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Who keeps the gate here, ho?
Who’s guarding the gate, hey?
Where is the earl?
Where is the earl?
What shall I say you are?
What should I say you are?
Tell thou the earl That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.
Tell the earl That Lord Bardolph is here waiting for him.
His lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard; Please it your honour, knock but at the gate, And he himself wilt answer.
His lordship is out in the orchard; If it pleases you, just knock on the gate, And he’ll answer himself.
Here comes the earl.
Here comes the earl.
What news, Lord Bardolph? every minute now 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.
What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now Should bring some new plan or scheme: The times are crazy: conflict, like a horse Full of rich food, has gone wild And is trampling everything in its path.
Noble earl, I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
Noble earl, I bring you news from Shrewsbury.
Good, an God will!
Good news, God willing!
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 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 follow’d and so fairly won, Came not till now to dignify the times, Since Caesar’s fortunes!
As good as anyone could hope: The king is almost mortally wounded; And in the fate of your son, my lord, Prince Harry was killed outright; both the Blunts Were killed by Douglas’s hand; young Prince John And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the battlefield; And Harry Monmouth’s strength, the big Sir John, Is now a prisoner to your son: Oh, what a day, So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, Has not come until now to honor the times, Since Caesar’s victories!
How is this derived? Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?
How is this news coming to us? Did you see the battlefield? Did you come from Shrewsbury?
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.
My lord, I spoke with someone who came from there, A well-bred gentleman of good reputation, Who told me these news, and I believe them to be true.
Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent On Tuesday last to listen after news.
Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent Last Tuesday to gather news.
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.
My lord, I overtook him on the road; And he doesn’t have any more certainty Than what he might have heard from me.
Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?
Now, Travers, what good news do you bring?
My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back With joyful tidings; and, being better horsed, Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse. 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, 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.
My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turned me back With good news; and, being better mounted, He outran me. After him came a gentleman, almost spent with speed, Who stopped by me to let his tired horse rest. He asked the way to Chester, and I asked him What news from Shrewsbury: He told me that the rebellion was unlucky And that young Harry Percy’s efforts had failed. With that, he urged his horse forward, And, leaning forward, kicked his horse hard Into its sides, driving it as fast as possible, As if he was trying to outrun the road itself, Without pausing to answer any more questions.
Ha! Again: Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold? Of Hotspur Coldspur? that rebellion Had met ill luck?
Ha! Again: Did he say young Harry Percy’s efforts had failed? Hotspur, Coldspur? That the rebellion Was unlucky?
My lord, I’ll tell you what; 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.
My lord, let me tell you this; If my young lord, your son, hasn’t won this fight, I swear, on my honor, I’ll give up my lands: Let’s not talk about it anymore.
Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers Give then such instances of loss?
Why would that man, who passed by Travers, Give such signs of defeat?
Who, he? He was some hilding fellow that had stolen The horse he rode on, and, upon my life, Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.
Who, him? He was just some worthless fellow who had stolen The horse he was riding, and, I swear, He was just guessing. Look, here comes more news.
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?
Yes, this man’s face, like the cover of a tragic book, Foretells something bad: Like a shore where the powerful tide Has left evidence of its takeover. Tell me, Morton, did you come from Shrewsbury?
I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord; Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask To fright our party.
I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord; Where horrible death appeared with his ugliest face To frighten our side.
How doth my son and brother? Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burnt; 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: 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.’
How is my son and brother? You’re trembling, and the paleness on your face Tells me more than your words can explain. You look just like the messenger Who tried to tell King Priam in the dead of night That half of Troy was burning; But Priam found out about the fire before the messenger could speak, And I’ll know about my son’s death before you can say it. You would have said, ‘Your son did this and that; Your brother did this: the noble Douglas fought here:’ Filling my ears with their brave deeds: But in the end, you’d have a sigh to blow away all that praise, Ending with, ‘Brother, son, and all are dead.’
Douglas is living, and your brother, yet; But, for my lord your son--
Douglas is alive, and your brother too; But, as for your son—
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; 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.
Why, he’s dead. Look at how quickly suspicion can make someone talk! The person who’s afraid of something they don’t know Knows, instinctively, through others’ eyes That what they feared has happened. Yet speak, Morton; Tell an earl that his guess is wrong, And I’ll treat it as a sweet disgrace And make you rich for doing me such a favor.
You are too great to be by me gainsaid: Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
You’re too important for me to argue with: Your spirit is too strong, your fears too certain.
Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead. I see a strange confession in thine eye: Thou shakest 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 tolling a departing friend.
But even so, don’t say Percy’s dead. I can see a strange confession in your eyes: You shake your head, and it seems like you’re afraid or guilty To speak the truth. If he’s killed, say so; The tongue doesn’t offend by reporting his death: It’s the person who lies about the dead who sins, Not the one who says the dead are not alive. But the first person to bring bad news Has a thankless job, and their words Sound like a sad bell, ringing for a departing friend.
I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
I can’t believe, my lord, that your son is dead.
