Henry IV, Pt. 2
Act I, Prologue
May 13, 2019 MikoRumor is, or is derived from, the Roman goddess Fama, whose name is often translated to English as "Rumor". Fama spread gossip and news, truth and lies mixed together. She was often the messenger of military news, accurate or not. She was said to have many eyes, ears, and tongues. May 12, 2019 MikoThis is a literal direction: Rumor should have pictures of tongues on his/her clothes.
Rumor1 - 40
- Open your ears; for which of you will stop
- The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?
- I, from the orient to the drooping west
- (Making the wind my post-horse), still unfold
- The acts commenced on this ball of earth.
- Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,
- The which in every language I pronounce,
- Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
- I speak of peace, while covert enmity
- Under the smile of safety wounds the world;
- And who but Rumor, who but only I,
Aug 1, 2020 MikoMustering, also called pressing, was the practice of capturing random men off the streets and in gathering places and forcing them to serve in the army. In 1599 over 9,000 men in England had been mustered. Aug 1, 2020 Mikoorganized militia
- Whiles the big year, swoll’n with some other grief,
- Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
- And no such matter? Rumor is a pipe
- Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,
- And of so easy and so plain a stop
- That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
- The still-discordant wav’ring multitude,
- Can play upon it. But what need I thus
- My well-known body to anatomize
- Among my household? Why is Rumor here?
- I run before King Harry’s victory,
- Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury
- Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,
- Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
- Even with the rebels’ blood. But what mean I
- To speak so true at first? My office is
- To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell
- Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword,
- And that the King before the Douglas’ rage
- Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death.
- This have I rumor’d 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.
- Exit Rumor.