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Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free:
His valour, fhewn upon our crefts to-day,
Hath taught us how to cherish fuch high deeds,
Ev'n in the bofom of our adverfaries.

Lan. I thank your Grace for this high courtesy, Which I fhall give away immediately.

K. Henry. Then this remains; that we divide our Power.

You fon John, and my coufin Westmorland,

Tow'rds York fhall bend you, with your dearest speed,
To meet Northumberland and Prelate Scroop,
Who, as we hear, are bufily in arms,

Myfelf and You, fon Harry, will tow'rds Wales,
To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.
Rebellion in this Land fhall lofe his fway,
Meeting the check of fuch another day;
And fince this business so far fair is done,
Let us not leave, till all our own be won.

Exeunt.

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PROLOGUE.

Enter RUMOUR, painted full of Tongues.

PEN your ears: for which of you will ftop
The Venu of Hearing, when loud Rumour fpeaks?
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 I pronounce;
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
I fpeak of Peace, while covert enmity,
Under the smile of fafety, wounds the world:
And who but Rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful mufters and prepar'd defence,
Whilft the big year, fwoll'n with fome other griefs,
Is thought with child by the ftern tyrant War,
And no fuch matter? Rumour is a pipe
Blown by furmifes, jealoufies, conjectures;
And, of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monfter with uncounted heads,
The fill-difcordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it. But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize

Among my houfhold? Why is Rumour here?
I run before King Harry's victory;

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury

Hath beaten down young Hot-pur and his troops;
Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion
Ev'n with the rebels' blood.

But what mean I
To speak fo true at firft? my office is
To noife abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell
Under the wrath of noble Hot-fpur's fword;

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 ftone;
Where Hot-fpur's father, old Northumberland,
Lies crafty fick. The Pofts 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 fmooth comforts falfe, worse than true

wrongs.

[Exit.

Dra

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