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Bard. Who keeps the gate here, ho?-Where is
the earl ? 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.
Here comes the earl. North. What news, lord Bardolph? every minute
Should be the father of some stratagem:
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose
North. Good, an heaven will!
As good as heart can wish:-
How is this deriv'd ?
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
Bard. My lord, I over-rode him on the way;
North. Now, Travers, what good tidings come
My lord, I'll tell you what;-
your son have not the day, Upon mine honour, for a silken point I'll give my barony: never talk of it. North. Why should the gentleman, that rode by
Travers, Give then such instances of loss ?
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.
Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
How doth my son, and brother?
thus; Your brother, thus; so fought the noble Douglas; Stopping my greedy car 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, yet:
Why, he is dead.
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 'o. 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; 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, Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd, To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down The never-daunted Percy to the earth,