L. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. Mor. I'm 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, Rendering faint quittance, wearied and outbreathed, To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down The never-daunted Percy to the earth, From whence with life he never more sprung up. Turned on themselves, like dull and heavy lead : Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear. Then was that noble Wor cester Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot, Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all Is, that the king hath won, and hath sent out And Westmoreland. This is the news at full. -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-weakened 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, Weakened with grief, being now enraged with grief, Are thrice themselves. nice crutch! Hence, therefore, thou 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 Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set Tra. This strainéd passion doth you wrong, my lord. L. Bard. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour. Mor. 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 summed 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 walked 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? L. Bard. We all that are engagéd to this loss, Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas, That, if we wrought out life, 't was ten to one; And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed Choked the respect of likely peril feared,-And, since we are o'erset, venture again. Come, we will all put forth, body and goods. Mor. 'Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord, I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, The action of their bodies from their souls, Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts, 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. North. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth, This present grief had wiped it from my mind. The aptest way for safety and revenge : Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed: Never so few, nor never yet more need. [Exeunt. |