King Henry IV, Part 2. Уильям Шекспир

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        NORTHUMBERLAND. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent

          On Tuesday last to listen after news.

        LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I over-rode him on the way;

          And he is furnish'd with no certainties

          More than he haply may retail from me.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?

        TRAVERS. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back

          With joyful tidings; and, being better hors'd,

          Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard

          A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,

          That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse.

          He ask'd the way to Chester; and of him

          I did demand what news from Shrewsbury.

          He told me that rebellion had bad luck,

          And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold.

          With that he gave his able horse the head

          And, bending forward, struck his armed heels

          Against the panting sides of his poor jade

          Up to the rowel-head; and starting so,

          He seem'd in running to devour the way,

          Staying no longer question.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. Ha! Again:

          Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold?

          Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion

          Had met ill luck?

        LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I'll tell you what:

          If my young lord your son have not the day,

          Upon mine honour, for a silken point

          I'll give my barony. Never talk of it.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers

          Give then such instances of loss?

        LORD BARDOLPH. Who – he?

          He was some hilding fellow that had stol'n

          The horse he rode on and, upon my life,

          Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,

          Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.

          So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood

          Hath left a witness'd usurpation.

          Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?

        MORTON. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;

          Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask

          To fright our party.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. How doth my son and brother?

          Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek

          Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.

          Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

          So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,

          Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night

          And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;

          But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,

          And I my Percy's death ere thou report'st it.

          This thou wouldst say: 'Your son did thus and thus;

          Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas' —

          Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds;

          But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,

          Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,

          Ending with 'Brother, son, and all, are dead.'

        MORTON. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;

          But for my lord your son —

        NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, he is dead.

          See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!

          He that but fears the thing he would not know

          Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes

          That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton;

          Tell thou an earl his divination lies,

          And I will take it as a sweet disgrace

          And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

        MORTON. You are too great to be by me gainsaid;

          Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead.

          I see a strange confession in thine eye;

          Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it fear or sin

          To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:

          The tongue offends not that reports his death;

          And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,

          Not he which says the dead is not alive.

          Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news

          Hath but a losing office, and his tongue

          Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,

          Rememb'red tolling a departing friend.

        LORD BARDOLPH. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.

        MORTON. I am sorry I should force you to believe

          That which I would to God I had not seen;

          But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,

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