Earle. What newes lord Bardolfe? euery minute now Should be the father of fome ftratagem;
The times are wild, contention like a horse,
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loofe,
And beares downe all before him.
I bring you certaine newes from Shrewsbury.
Earle, Good, and God will.
Bard. As good as heart can wish:
The king is almoft wounded to the death,
And in the fortune of my lord your fonne,
Prince Harry flaine outright, and both the Blunts
Kild by the hand of Dowglas, yong prince John,
And Weftmerland and Stafford fled the field,
And Harry Monmouthes brawne, the hulke fir Iohn,
Is prifoner to your fonne: O fuch a day!
So fought, fo followed, and fo fairely wonne,
Came not till now to dignifie the times
Since Cafar's fortunes.
Earle. How is this deriu'd?
Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?
Bar. Í fpake with one, my lord, that came from thence, A gentleman well bred, and of good name,
That freely rendred me thefe newes for true.
Earle. Here comes my feruant Trauers who I fent
On Tuesday last to liften after newes.
Bar. My lord, I ouer-rode him on the way,
And he is furnifht with no certainties,
More then he haply may retale from me.
Earle. Now Trauers, what good tidings comes with you? Trauers. My lord, fir Iohn Vmfreuile turnd me backe
With ioyfull tidings, and being better horft,
Out rode me, after him came fpurring hard,
A gentleman almost forespent with speede,
That ftopt by me to breathe his bloudied horfe,
He afkt the way to Chefter, and of him
I did demand what newes from Shrewsbury,
He told me that rebellion had bad lucke,
And that yong Harrie Percies fpur was cold:
With that he gaue his able horse the head,
And bending forward, ftrooke his armed heeles,
Against the panting fides of his poore iade,
Vp to the rowell head, and ftarting fo,
He feem'd in running to deuoure the way,
Staying no longer queftion.
Said he, yong Harry Percies (pur was cold,
Of Hot-fpurre, Cold-fpurre, that rebellion
Had met ill lucke?
Bard. My lord, Ile tell you what,
If my yong lord your fonne, haue not the day,
Vpon mine honor for a filken point,
Ile giue my barony, neuer talke of it.
Earle. Why fhould that gentleman that rode by Trauers,
Giue then fuch inftances of loffe?
He was fome hilding fellow that had stolne
The horse he rode on, and vpon my life
Spoke at a venter. Looke, here comes more news.
Earle. Yea this mans brow, like to a title leafe,
Foretells the nature of a tragicke volume,
So lookes the ftrond, whereon the imperious floud,
Hath left a witnest vfurpation.
Say Mourton, didft thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mour. I ranne from Shrewsbury my noble lord,
Where hatefull death put on his vgliest maske,
To fright our partie.
Earle. How doth my fonne and brother?
Thou trembleft, and the whitenes in thy checke,
Is apter then thy tongue to tell thy arrand,
Euen fuch a man, fo faint, fo fpiritleffe,
So dull, fo dead in looke, fo woe begon,
Drew Priams curtaine in the dead of night,
And would haue told him, halfe his Troy was burnt:
But Priam found the fier, ere he, his tongue,
And I, my Percies death ere thou reportst it.
This thou wouldft fay, your fon did thus and thus,
Your brother thus: fo fought the nobie Dowglas,
Stopping my greedy care with their bold deedes,
But in the end, to stop my eare indeed,
Thou haft a figh to blow away this praife,
Ending with brother, fonne, and all are dead.
Mour. Douglas is liuing, and your brother yet,
But for my lord your fonne:
Earle. Why he is dead?
See what a ready tongue fufpition hath!
He that but feares the thing hee would not know,
Hath by instinct, knowledge from others eies,
That what he feard is chanced: yet fpeake Mourton,
Tell thou an earle, his diuination lies,
And I will take it as a fweete difgrace,
And make thee rich for doing me fuch wrong.
Mour. You are too great to be by me gainsaid, Your fpirite is too true, your feares too certaine. Earle. Yet for all this, fay not that Percie's dead,
I fee a strange confeffion in thine eie,
Thou fhakft thy head, and holdft it feare, or finne,
To fpeake a truth: if he be flaine,
The tongue offends not that reports his death,
And he doth finne that doth belie the dead,
Not he which faies the dead is not aliue,
Yet the firft bringer of vnwelcome newes
Hath but a loofing office, and his tongue
Sounds euer after as a fullen bell,
Remembred tolling a departing friend.
Bard. I cannot thinke, my lord, your fonne is dead.
Mour. I am fory I fhould force you to beleeue,
That which I would to God I had not feene,
But these mine eies faw him in bloudy state,
Rendring faint quittance, wearied, and out-breathd,
To Harry Monmouth, whofe fwift wrath beat downe
The neuer daunted Percy to the earth,
From whence with life he neuer more fprung vp.
In few his death, whofe fpirite lent a fire,
Euen to the dulleft peasant in his campe,
Being bruted once, tooke fire and heate away,
From the beft temperd courage in his troopes,
For from his mettal was his party steeled,
Which once in him abated, al the rest
Turnd on themfelues, like dull and heauy lead
And as the thing thats heauy in it felfe,
Vpon enforcement flies with greatest speed:
So did our men, heauy in Hot-fpurs loffe,
Lend to this weight fuch lightneffe with their feare,
That arrowes fled not fwifter toward their ayme,
Than did our fouldiers aiming at their fafetie,
Fly from the field: then was that noble Worcester,
So foone tane prifoner, and that furious Scot,
The bloudy Douglas whofe well labouring sword,
Had three times flaine th'appearance of the king,
Can vaile his ftomacke, and did grace the shame
Of thofe that turnd their backes, and in his flight,
Stumbling in feare, was tooke: the fumme of all
Is, that the king hath wonne, and hath fent out,
A speedy power to incounter you my lord,
Vnder the conduct of yong Lancaster,
And Wefemerland: this is the news at ful.
Earle. For this I thall haue time enough to mourne,
In poifon there is phificke, and these newes,
Hauing beene wel, that would haue made me ficke:
Being ficke, haue (in fome measure) made me wel:
And as the wretch whofe feuer-weakned ioynts,
Like ftrengthleffe hinges buckle vnder life,
Impatient of his fit, breakes like a fire
Out of his keepers armes: euen fo my limbes,
Weakened with griefe, being now enragde with griefe,
Are thrice themfelues: hence therfore thou nice crutch,
A fcaly gauntlet now with ioynts of steele
Muft gloue this hand, and hence thou fickly coife,
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,
Which princes, flefht with conqueft, ayme to hit :
Now bind my browes with yron, and approach
The raggedft houre that time and fpight dare bring,
To frowne vpon th'inragde Northumberland,
Let heauen kiffe earth, now let not natures hand
Keepe the wild floud confind, let order die,
And let this world no longer be a stage,
To feed contention in a lingring act:
But let one fpirite of the firft borne Cain
Raigne in all bosomes, that ech heart being fet
On bloudy courfes, the rude fceane may end,
And darkneffe be the burier of the dead.
Vmfr. This ftrained paflion doth you wrong my lord.
Bard. Sweet earle, diuorce not wifedom from your honor,
|