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Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free:
His valour, shewn upon our crests to-day,
Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds,
Ev'n in the bosom of our adversaries.

Lan. I thank your Grace for this high courtesy,
Which I shall give away immediately.
K. Henry. Then this remains; that we divide our

Power.
You son John, and my coulin Westmorland,
Tow'rds York shall bend you, with your dearest speed,
To meet Northumberland and Prelate Scroop,
Who, as we hear, are busily in arms,
Myself and You, son Harry, will tow'rds Wales,
To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.
Rebellion in this Land shall lose his sway,
Meeting the check of such another day;
And since this business so far fair is done,
Let us not leave, till all our own be won. Exeunt.

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Ꮲ Ꭱ 0 Ꮮ 0 G U E. Enter Rumour, painted full of Tongues. PEN your ears: for which of

you

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 flanders ride, The which in every language 1 pronounce; Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. I speak of Peace, while covert enmity, Under the smile of fafety, wounds the world: And who but Rumour, who but only 1, Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence, Whilst the big year, swoll'n with some other griefs, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant War, And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjeâures ; And, of so easy and so plain a stop, That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The ftill-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my houshold? Why is Rumour here ? I run before King Harry's victory; Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury Hath beaten down young Hot-spur and his troops ; Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion Ev'n with the rebels' blood. But what mean I To speak so true at first? my office is To noise abroad, that Harry Moninouth fell Under the wrath of noble Hot-Spur's sword;

And

And that the King before the Dowglas' 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 Hot-spur's father, old Northumberland,
Lies crafty fick. The Posts come tiring on;
And not a man of them brings other news
Than they have learn'd of me. From Runour's tongues,
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true
wrongs.

[Exit.

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