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HENRIE the Fourth,

Continuing to his Death,
And Coronation of Henrie the Fift.

With the Humours of

Sir Iohn Falstaffe, and swaggering


As it hath been sundrie Times publikely acted

by the right honourable the Lord Chamberlaine his Seruants.


London printed by V. S. for Andrew Wife, and

William Aspley. 1600.

* This is the only Edition of this Play known to be extant before the First Folio.

I from the orient to the drooping west,

The Second PART of H E N R Y

N R Y the Fourth. Continuing to his Death, and Corona

tion of HENRY the Fift.

Enter Rumour painted full of tongues.
PEN your eares; for which of


will hop
The vent of hearing, when lowd Rumor fpeaks?
(Making the wind my poste-horse) Itill vnfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth,
Vpon my tongues continuall Nanders ride,
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the eares of men with false reports,
I speake of peace while couert enmity,
Vnder the smile of safety, woundes the world :
And who but Rumor, who but onely I,
Make fearefull musters, and prepar'd defence,
Whiles the bigge yeare, swolne with some other griefe,
Is thought with child by the fterne tyrant warre ?
And no such matter. Rumour is a pipe,
Blowne by surmizes, iealousies coniectures,
And of so easie, and so plaine a stop,
That the blunt monster, with vncounted heads,
The still discordant wau’ring multitude,
Can play vpon it. But what need I thus
Ii 2



(My wel knowne body) to anothomize
Among my houshold? why is Rumor here?
I runne before king Harries victorie,
Who in a bloudy field by Shrewsbury,
Hath beaten downe yong Hot-Spurre and his troopes,
Quenching the fame of bold rebellion,
Euen with the rebel's bloud. But what meane I
To speake so true at first? my office is
To noyse abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell
Vnder the wrath of noble Hot-Spur's sword,
And that the king, before the Douglas rage,
Stoopt his annointed head as low as death.
This haue I rumour'd through the peasant townes,
Betweene that royall field of Shrewsbury,
And this worme-eaten hole of ragged stone,
When Hot-spur's father, old Northumberland,
Lies crafty-ficke, the postes come tyring on,
And not a man of them brings other newes,
Than they have learnt of me, from Rumor's tongues,
They bring smooth comforts false, worse then true wrongs.

Exit Rumours.

Enter the lord Bardolfe at one doore.

Bard. Who keepes the gate here, ho? where is the earle?
Porter. What shall I say you are?

Bard. Tell thou the earle,
That the lord Bardolfe doth attend him heere.

Porter. His lordship is walkt forth into the orchard,
Please it your honor knocke but at the gate,
And he himselfe will answer.

Enter the earle Northumberland.

Bard. Here comes the earle.


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