Act I, Scene 1

Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND’S Castle

Enter LORD BARDOLPH

• Lord Bardolph. Who keeps the gate here, ho? [The PORTER opens the gate]
  Where is the Earl? 45

• Porter. What shall I say you are?

• Lord Bardolph. Tell thou the Earl
  That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

• Porter. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard.
  Please it your honour knock but at the gate, 50
  And he himself will answer.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND

• Lord Bardolph. Here comes the Earl. Exit PORTER

• Earl of Northumberland. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now
  Should be the father of some stratagem. 55
  The times are wild; contention, like a horse
  Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose
  And bears down all before him.

• Lord Bardolph. Noble Earl,
  I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. 60

• Earl of Northumberland. Good, an God will!

• Lord Bardolph. 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 Blunts 65
  Kill'd by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John,
  And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field;
  And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John,
  Is prisoner to your son. O, such a day,
  So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, 70
  Came not till now to dignify the times,
  Since Cxsar's fortunes!

• Earl of Northumberland. How is this deriv'd?
  Saw you the field? Came you from Shrewsbury?

• Lord Bardolph. I spake with one, my lord, that came from 75
  A gentleman well bred and of good name,
  That freely rend'red me these news for true.

Enter TRAVERS

• Earl of Northumberland. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent 80
  On Tuesday last to listen after news.

• Lord Bardolph. 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.

• Earl of Northumberland. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you? 85

• Travers. 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. 90
  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 95
  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. 100

• Earl of Northumberland. Ha! Again:
  Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold?
  Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion
  Had met ill luck?

• Lord Bardolph. My lord, I'll tell you what: 105
  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.

• Earl of Northumberland. Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers
  Give then such instances of loss? 110

• Lord Bardolph. Who—he?
  He was some hilding fellow that had stol'n
  The horse he rode on and, upon my life,
  Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.

Enter Morton

• Earl of Northumberland. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,
  Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
  So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood
  Hath left a witness'd usurpation.
  Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury? 120

• Morton. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
  Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask
  To fright our party.

• Earl of Northumberland. How doth my son and brother?
  Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek 125
  Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
  Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
  So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,
  Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night
  And would have told him half his Troy was burnt; 130
  But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,
  And I my Percy's death ere thou report'st it.
  This thou wouldst say: 'Your son did thus and thus;
  Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas'—
  Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds; 135
  But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,
  Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,
  Ending with 'Brother, son, and all, are dead.'

• Morton. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;
  But for my lord your son— 140

• Earl of Northumberland. Why, he is dead.
  See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
  He that but fears the thing he would not know
  Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes
  That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton; 145
  Tell thou an earl his divination lies,
  And I will take it as a sweet disgrace
  And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

• Morton. You are too great to be by me gainsaid;
  Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. 150

• Earl of Northumberland. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead.
  I see a strange confession in thine eye;
  Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it fear or sin
  To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:
  The tongue offends not that reports his death; 155
  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, 160
  Rememb'red tolling a departing friend.

• Lord Bardolph. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.

• Morton. I am sorry I should force you to believe
  That which I would to God I had not seen;
  But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state, 165
  Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
  To Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down
  The never-daunted Percy to the earth,
  From whence with life he never more sprung up.
  In few, his death—whose spirit lent a fire 170
  Even to the dullest peasant in his camp—
  Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
  From the best-temper'd courage in his troops;
  For from his metal was his party steeled;
  Which once in him abated, all the rest 175
  Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.
  And as the thing that's heavy in itself
  Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,
  So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,
  Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear 180
  That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim
  Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,
  Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester
  Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot,
  The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword 185
  Had three times slain th' appearance of the King,
  Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame
  Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight,
  Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all
  Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out 190
  A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,
  Under the conduct of young Lancaster
  And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

• Earl of Northumberland. For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
  In poison there is physic; and these news, 195
  Having been well, that would have made me sick,
  Being sick, have in some measure made me well;
  And as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints,
  Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
  Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire 200
  Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs,
  Weak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,
  Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!
  A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel
  Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif! 205
  Thou art a guard too wanton for the head
  Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.
  Now bind my brows with iron; and approach
  The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring
  To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland! 210
  Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand
  Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die!
  And let this world no longer be a stage
  To feed contention in a ling'ring act;
  But let one spirit of the first-born Cain 215
  Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set
  On bloody courses, the rude scene may end
  And darkness be the burier of the dead!

• Lord Bardolph. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

• Morton. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour. 220
  The lives of all your loving complices
  Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er
  To stormy passion, must perforce decay.
  You cast th' event of war, my noble lord,
  And summ'd the account of chance before you said 225
  'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise
  That in the dole of blows your son might drop.
  You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge,
  More likely to fall in than to get o'er;
  You were advis'd his flesh was capable 230
  Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit
  Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd;
  Yet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this,
  Though strongly apprehended, could restrain
  The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n, 235
  Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth
  More than that being which was like to be?

• Lord Bardolph. We all that are engaged to this loss
  Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas
  That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one; 240
  And yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd
  Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;
  And since we are o'erset, venture again.
  Come, we will put forth, body and goods.

• Morton. 'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord, 245
  I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:
  The gentle Archbishop of York is up
  With well-appointed pow'rs. He is a man
  Who with a double surety binds his followers.
  My lord your son had only but the corpse, 250
  But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;
  For that same word 'rebellion' did divide
  The action of their bodies from their souls;
  And they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd,
  As men drink potions; that their weapons only 255
  Seem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls
  This word 'rebellion'—it had froze them up,
  As fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop
  Turns insurrection to religion.
  Suppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts, 260
  He's follow'd both with body and with mind;
  And doth enlarge his rising with the blood
  Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones;
  Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;
  Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land, 265
  Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;
  And more and less do flock to follow him.

• Earl of Northumberland. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,
  This present grief had wip'd it from my mind.
  Go in with me; and counsel every man 270
  The aptest way for safety and revenge.
  Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed—
  Never so few, and never yet more need. Exeunt