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, Rendering faint quittance, wearied and out-breathed, 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 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 steel’d; Which once in him abated, all the rest 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 That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, Fly from the field. Then was the noble Worcester Too soon ta’en prisoner; and that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain the 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 A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, Under the conduct of young Lancaster And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.
I’m sorry I have to make you believe What I wish I hadn’t seen; But I saw him in a bloody state, Weak, breathing heavily, giving up, To Harry Monmouth; whose swift anger knocked The unflinching Percy to the ground, And he never got up again. In short, his death, whose spirit gave fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp, When it was known, drained the courage From the best soldiers in his army; For his strength had hardened his side, And once that was gone, the rest Turned on themselves, like heavy lead: And just like something heavy, when forced, flies quickly, Our men, heavy with Hotspur’s loss, Flew from the field, panicked, as quickly as arrows fly. Then the noble Worcester Was captured too soon; and that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose strong sword Had nearly killed the king three times, Started to lose heart and joined the cowards, And in his panic, was taken. The bottom line is, The king has won, and sent out A quick army to face you, my lord, Led by young Lancaster And Westmoreland. That’s the full story.
For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well: And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs, Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged 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 quoif! 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 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!
For this, I’ll have enough time to mourn. In poison, there is medicine; and these news, Though they’d have made me sick before, Have made me a little better now: And just like the sick man whose weak joints Buckle under him like rusted hinges, Impatient with his fever, breaks free like fire From the arms of his keeper, so my limbs, Weak with grief, but now enraged with grief, Are stronger than ever. Away with you, weak crutch! A scaly gauntlet with steel joints Must cover my hand now: and away with you, weak cap! You are too delicate for the head Of a prince who’s battle-hardened. Now bind my head with iron; and face The toughest times that fate and anger can throw At the furious Northumberland! Let heaven kiss the earth! Let nature’s hand Not hold back the flood of rage! Let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage For ongoing conflict; But let one spirit of Cain reign in all hearts, So that, with every heart set On bloody courses, the conflict will end, And darkness will bury the dead!
This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.
This intense emotion is harming you, my lord.
Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
Sweet earl, don’t let your honour be separated from wisdom.
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 the event of war, my noble lord, And summ’d the account of chance, before you said ’Let us make head.’ It was your presurmise, 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 advised his flesh was capable Of wounds and scars and that his forward spirit Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged: Yet did you say ’Go forth;’ and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain The stiff-borne action: what hath then befallen, Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth, More than that being which was like to be?
The lives of all your loyal allies Depend on your health; and if you give in To wild passion, it will only weaken you. You predicted the outcome of the war, my noble lord, And counted the odds, before you said "Let’s go fight." You foresaw, That, in the chaos of battle, your son might die: You knew he was walking into danger, on the edge, More likely to fall than to make it through; You were warned his body was vulnerable To wounds and scars and that his fearless spirit Would push him into the most dangerous situations: Yet you said "Go ahead;" and none of this, Though clearly understood, could stop His determined action: so what has happened, Or what has this bold venture brought about, That wasn’t likely from the start?
We all that are engaged to this loss Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas That if we wrought our life ’twas ten to one; And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed Choked the respect of likely peril fear’d; And since we are o’erset, venture again. Come, we will all put forth, body and goods.
We all who were part of this loss Knew we were sailing on dangerous seas, That our lives were at risk, but still we ventured, Because the potential reward outweighed The fear of likely danger; And since we’ve been overwhelmed, we’ll try again. Come, we’ll all put everything on the line.
’Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord, I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, The gentle Archbishop of York is up With well-appointed powers: he is a man Who with a double surety binds his followers. My lord your son had only but the corpse, 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 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: Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts, He’s followed both with body and with mind; And doth enlarge his rising with the blood Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones; Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause; Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land, Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke; And more and less do flock to follow him.
It’s more than time: and, my noble lord, I’ve heard for sure, and I speak the truth, The gentle Archbishop of York is rising With well-prepared forces: he is a man Who strengthens his followers with absolute confidence. Your son had only the body, The shadows and appearances of men, to fight with; Because the word "rebellion" divided Their actions from their true intentions; They fought reluctantly, like people forced to take medicine, Their weapons seemed to be on our side, but their hearts and souls Were frozen by that word, rebellion, Like fish in a pond. But now the bishop Turns rebellion into religion: Seemingly sincere and holy in his thoughts, He’s followed by both body and mind; And he strengthens his cause with the blood Of King Richard, spilled on the stones of Pomfret; He claims his cause is divinely inspired; Tells them he stands on a bleeding land, Struggling for life under King Bolingbroke; And more and more people are flocking to follow him.
I knew of this before; but, to speak truth, This present grief had wiped it from my mind. Go in with me; and counsel every man The aptest way for safety and revenge: Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed: Never so few, and never yet more need.
I knew this before; but, to be honest, This current grief had pushed it from my mind. Come with me; and advise everyone On the best way to protect ourselves and get revenge: Get messengers and letters, and make allies quickly: Never have we needed so much with so few.