit.
Now bind my Brows with Iron, and approach
The ragged'ft Hour that Time and Spight dare bring,
To frown upon th'enrag'd Northumberland.
Let Heav'n kifs 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 A&:
But let one Spirit of the first-born Cain
Reign in all Bofoms, that each Heart being fet
On bloody Courses, the rude Scene may end,
And Darkness be the Burier of the Dead.
Bard. Sweet Earl, divorce not Wisdom from your Ho
Mort. The Lives of all your loving Complices
Lean on your Health, the which if you give o'er
To ftormy Paffion, muft perforce decay.
You caft th' Event of War, my noble Lord,
And fumm'd the account of Chance, before you faid
Let us make Head: It was your Prefurmife,
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 moft trade of Danger rang'd,
Yet did you fay, Go forth: And none of this,
Though ftrongly apprehended, could restrain
The ftiff-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 Lofs,
Knew that we ventur'd on fuch 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 Refpect of likely, Peril fear'd,
And fince we are o'er-fet, venture again.
Come, we will all put forth, Body and Goods
Mort. 'Tis more than time; and, my moft 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 fame Word, Rebellion, did divide
The Action of their Bodies, from their Souls,
And they did fight with Queafinefs, conftrain'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 Infurrection to Religion;
Suppos'd fincere, and holy in his Thoughts,
He's follow'd both with Body, and with Mind:
And doth enlarge his rifing, with the Blood
Of fair King Richard, fcrap'd from Pomfret Stones,
Derives from Heav'n his Quarrel, and his Caufe:
Tells them, he doth beftride a bleeding Land,
Gafping for Life, under great Bullingbroke,
And more, and lefs, do flock to follow him.
North. I knew of this before. But to speak Truth,
This prefent Grief had wip'd it from my Mind.
Go in with me, and counsel every Man
The apteft Way for Safety, and Revenge:
Get Pofts, and Letters, and make Friends with speed,
Never fo few, nor never yet more need.
Enter Falstaff, and Page.
Fal. Sirrah, you Giant, what fays the Doctor to my Water?
Page. He faid, Sir, the Water it self was a good healing Water. But for the Party that own'd it, he might have more Diseases than he knew for.
Fal. Men of all forts take a pride to gird at me. The Brain of this foolish compounded Clay-man, is not able
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