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PROLOGUE.

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Enter RUMOUR, painted full of Tongues,

PEN your ears: for which of you will ftop
The Vent of Hearing, when loud Rumour speaks?
I from the Orient to the drooping West,
Making the wind my poft-horfe, ftill unfold
The Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth.
Upon my tongues continual flanders ride,
The which in every language 1 pronounce;
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
I fpeak of Peace, while covert enmity,
Under the smile of fafety, wounds the world:
And who but Rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful mufters and prepar'd defence,
Whilft the big year, fwoll'n with some other griefs,
Is thought with child by the ftern tyrant War,
And no fuch matter? Rumour is a pipe
Blown by furmises, jealoufies, conje&ures;
And, of fo eafy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monfter with uncounted heads,
The ftill-difcordant wavering multitude,

Can play upon it. But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize

Among my houfhold? Why is Rumour here?
I run before King Harry's victory;

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury

Hath beaten down young Hot-fpur and his troops;
Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion
Ev'n with the rebels' blood.

But what mean I

To speak so true at firft? my office is
To noile abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell
Under the wrath of noble Hot-fpur's sword;

And

And that the King before the Dowglas' rage
Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death.
This have I rumour'd through the peafant towns,
Between that royal field of Shrewsbury,

And this worm-eaten Hold of ragged stone;
Where Hot-fpur's father, old Northumberland,
Lies crafty fick. The Pofts come tiring on;
And not a man of them brings other news
Than they have learn'd of me. From Rumour's tongues,
They bring fmooth comforts falfe, worfe than true
wrongs.

[Exit.

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Dramatis Perfonæ.

KING Henry the Fourth.

Prince Henry, afterwards crowned King Henry the Fifth.

Prince John of Lancaster,
Humphrey of Gloucester,
Thomas of Clarence,
Northumberland,
The Archbishop of York,
Mowbray,

Haftings,

Lord Bardolph,

Morton,

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The SECOND PART of

HENRY IV.

A C T I. SCENE I.

Northumberland's Caftle.

Enter Lord Bardolph; the Porter at the door.

BARDOLPH.

WHO keeps the gate here, hoa? where is the

Earl?

Port, What shall I fay you are?
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's the Earl.

North. What news, lord Bardolph? ev'ry minute

now

Should be the father of some stratagem.

The times are wild: Contention, like a horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loofe,
And bears down all before him.

Bard. Noble Earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
North. Good, if heav'n will!

Bard. As good as heart can wish:
F 4

The

The King is almoft 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 Dowglas: young Prince John,
And Westmorland, and Stafford, fled the field,
And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John,
Is prifoner to your fon. O, fuch a day,
So fought, fo follow'd, and fo fairly won,
Game not till now, to dignify the times,
Since Cafar's fortunes!

North. How is this derived?

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 thefe news for true.

North. Here comes my fervant Travers, whom I

fent

On Tuesday laft to liften 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.

North.

SCENE II.

Enter Travers.

Now,
OW, Travers, what good tidings come

with you?

Tra. My lord, Sir John Umfrevil turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd, Out-rode me. After him came fpurring hard A gentlemen, almost fore-spent with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse: He afk'd the way to Chefter; and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. He told me, that Rebellion had ill luck; And that young Harry Percy's Spur was cold.

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