Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss, Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain th' appearance of the King, Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight, Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, Under the conduct of young Lancaster And Westmoreland. This is the news at full. NORTHUMBERLAND. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well; And as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs, Weak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with grief, Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch! A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif! Thou art a guard too wanton for the head Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron; and approach The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland! Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage To feed contention in a ling'ring act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end And darkness be the burier of the dead! LORD BARDOLPH. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord. MORTON. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour. The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er To stormy passion, must perforce decay. You cast th' event of war, my noble lord, And summ'd the account of chance before you said 'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise That in the dole of blows your son might drop. You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge, More likely to fall in than to get o'er; You were advis'd his flesh was capable Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd; Yet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n, Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth More than that being which was like to be?