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, 'an heaven will!

Bard. As good as heart can wish :-
The king is almost wounded to the death;
And, in the fortune of my lord your fon,
Prince Harry flain outright; and both the Blunts
Kill'd by the hand of Douglas: young prince John,
And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field;
And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk fir 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 Cæfar'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 these news for true.

North. Here comes my fervant Travers, whom I sent

On Tuesday last to listen 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 retail from me.

Enter Travers.

North. Now, Travers, what good tidings come with you?

Tra. My lord, fir John Umfrevile turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd, Oút-rode me. After him, came, spurring hard,

A gentle.

A gentleman almost forspent with speed,
That stopt by me to breathe his bloody'd horse:
He afk'd the way to Chefter; and of him
I did demand, what news from Shrewsbury.
He told me, that rebellion had bad luck,
And that young Harry Fercy's fpur was cold:
With that, he gave his able horse the head,
And, bending forward, ftruck his armed 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 question.

North. Ha!

h

Again.

Said he, young Harry Percy's fpur was cold?
*Of Hotspur, coldfpur? that rebellion
Had met ill luck?

Bard. My lord, I'll tell you what ;-
If my young lord your fon have not the day,
Upon mine honour, for 'a filken point

I'll give my barony: never talk of it.

North. Why should the gentleman, that rode by Travers, Give then fuch " inftances of lofs?

m

Bard. Who, he?

He was fome" hilding fellow, that had ftol'n
The horse he rode on; and, upon my life,

Spoke at adventure. Look, here comes more news.

devour the way,]-an expreffion of great hafte.

"I drink the air before me

i

Again Say that again.

TEMPEST, Vol. I. p. 73. Ariel.

Of Hotspur,-A common term for a vehement, precipitate perfon.

a filken point]—a ftring, or lace tagg'd.

bilding]-bafe.

infances]-proofs,

Enter Morton.

North. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragick volume:

So looks the ftrond, whereon the imperious flood
Hath left a witnefs'd ufurpation-

Say, Morton, did'ft 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 son, and brother?

Thou trembleft; and the whitenefs 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-begone,

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 would'st thou fay,-Your fon did thus, and thus ;
Your brother, thus; fo fought the noble Douglas;
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:

But in the end, to ftop mine ear indeed,

Thou haft a figh to blow away this praise,
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 fears the thing he would not know,
Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others' eyes,

That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet fpeak, Morton ;
Tell thou thy earl, his divination lies;

a title-leaf,]-the black title-page to an elegy.

► fo woe-begone,]—fo far gone in woe.

And

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.

Bard. Yet, for all this, fay not that Percy's dead, North. I fee a ftrange confeffion in thine eye, Thou fhak'ft thy head, and hold'st it fear, or fin, To speak a truth. If he be flain, fay fo..

The tongue offends not, that reports his death;

And he doth fin, that doth belie the dead;

Not he that faith the dead is not alive.

Mort. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a lofing office, and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a fullen bell,
Remember'd knolling a departing friend.

Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your fon is dead.
Mort. I am forry, I fhould force you to believe
That, which I would to heaven I had not seen :
But these mine eyes faw him in bloody ftate,
Rend'ring faint' quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the earth,,

From whence with life he never more fprung up.

In few, his death (whofe fpirit lent a fire
Even to the dulleft peafant 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 fteel'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 itself,

Spirit]-prefentiment.

quittance]-return, oppofition.

abated, all the rest turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.]being reduced to a lower temper, the edge of his party was blunted,

and became as lead.

Upon enforcement, flies with greatest speed;
So did our men, heavy in Hotfpur's lofs,
Lend to this weight fuch lightnefs with their fear,
That arrows fled not fwifter toward their aim,
Than did our foldiers, aiming at their fafety,
Fly from the field: Then was that noble Worcester
Too foon ta'en prifoner: and that furious Scot,
The bloody Douglas, whofe well-labouring fword
Had three times flain the appearance of the king,
'Gan "vail his stomach, and did grace the fhame
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 hath fent out
A speedy power, to encounter you, my lord,
Under the conduct of young Lancaster,
And Westmoreland: this is the news at full.

North. For this I fhall have time enough to mourn.
In poifon there is phyfick; and these news,

"Having been well, that would have made me fick,
Being fick, have in fome measure made me well:
And as the wretch, whofe fever-weaken'd joints,
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper's arms; even fo my limbs,
Weaken'd with pain, being now enrag'd with grief,
Are thrice themselves: hence therefore, thou nice crutch;
A fcaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel,

Must glove this hand: 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

" vail bis Romach,]-Began to droop, to let his courage fink under

his misfortunes.

buckle-bend. ▸ flefb'd]—fred; flußb’d.

Having been well,-Had I been well.

- grief.

a

• quoif; cap.

The