King Henry IV, Part 2. Уильям Шекспир

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        RUMOUR. Open your ears; for which of you will stop

          The vent of hearing when loud 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 slanders ride,

          The which in every language I pronounce,

          Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

          I speak of peace while covert emnity,

          Under the smile of safety, wounds the world;

          And who but Rumour, who but only I,

          Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence,

          Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief,

          Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,

          And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe

          Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,

          And of so easy and so plain a stop

          That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,

          The still-discordant wav'ring multitude,

          Can play upon it. But what need I thus

          My well-known body to anatomize

          Among my household? Why is Rumour here?

          I run before King Harry's victory,

          Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury,

          Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,

          Quenching the flame of bold rebellion

          Even with the rebels' blood. But what mean I

          To speak so true at first? My office is

          To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell

          Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword,

          And that the King before the Douglas' 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 Hotspur's father, old Northumberland,

          Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on,

          And not a man of them brings other news

          Than they have learnt of me. From Rumour's tongues

          They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

      LORD BARDOLPH. Who keeps the gate here, ho?

      The PORTER opens the gate

          Where is the Earl?

        PORTER. What shall I say you are?

        LORD BARDOLPH. Tell thou the Earl

          That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

        PORTER. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard.

          Please it your honour knock but at the gate,

          And he himself will answer.

        LORD BARDOLPH. Here comes the Earl. Exit PORTER

        NORTHUMBERLAND. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now

          Should be the father of some stratagem.

          The times are wild; contention, like a horse

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