L.Bar. Heere comes the Earle
Nor. What newes Lord Bardolfe? Eu'ry minute now
Should be the Father of some Stratagem;
The Times are wilde: Contention (like a Horse
Full of high Feeding) madly hath broke loose,
And beares downe all before him
L.Bar. Noble Earle,
I bring you certaine newes from Shrewsbury
Nor. Good, and heauen will
L.Bar. As good as heart can wish:
The King is almost wounded to the death:
And in the Fortune of my Lord your Sonne,
Prince Harrie slaine out-right: and both the Blunts
Kill'd by the hand of Dowglas. Yong Prince Iohn,
And Westmerland, and Stafford, fled the Field.
And Harrie Monmouth's Brawne (the Hulke Sir Iohn)
Is prisoner to your Sonne. O, such a Day,
(So fought, so follow'd, and so fairely wonne)
Came not, till now, to dignifie the Times
Since Cæsars Fortunes
Nor. How is this deriu'd?
Saw you the Field? Came you from Shrewsbury?
L.Bar. I spake with one (my L[ord].) that came fro[m] thence,
A Gentleman well bred, and of good name,
That freely render'd me these newes for true
Nor. Heere comes my Seruant Trauers, whom I sent
On Tuesday last, to listen after Newes.
Enter Trauers.
L.Bar. My Lord, I ouer-rod him on the way,
And he is furnish'd with no certainties,
More then he (haply) may retaile from me
Nor. Now Trauers, what good tidings comes fro[m] you?
Tra. My Lord, Sir Iohn Vmfreuill turn'd me backe
With ioyfull tydings; and (being better hors'd)
Out-rod me. After him, came spurring head
A Gentleman (almost fore-spent with speed)
That stopp'd by me, to breath his bloodied horse.
He ask'd the way to Chester: And of him
I did demand what Newes from Shrewsbury:
He told me, that Rebellion had ill lucke,
And that yong Harry Percies Spurre was cold.
With that he gaue his able Horse the head,
And bending forwards strooke his able heeles
Against the panting sides of his poore Iade
Vp to the Rowell head, and starting so,
He seem'd in running, to deuoure the way,
Staying no longer question
North. Ha? Againe:
Said he yong Harrie Percyes Spurre was cold?
(Of Hot-Spurre, cold-Spurre?) that Rebellion,
Had met ill lucke?
L.Bar. My Lord: Ile tell you what,
If my yong Lord your Sonne, haue not the day,
Vpon mine Honor, for a silken point
Ile giue my Barony. Neuer talke of it