Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose Noble earl, Bard. Bard. As good as heart can wish: The king is almost wounded to the death; Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day, North. Saw How is this deriv'd? you the field? came you from Shrewsbury! Bard. I spake 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 servant 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, sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd, Out-rode me. After him, came, spurring hard, A gentleman almost forespent with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse : He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him I did demand, what news from Shrewsbury. He told me, that rebellion had bad luck, And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold: With that he gave his able horse the head, And, bending forward, struck his armed heels Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head'; and, starting so, He seem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question. North. Ha! Again. Said he, young Harry Percy's spur was cold? 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 silken point I'll give my barony: never talk of it. North. Why should the gentleman, that rode by Travers, Give then such instances of loss? Bard. Who, he? He was some hilding fellow, that had stol'n Enter MORTON. North. Yea, this man's brow7, like to a title-leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume: So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood Say, Morton, did'st thou come from Shrewsbury? North. How doth my son, and brother? Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. So dull, so dead in look, so 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 thou would'st say,-Your son did thus, and thus; Your brother, thus; so fought the noble Douglas; Ending with-brother, son, and all are dead. Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet: But, for my lord your son, North. Why, he is dead. See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He, that but fears the thing he would not know, Tell thou thy earl, his divination lies; And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. Mor. You are too great to be by me gainsaid: Your spirit is too true?, your fears too certain. North. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead". I see a strange confession in thine eye: Thou shak'st thy head; and hold'st it fear, or sin, The tongue offends not, that reports his death: Not he, which says the dead is not alive. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. From whence with life he never more sprung up. and hath sent out A speedy power, to encounter you, my lord, North. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physick; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well: And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joints, |