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Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword,
And that the King before the Douglas' rage
Stooped his anointed head as low as death.
This have I rumored 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 Rumor’s tongues
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.
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villages from Shrewsbury to the place where I now stand: in front of the worm-eaten, dilapidated castle of Northumberland, Hotspur’s father, who lies within and pretends to be sick.
The messengers are coming hot and heavy, and every single one of them will report nothing but what he’s heard from me. Straight from Rumor, they bring pretty tales of false comfort, which are far worse than truthful news of misfortune.
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Exit |
RUMOR exits. |
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