THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. ACT I. SCENE I. An Open Place, before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, meeting MOWBRAY. Northumberland. WHAT news, Lord Mowbray? Every minute now Should be the father of some stratagem. The times are wild: Contention, like a horse Mow. Noble Earl, I fear bad news; for ev'n now, fpurring hard, In a decifive fight at Shrewsbury. Adding-which Heav'n avert!-that Harry Percy, Your valiant fon, was fall'n!-this faid, he gave His panting horse the head, and starting from me, He seem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer queftion. North. My brave Percy! Said he that Harry Percy was no more? Mow. Yet hope, my Lord, for better tidings! fee, Furnish'd with certainties, here Morton comes! Enter MORTON. North. Ah! this man's brow, ev'n like a title-page, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. Say, Morton, didst 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's my fon,-my brother?→ Thou trembleft, and the whitenefs of thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Ev'n such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 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 burnt; But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue; And I my Percy's death, ere thou report'ft it. This wouldst thou say: Your fon did thus, and thus ; Your Your brother thus; fo fought the noble Douglas; 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 has ! Mort. Your fpirit is too true: your fears too certain. Mow. Yet, for all this, fay not that Percy's dead. North. I fee a strange confeffion in thy eye; Thou shak'ft thy head, and holdst it fear or fin To speak a truth. If he be flain, say so! The tongue offends not, that reports his death. Mort. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Remember'd knolling a departing friend.- From whence with life he never more fprung up. Such is the fatal tale! North. For this I fhall have time enough to mourn. In poifon there is phyfic; and thefe news, Have rous'd my drooping foul to defp'rate deeds. And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joints, Like ftrengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms; ev'n fo my Weaken'd with grief, but now enrag'd with grief, Feel a new fury, and are thrice themselves! limbs, Now come the fierceft hour that fate dares bring, To frown on the enrag'd Northumberland! Let heav'n kifs earth! Now let not nature's hand Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die ! And And let this world no longer be a stage Mow. This o'erftrain'd paffion does you wrong, my Lord. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honor! Mort. The lives of all your loving complices Depend upon your health; which, if you give To stormy paffion, must perforce decay. You caft th' events of doubtful war, and fumm'd Mow. The Archbishop of York, the noble Scroop, |