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So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood
Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
How doth my son, and brother?
Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;
your son, North.
Why, he is dead. See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He, that but sears the thing he would not know, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others' eyes, That what he feared is chanced. Yet speak, Morton; Tell thou thy earl, his divination lies; And I will take it as a sweet disgrace, And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.
Mor. You are too great to be by me gainsaid ; Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
North. 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;
And he doth sin, that doth belie the dead;
Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
Mor. I am sorry, I should force you to believe That, wbich I would to Heaven I had not seen; But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state, Rendering faint quittance, wearicd and out-breathed, To Harry Monmouth ; whose swift wrath beat downi The never-daunted Percy to the earth, From whence with life he never more sprung up. In sew, his death, (whose spirit lent a fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,) Being bruited once, took fire and heat away From the best-tempered courage in his troops ; For from his metal was his party steeled ; Which once in him abated, all the rest Turned on themselves, like dull and heavy lead. And as the thing that's heavy in itself, U pon enforcement, flies with greatest speed, So did our men, heavy in fiotspur's loss, Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear, That arrow's 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-laboring sword Hd three times slain the appe 'rance of the king, 'Gan vil? his stornach, and did grace the shame Of those that turned their backs; and, in his fight, Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all Js,-that the king hath won; and hath sent out A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,
| The bell anciently was rung before the dying person had expired, and thence was called the passing bell.
2 To vail is to lower, to cast down.
Under the conduct of
North. For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
crutch; A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel, Must glove this hand : and hence, thou sickly quoif; Thou art a guard too wanton for the head, Which princes, fleshed 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 the enraged Northumberland! Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not nature's hand Keep the wild flood confined ! let order die ! And let this world no longer be a stage, To feed contention in a lingering act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain 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 ! Tra. This strained passion doth you wrong, my
lord.3 Bard. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your
honor. Mor. The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health ; the which, if you give o'er
i Grief, in the latter part of this line, is used, in its present sense, for sorrow ; in the former part for bodily pain.
2 Shakspeare, like his contemporaries, uses nice in the sense of effeminate, delicate, tender.
3 This line in the quarto, is, by mistake, given to Umfreville, who is spoken of in this very scene as absent. It is given to Travers at Steevens's suggestion.
To stormy passion, must perforce decay.
Bard. We all, that are engaged to this loss,
Mor. 'Tis more than time ; and, my most noble lord,
1 The fourteen following lines, and a number of others in this play were not in the quarto edition.
2 This and the following twenty lines are not found in the quarto.
Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts,
North. I knew of this before ; but, to speak truth,
SCENE II. London. A Street.
Enter Sir John FALSTAFF, with his Page bearing his
sword and buckler. Fal. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?
Page. He said, sir, the water itself was a good, healthy water; but for the party that owed it, he might have more diseases than he knew for.
Fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird“ at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to vent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me. I am not only
1 i. e. great and small, all ranks. 2 This quackery was once so much in fashion that Linacre, the founder of the College of Physicians, formed a statute to restrain apothecaries from carrying the water of their patients to a doctor, and afterwards giving medicines in consequence of the opinions pronounced concerning it. This statute was followed by another, which forbade the doctors themselves to pronounce on any disorder from such an uncertain diagnostic. But this did not extinguish the practice.
4 « Gird (Mr. Gifford says) is a mere metathesis of gride, and means a thrust, a blow: the metaphorical use of the word for a smart stroke of wit, taunt, reproachful retort, &c., is justified by a similar application of kindred terms in all languages.