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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
Full of high feeding, madly has broke loose,
And bears down all before him..

Mow. Noble Earl,

I fear bad news; for ev'n now, fpurring hard,
A Meffenger, almost forspent with speed,
Who stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse,
Inform'd me that Rebellion was undone

In a decifive fight at Shrewsbury.

Adding-which Heav'n avert!-that Harry Percy,

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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?
Then I am wretched, and my country's fall'n!

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;
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:
But in the end, to stop my 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 has !
He, that but fears the thing he would not know,
Has knowledge, by instinct, from others' eyes,
That what he fear'd is chanc'd. Yet, Morton, speak.

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
Has but a hateful office; and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a fullen bell,

Remember'd knolling a departing friend.-
-Ah, would to Heav'n I had not seen the day!
I saw the firy wrath of Harry Monmouth
Beat the undaunted Percy to the earth,

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From whence with life he never more fprung up.
Your valiant fon,-whofe fpirit lent a fire
Ev'n to the dulleft peafant in his camp,→
Once laid in death, the edge of war was blunted
In the best temper'd courage of his troops.
Not fwifter flies the arrow to its aim,
Than did our foldiers, to fecure their fafety,
Fly from the field. 'Twas then that noble Worcester
Was made a pris'ner, and that furious Scot,
The bloody Douglas, 'gan to grace the shame
Of fugitives, and in his flight was taken.
Following his victory, the King has fent
A fpeedy pow'r, t'encounter you, my Lord,
Under the conduct of young Lancafter,
And Weftmoreland.

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
To feed contention in a ling'ring a&t;
But let one spirit of the first-born Cain
Reign in all bofoms, that, each heart being fet
On bloody courfes, the rude scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead!

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
Th' account of chance, before you took up arms.
You knew, amidst the blows, your fon might fall.
You knew he walk'd o'er perils, on an edge
More likely to fall in, than to pass fafely.
You knew his forward fpirit would engage him
Where danger threaten'd in its fiercest form.----
The death of Percy makes his caufe more dear.

Mow. The Archbishop of York, the noble Scroop,
Supports our caufe with well-appointed pow'rs.
Suppos'd fincere and holy in his thoughts,
He's follow'd both with body and with mind.
He feeds the infurrection with the blood
Of fair King Richard, fcrap'd from Pomfret stones;
Derives from heav'n his quarrel and his caufe;

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