Direct reading · Original
Section 39
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Mor.
I am sorry, I should force you to beleeue
That, which I would to heauen, I had not seene.
But these mine eyes, saw him in bloody state,
Rendering faint quittance (wearied, and out‑breath'd).
To Henrie Monmouth, whose swift wrath beate downe
The neuer‑daunted Percie to the earth,
From whence (with life) he never more sprung up.
In few; his death (whose spirit lent a fire,
Even to the dullest Peazant in his Campe)
Being bruited once, tooke fire and heate away
From the best temper'd Courage in his Troopes.
For from his Mettle, was his Party steel'd;
Which once, in him abated, all the rest
Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy Lead:
And as the Thing, that's heauy in it selfe,