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P R O L O G U E. Enter Rumour, painted full of Tongues. PEN ears:

you The Vent of Hearing, when loud Rumour speaks? I from the Orient to the drooping West, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The Adts commenced on this Ball of Earth. Upon my tongues continual flanders 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 fafety, wounds the world: And who hut Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence, Whilst the big year, swoll'n with some other griefs, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant War, And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by furmises, jealoufies, conjeâures; And, of so easy and fo 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 houshold? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry's vi&ory; Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury Hath beaten down young Hot-Spur and his troops ; Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion Ev'n with the rebels' 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 Hot-spur's sword;


And that the King before the Dowglas' 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 Hot-spur'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 Runour's tongues,
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true


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Draniatis Personæ.


KING Henry the Fourth.
Prince Henry, afterwards crowned King Henry the Fifth.
Prince John of Lancaster,

Sons to Henry the Fourth, and Brethren to
Humphrey of Gloucester,
Thomas of Clarence,

Henry the Fifth
The Archbishop of York,
Lord Bardolph,

Oppofits againt King Henry the Fourik.

of the King's Party,
Lord Chief Justice,

Irregular Humourils.
Shallow and Silence, Country Justices,
Davy, Servant to Shallow.
Phang and Snare, two Serjeants.

Country Soldiers

Lady Northumberland.
Lady Percy,
Holly's Quickly,
Doll Tear-sheet.

Drawers, Beadlos, Grooms, doc.

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Enter Lord Bardolph; the Porter at the door.

WH ° Earl

HO_keeps the gate here, hoa ? where is the

Port, What shall I say 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

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.

Bard. Noble Earl,
I bring you certain news from Shreufbury.

Norih. Good, if heav'n will!
Bard. As good as heart can wish :

your son,

The King is almost wounded to the death :
And in the fortune of my

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 prisoner to your son. O, fuch a day,
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 derived ? 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

fent On Tuesday last 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.

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Enter Travers. North.

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 spurring hard A gentlemen, almost fore-spent with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse: He ask'd the way to Chejter; 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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