Mowb.
There is a thing within my bosom tells me,
That no conditions of our peace can stand.

Hast.
Fear you not that: if we can make our peace,
Upon such large terms, and so absolute,
As our conditions shall insist upon,
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Mowb.
Ay, but our valuation shall be such,
That ev'ry slight and false-derived cause,
Yea, ev'ry idle, nice, and wanton reason,
Shall to the King taste of this action.

York.
No, no, my Lord, note this; the King is weary
Of dainty and such picking grievances:
His foes are so enrooted with his friends,

That plucking to unfix an enemy,
He doth unfasten so, and shake a friend.

Hast.
Besides, the King hath wasted all his rods
On late offenders, that he now doth lack
The very instruments of chastisement:
So that his pow'r, like to a fangless lion,
May offer, but not hold.

York.
'Tis very true:
And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal,
If we do now make our atonement well,
Our peace will, like a broken limb united,
Grow stronger for the breaking.

Mowb.
Be it so.
Here is return'd my Lord of Westmorland. Enter Westmorland.

West.
The Prince is here at hand: pleaseth your Lordship
To meet his Grace, just distance 'tween our armies? [Exeunt.

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