The Second Part of Henry the Fourth, Containing his Death: and the Coronation of King Henry the Fift.
Actus Primus. Scæna Prima.
Indvction.
Enter Rumour.
Pen your Eares: For which of you will stopThe vent of Hearing, when loud Rumor speakes?I, from the Orient, to the drooping West(Making the winde my Post-horse) still vnfoldThe Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth.Vpon my Tongue, continuall Slanders ride,The which, in euery Language, I pronounce,Stuffing the Eares of them with false Reports:I speake of Peace, while couert Enmitie(Vnder the smile of Safety) wounds the World:And who but Rumour, who but onely IMake fearfull Musters, and prepar'd Defence,Whil'st the bigge yeare, swolne with some other griefes,Is thought with childe, by the sterne Tyrant, Warre,And no such matter? Rumour, is a PipeBlowne by Surmises, Ielousies, Coniectures;And of so easie, and so plaine a stop,That the blunt Monster, with vncounted heads,The still discordant, wauering Multitude,Can play vpon it. But what neede I thusMy well-knowne Body to AnathomizeAmong my houshold? Why is Rumour heere?I run before King Harries victory,Who in a bloodie field by ShrewsburieHath beaten downe yong Hotspurre, and his Troopes,Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion,Euen with the Rebels blood. But what meane ITo speake so true at first? My Office isTo noyse abroad, that Harry Monmouth fellVnder the Wrath of Noble Hotspurres Sword:And that the King, before the Dowglas RageStoop'd his Annointed head, as low as death.This haue I rumour'd through the peasant-Townes,Betweene the Royall Field of Shrewsburie,And this Worme-eaten-Hole of ragged Stone,Where Hotspurres Father, old Northumberland,Lyes crafty sicke. The Postes come tyring on,And not a man of them brings other newesThen they haue learn'd of Me. From Rumours Tongues,They bring smooth-Comforts-false, worse then True-wrongs. Exit.
Pen your Eares: For which of you will stopThe vent of Hearing, when loud Rumor speakes?I, from the Orient, to the drooping West(Making the winde my Post-horse) still vnfoldThe Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth.Vpon my Tongue, continuall Slanders ride,The which, in euery Language, I pronounce,Stuffing the Eares of them with false Reports:I speake of Peace, while couert Enmitie(Vnder the smile of Safety) wounds the World:And who but Rumour, who but onely IMake fearfull Musters, and prepar'd Defence,Whil'st the bigge yeare, swolne with some other griefes,Is thought with childe, by the sterne Tyrant, Warre,And no such matter? Rumour, is a PipeBlowne by Surmises, Ielousies, Coniectures;And of so easie, and so plaine a stop,That the blunt Monster, with vncounted heads,The still discordant, wauering Multitude,Can play vpon it. But what neede I thusMy well-knowne Body to AnathomizeAmong my houshold? Why is Rumour heere?I run before King Harries victory,Who in a bloodie field by ShrewsburieHath beaten downe yong Hotspurre, and his Troopes,Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion,Euen with the Rebels blood. But what meane ITo speake so true at first? My Office isTo noyse abroad, that Harry Monmouth fellVnder the Wrath of Noble Hotspurres Sword:And that the King, before the Dowglas RageStoop'd his Annointed head, as low as death.This haue I rumour'd through the peasant-Townes,Betweene the Royall Field of Shrewsburie,And this Worme-eaten-Hole of ragged Stone,Where Hotspurres Father, old Northumberland,Lyes crafty sicke. The Postes come tyring on,And not a man of them brings other newesThen they haue learn'd of Me. From Rumours Tongues,They bring smooth-Comforts-false, worse then True-wrongs. Exit. 
Pen your Eares: For which of you will stopThe vent of Hearing, when loud Rumor speakes?I, from the Orient, to the drooping West(Making the winde my Post-horse) still vnfoldThe Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth.Vpon my Tongue, continuall Slanders ride,The which, in euery Language, I pronounce,Stuffing the Eares of them with false Reports:I speake of Peace, while couert Enmitie(Vnder the smile of Safety) wounds the World:And who but Rumour, who but onely IMake fearfull Musters, and prepar'd Defence,Whil'st the bigge yeare, swolne with some other griefes,Is thought with childe, by the sterne Tyrant, Warre,And no such matter? Rumour, is a PipeBlowne by Surmises, Ielousies, Coniectures;And of so easie, and so plaine a stop,That the blunt Monster, with vncounted heads,The still discordant, wauering Multitude,Can play vpon it. But what neede I thusMy well-knowne Body to AnathomizeAmong my houshold? Why is Rumour heere?I run before King Harries victory,Who in a bloodie field by ShrewsburieHath beaten downe yong Hotspurre, and his Troopes,Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion,Euen with the Rebels blood. But what meane ITo speake so true at first? My Office isTo noyse abroad, that Harry Monmouth fellVnder the Wrath of Noble Hotspurres Sword:And that the King, before the Dowglas RageStoop'd his Annointed head, as low as death.This haue I rumour'd through the peasant-Townes,Betweene the Royall Field of Shrewsburie,And this Worme-eaten-Hole of ragged Stone,Where Hotspurres Father, old Northumberland,Lyes crafty sicke. The Postes come tyring on,And not a man of them brings other newesThen they haue learn'd of Me. From Rumours Tongues,They bring smooth-Comforts-false, worse then True-wrongs. Exit.