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Open your ears; for which of you will stop 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 acts commenced on this ball of earth: Upon my tongues continual slanders 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 safety wounds the world: And who but Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepared defence, Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so 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 household? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry’s victory; Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops, Quenching the flame of bold rebellion Even with the rebel’s 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 Hotspur’s sword, And that the king before the Douglas’ 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 Hotspur’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 Rumour’s tongues They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.
Open your ears; who among you will stop the flow of sound when loud Rumour speaks? I travel from the east to the setting sun, using the wind as my messenger, constantly revealing the actions happening on this world’s surface: Lies ride on my tongue, spreading in every language, filling people’s ears with false stories. I talk about peace, while hidden hatred secretly hurts the world under the guise of safety: And who else but Rumour, only I, can create alarming preparations and defenses, while the year, swollen with some other grief, is thought to be pregnant with war, when it’s not true? Rumour is like a pipe blown by guesses, doubts, and suspicions, so simple and straightforward that even the mob, with its many heads, can play along with it. But why do I need to dissect myself here among my own crowd? Why is Rumour here? I run ahead of King Harry’s victory; who, in a bloody battle at Shrewsbury, has defeated young Hotspur and his army, extinguishing the flame of bold rebellion with the blood of the rebels themselves. But why do I speak so honestly at first? My job is to spread the false story that Harry Monmouth fell under Hotspur’s sword, and that the king, in front of Douglas’ rage, bowed his anointed head as low as death. This is the story I’ve spread through the small towns between the royal battlefields of Shrewsbury and this decaying castle of rough stone, where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland, lies feigning sickness: the messengers keep coming, and none of them bring anything but the news they’ve learned from me: from Rumour’s mouth they bring comforting lies, worse than true harm.