Other Alarums.-Enter FALSTAFF. Fal. Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here's no scoring, but upon the pate.-Soft! who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt;-there's honour for you: Here's no vanity!-I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels.-I have led my raggamuffins where they are peppered: there's but three of my hundred and lifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here?

Enter Prince HENRY.

West. Come, my lord, I will lead you to your tent.

P. Hen. Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help: [drive And heaven forbid, a shallow scratch should The prince of Wales from such a field as this: Where stain'd nobility lies trodden on, And rebels' arms triumph in massacres!

P. John. We breathe too long:-Come, cousin Westmoreland,

Our duty this way lies; for God's sake, come.
[Exeunt Prince JOHN and WESTMORELAND.
P. Hen. By heaven, thou hast deceiv'd me,
Lancaster,

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit:
Before, I lov'd thee as a brother, John;
But now, I do respect thee as my soul.

K. Hen. I saw him hold lord Percy at the point,

With lustier maintenance than I did look for
Of such an ungrown warrior.
P. Hen. O, this boy
Lends mettle to us all!

[Exit

Alarums.-Enter DOUGLAS. Doug. Another king! they grow like Hydra's I am the Douglas, fatal to all those [heads: That wear those colours on them.-What art That counterfeit'st the person of a king? [thou, K. Hen. The king himself; who, Douglas, grieves at heart,

So many of his shadows thou hast met,

me thy sword:

Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are unreveng'd: Pr'ythee, lend
thy sword.

Fal. O Hal, I pr'ythee, give me leave to breathe a while.-Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms, as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.

P. Hen. He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. Lend me thy sword, I pr'ythee.

Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.

P. Hen. Give it me: What, is it in the case? Fal. Ay, Hal; 'tis hot, 'tis hot; there's that will sack a city.

now?

[The Prince draws out a bottle of sack. P. Hen. What, is't a time to jest and dally [Throws it at him and exit. Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his, willingly, let him make a carbonadot of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: Give me life: which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there's an end. [Exit.

SCENE IV.-Another part of the Field. Alarums.-Excursions.-Enter the KING, Prince HENRY, Prince JOHN, and WESTMORELAND.

Seek Percy, and thyself, about the field:
But, seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily,
I will assay thee; so defend thyself.

Doug. I fear, thou art another counterfeit; And yet, in faith, thou bear'st thee like a king: But mine, I am sure, thou art, whoe'er thou be, And thus I win thee.

[They fight; the KING being in danger, enter Prince HENRY.

P. Hen. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like

Never to hold it up again! the spirits
Of Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms:
It is the prince of Wales, that threatens thee;
Who never promiseth, but he means to pay.-
[They fight; DOUGLAS flies.
Cheerly, my lord; How fares your grace?-
Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,
And so hath Clifton; I'll to Clifton straight.

K. Hen. Stay, and breathe a while:-
Thou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion;* [life,
And show'd, thou mak'st some tender of my
In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.
P. Hen. O heaven! they did me too much

injury,

That ever said, I hearken'd for your death.
If it were so, I might have let alone
The insulting hand of Douglas over you;
Which would have been as speedy in your end,
As all the poisonous potions in the world,
And sav'd the treacherous labour of your son.
K. Hen. Make up to Clifton, I'll to Sir Nich-
olas Gawsey. [Exit King HENRY.

Enter HOTSPUR.

Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

P. Hen. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name.

Hot. My name is Harry Percy.
P. Hen. Why, then I see

A very valiant rebel of the name.

I am the prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,

* Reputation.

Warkworth.-Before Northumberland's Castle.
Enter RUMOUR, painted full of Tongues.
Rum. Open your ears; For which of you
will stop
[speaks?
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth:
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
I speak of peace, while covert enmity,
Under the smile of safety, wounds the world:
And who but Rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful musters, and prepar'd defence;

Hath beaten down young Hotspur, and his
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
troops,
Even with the rebel's blood. But what mean I
To speak so true at first? my office is
To noise abroad,-that Harry Monmouth fell
Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword;
And that the king before the Douglas' rage
Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death.
This have I rumour'd through the peasant

towns

Between that royal field of Shrewsbury
And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,
Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland,
Lies crafty-sick: the posts come tiring on,
And not a man of them brings other news
Than they have learn'd of me; From Rumour's
tongues

grief,

Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it. But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize

Among my household? Why is Rumour here?
I run before king Harry's victory;
Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury,

true wrongs.

ACT I.

[Exit.

SCENE 1.-The same.-The PORTER before the Gate; Enter Lord BARDOLPH.

Bard. Who keeps the gate here, ho?Where is the earl?

Port. What shall I say you are?

Northumberland castle.

Bard. Tell thou the earl, That the lord Bardolph doth attend him here. Port. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard;

Please it your honour, knock but at the gate, And he himself will answer.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND. Bard. Here comes the earl.

North. What news, lord Bardolph? every minute now

Should be the father of some stratagem:*
The times are wild; contention, like a horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose,
And bears down all before him.

Berd. Noble earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. North. Good, an heaven will!

Blunts

Bard. As good as heart can wish :The king is almost wounded to the death; And, in the fortune of my lord your son, Prince Harry slain outright; and both the [John, Kill'd by the hand of Douglas: young prince And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field; And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day, [John, So fought, so follow'd, and so fairly won, Came not, till now, to dignify the times, Since Cæsar's fortunes!

North. How is this deriv'd? Saw 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 retain 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 forspent 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.

news.

Enter MORTON.

North. How doth my son, and, brother? Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand." Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 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,
[las;

Your brother, thus; so fought the noble Doug-
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:
But in the end, to stop mine ear indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,
Ending with-brother, son, and all are dead.
Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother,
But, for my lord your son,-

North. Why, he is dead.

[yet:

See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath? He, that but fears the thing he would not know, [eyes, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others' That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak,

dead.

I see a strange confession in thine eye: [sin,
Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it fear or
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:
The tongue offends not, that reports his death:
And he doth sin, that doth belie the dead;
Not he, which says the dead is not alive.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office; and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
Remember'd knolling a departing friend.
Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is
dead.

Mor. I am sorry, I should force you to believe

That, which I would to heaven I had not seen: But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,

Of Hotspur, coldspur? that rebellion

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.

breath'd

To Harry Monmouth: whose swift wrath beat down

[up.

by Travers,

Give then such instances of loss?

Bard. Who, he?