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Éarle. What newes lord Bardolfe ? euery minute now
Should be the father of some stratagem;
The times are wild, contention like a horse,
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loofe,
And beares downe all before him.

Bard. Noble earle,
I bring you certaine newes from Shrewsbury.

Earle, Good, and God will.

Bard. As good as heart can wish:
The king is almost wounded to the death,
And in the fortune of my lord your sonne,
Prince Harry Naine outright, and both the Blunts
Kild by the hand of Dowglas, yong prince lohn,
And Weftmerland and Stafford fled the field,
And Harry Monmouthés brăwne, the hulke fir Iohn,
Is prisoner to your sonne : O such a day!
So fought, so followed, and so fairely wonne,
Came not till now to dignifie the times
Since Cæsar's fortunes.

Earle. How is this deriu'd ?
Saw you the field ? came you from Shrewsbury?

· Bar. I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence, A gentleman well bred, and of good name, That freely rendred me these newes for true.

Enter Trauers.
Earle. Here comes my seruant Trauers who I fent
On Tuesday last to listen after newes.

Bar. My lord, I ouer-rode him on the way,
And he is furnisht 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 horst,

Out

Ii 3

Out rode me, after him came spurring hard,
A gentleman almost forespent with speede,
That stopt by me to breathe his bloudied horse,
He askt the way to Chifter, and of him
I did demand what newes from Shrewsbury,
He told me that rebellion had bad lucke,
And that yong Harrie Percies spur was cold :
With that he grue his able horse the head,
And bending forward, strooke his armed heeles,
Against the panting fides of his poore iade,
Vp to the rowell head, and starting fo,
He seem'd in running to deuoure the way,
Staying no longer question.

Earle. Ha ? againe,
Said he, yong Harry Percies spur was cold,
Of Hot-spurre, Gold-spurre, that rebellion
Had met ill lucke?

Bard. My lord, Ile tell you what,
If my yong lord your sonne, haue not the day,
Vpon mine honor for a lilken point,
Ile giue my barony, neuer talke of it.

Earle. Why should that gentleman that rode by Trauers, Giue then such instances of loffe ?

Bard. Who he?
He was some hilding fellow that had stolne
The horse he rode on, and vpon my life
Spoke at a venter. Looke, here comes more news.

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Enter Morton.

Earle. Yea this mans brow, like to a title leafe,
Foretells the nature of a tragicke volume,
So lookes the strond, whereon the imperious floud,
Hath left a witneft vsurpation.
Say Mourton, didit thou come from Shrewsbury?

Mour.

Mour. I ranne from Shrewsbury my noble lord,
Where hatefull death put on his vgliest maske,
To fright our partie.

Earle. How doth my sonne and brother?
Thou tremblest, and the whitenes in thy checke,
Is apter then thy tongue to tell thy arrand,
Euen such a man, fo faint, so spiritlesse,
So dull, so dead in looke, so 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 wouldīt say, your son did thus and thus,
Your brother thus : so fought the nobie Dowglas,
Stopping my greedy care with their bold deedes,
But in the end, to stop my eare indeed,
Thou hast a figh to blow away this praise,
Ending with brother, sonne, and all are dead.

Mour. Douglas is liuing, and your brother yet,
But for my lord your sonne:

Earle. Why he is dead ?
See what a ready tongue suspition 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 speake Mourton,
Tell thou an earle, his diuination lies,
And I will take it as a sweete disgrace,
And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

Mour. You are too great to be by me gainsaid,
Your spirite is too true, your feares too certaine.

Earle. Yet for all this, say not that Percic's dead,
I see a strange confession in thine eie,
Thou shakst thy head, and holdft it fcare, or sinne,
To speake a truth : if he be faine,

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The tongue offends not that reports his death,
And he doth finne that doth belie the dead,
Not he which saies the dead is not aliue,
Yet the first bringer of vnwelcome newes
Hath but a looling office, and his tongue
Sounds euer after as a sullen bell,
Remembred tolling a departing friend.

Bard. I cannot thinke, my lord, your sonne is dead.

Mour. I am sory I should force you to beleeue,
That which I would to God I had not seene,
But these mine eies saw him in bloudy state,
Rendring faint quittance, wearied, and out-breathd,
To Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat downe
The neuer daunted Percy to the earth,
From whence with life he neuer more sprung vp.
In few his death, whose spirite lent a fire,
Euen to the dullest peasant in his campe,
Being bruted once, tooke fire and heate away,
From the best temperd courage in his troopes,
For from his mettal was his party steeled,
Which once in him abaied, al the rest
Turnd on themselues, like dull and heauy lead
And as the thing thats heauy in it felfe,
Vpon enforcement Aies with greatest speed :
So did our men, heauy in Hot-Spurs lolle,
Lend to this weight such lightnesse with their feare,
That arrowes fled not swifter toward their ayme,
Than did our fouldiers aiming at their safetie,
Fly from the field : then was that noble Worcester,
So soone tane prisoner, and that furious Scot,
The bloudy Douglas whose well labouring sword,
Had three times Naine th’appearance of the king,
Can vaile his stomacke, and did grace the shame
Of those that turnd their backes, and in his flight,

Stumbling

Stumbling in feare, was tooke: the fumme of all
Is, that the king hath wonne, and hath sent out,
A speedy power to incounter you my lord,
Vnder the conduct of yong Lancaster,
And Wesimerland : this is the news at ful.

Earle. For this I shall haue time enough to mourne,
In poison there is phisicke, and these newes,
Hauing beene wel, that would haue made me sicke:
Being ficke, haue (in some measure) made me wel :
And as the wretch whose feuer- weakned ioynts,
Like strengthlesse hinges buckle vnder life,
Impatient of his fit, breakes like a fire
Out of his keepers armes: euen so my limbes,
Weakened with griefe, being now enragde with griefe,
Are thrice themelues : hence therfore thou nice crutch;
A scaly gauntlet now with ioynts of steele
Muit glove this hand, and hence thou fickly coife,
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,
Which princes, felht with conquest, ayme to hit :
Now bind my browes with yron, and approach
The raggedt houre that time and spight dare bring,
To frovne vpon tħ'inragde Northumberland,
Let heauen kisse earth, now let nor natures hand
Keepe the wild foud 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 first borne Cain
Raigne in all boloines, that ech heart being set
On bloudy courses, the rude sceane may end,
And darknese be the burier of the dead.

Vmfr. This strained pallion doth you wrong my lord.
Bard. Sweet earle, diuorce not wisedom from your honor,

Mour,

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