York.
What is this forest call'd?

Hast.
'Tis Gaultree forest.

York.
Here stand, my lords, and send discoverers forth,
To know the numbers of our enemies.

Hast.
We have sent forth already.

York.
'Tis well done.
My friends and brethren in these great affairs,
I must acquaint you, that I have receiv'd
New-dated letters from Northumberland;
Their cold intent, tenour and substance thus:
Here doth he wish his person, with such Powers
As might hold sortance with his quality,
The which he could not levy; whereupon
He is retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes,
To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers,
That your attempts may over-live the hazard
And fearful meeting of their opposite.

Mowb.
Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground,
And dash themselves to pieces. Enter a Messenger.

Hast.
Now, what news?

Mess.
West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,
In goodly form comes on the enemy:

And by the ground they hide, I judge their number
Upon, or near, the rate of thirty thousand.

Mowb.
The just proportion that we gave them out.
Let us sway on, and face them in the field. Enter Westmorland.

York.
What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

Mowb.
I think, it is my lord of Westmorland.

West.
Health and fair Greeting from our General,
The Prince, lord John, and Duke of Lancaster.

York.
Say on, my lord of Westmorland, in peace:
What doth concern your coming?

West.
Then, my lord,
Unto your Grace do I in chief address
The substance of my speech. If that Rebellion
Came like it self, in base and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, goaded with rage,
And countenanc'd by boys and beggary;
I say, if damn'd Commotion so appear'd
In his true, native, and most proper shape,
You, reverend Father, and these noble lords,
Had not been here to dress the ugly form
Of base and bloody insurrection
With your fair honours. You, my lord Arch-bishop,
Whose See is by a civil peace maintain'd,
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The Dove and very blessed Spirit of Peace;
Wherefore do you so ill translate your self,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war?
Turning your books to Graves, your ink to blood,
Your pens to launces, and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

York.
Wherefore do I this? so the question stands,
Briefly, to this end: we are all diseas'd,
And with our surfeiting and wanton hours,
Have brought our selves into a burning feaver,

And we must bleed for it: of which disease
Our late King Richard being infected, dy'd.
But, my most noble lord of Westmorland,
I take not on me here as a physician:
Nor do I, as an enemy to peace,
Troop in the throngs of military men:
But rather shew a while like fearful war,
To diet rank minds, sick of happiness;
And purge th' obstructions, which begin to stop
Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.
I have in equal balance justly weigh'd
What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer;
And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
We see, which way the stream of time doth run,
And are inforc'd from our most Quiet there,
By the rough torrent of occasion;
And have the summary of all our griefs,
When time shall serve, to shew in articles;
Which long ere this we offer'd to the King,
And might by no suit gain our audience.
When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs,
We are deny'd access unto his person,
Ev'n by those men that most have done us wrong.
The danger of the days but newly gone,
(Whose memory is written on the earth
With yet-appearing blood) and the Examples
Of every minute's instance, present now,
Have put us in these ill-beseeming arms:
Not to break peace, or any branch of it;
But to establish here a peace, indeed,
Concurring both in name and quality.

West.
When ever yet was your appeal deny'd?
Wherein have you been galled by the King?
What Peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you,
That you should seal this lawless bloody book
Of forg'd Rebellion with a Seal divine,(27) ^note

And consecrate Commotion's Civil Page?

York.
My brother general, the Common-wealth,(28) ^note

To Brother born an household Cruelty,
I make my quarrel in particular.

West.
There is no need of any such redress;
Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

Mowb.
Why not to him in part, and to us all,
That feel the bruises of the days before;
And suffer the condition of these times
To lay an heavy and unequal hand
Upon our honours?

West.
O my good lord Mowbray,
Construe the times to their necessities,
And you shall say, indeed, it is the time,
And not the King, that doth you injuries.
Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
Or from the King, or in the present time,
That you should have an inch of any ground
To build a grief on. Were you not restor'd

To all the Duke of Norfolk's Seigniories,
Your noble and right-well-remember'd father's?

Mowb.
What thing, in honour, had my father lost,
That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me?
The King, that lov'd him, as the State stood then,
Was, force perforce, compell'd to banish him.
And then, when Harry Bolingbroke and he
Being mounted and both rowsed in their seats,
Their neighing Coursers daring of the spur,
Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,
Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,
And the loud trumpet blowing them together;
Then, then, when there was nothing could have staid
My father from the breast of Bolingbroke;
O, when the King did throw his warder down,
His own life hung upon the staff he threw;
Then threw he down himself, and all their lives,
That by indictment, or by dint of sword,
Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

West.
You speak, lord Mowbray, now, you know not what.
The Earl of Hereford was reputed then
In England the most valiant gentleman.
Who knows, on whom fortune would then have smil'd?
But if your father had been victor there,
He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry;
For all the country in a general voice:
Cry'd hate upon him; all their prayers and love
Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,
And bless'd, and grac'd, indeed, more than the King.(29) ^note

Here come I from our princely General,
To know your griefs; to tell you from his Grace,
That he will give you audience; and wherein
It shall appear that your demands are just,
You shall enjoy them; every thing set off,
That might so much as think you enemies.

Mowb.
But he hath forc'd us to compel this offer,
And it proceeds from policy, not love.

West.
Mowbray, you over-ween to take it so:
This offer comes from mercy, not from fear.
For, lo! within a ken, our army lyes;
Upon mine honour, all too confident
To give admittance to a thought of fear.
Our battel is more full of names than yours,
Our men more perfect in the use of arms,
Our armour all as strong, our cause the best;
Then reason wills, our hearts should be as good.
Say you not then, our offer is compell'd.

Mowb.
Well; by my will, we shall admit no parley.

West.
That argues but the shame of your offence:
A rotten case abides no handling.

Hast.
Hath the Prince John a full commission,
In very ample virtue of his father,
To hear and absolutely to determine
Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

West.
That is intended in the General's name:
I muse, you make so slight a question.

York.
Then take, my lord of Westmorland, this schedule,
For this contains our general grievances:
Each several article herein redress'd,
All members of our cause, both here and hence,
That are insinewed to this action,
Acquitted by a true substantial form;
And present executions of our wills,
To us, and to our purposes confin'd;
We come within our awful banks again,
And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

West.
This will I shew the General. Please you, lords,
In sight of both our battels, we may meet;(30) ^note


And either end in peace, (which heav'n so frame!)
Or to the place of difference call the swords
Which must decide it.

York.
My lord, we will do so. [Exit West.

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.
That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,
We shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind,
That ev'n our corn shall seem as light as chaff,
And good from bad find no partition.

York.
No, no, my lord, note this; the King is weary
Of dainty and such picking grievances:
For he hath found, to end one doubt by death,
Revives two greater in the heirs of life.
And therefore will he wipe his tables clean,
And keep no tell-tale to his memory,
That may repeat and history his loss
To new remembrance. For full well he knows,
He cannot so precisely weed this land,
As his misdoubts present occasion;
His foes are so enrooted with his friends,
That, plucking to unfix an enemy,
He doth unfasten so and shake a friend.

So that this Land, like an offensive wife,
That hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes,
As he is striking, holds his infant up,
And hangs resolv'd correction in the arm
That was uprear'd to execution.

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?

Mowb.
Your Grace of York in God's name then set forward.

York.
Before, and greet his Grace; my lord, we come. Enter Prince John of Lancaster.

Lan.
You're well encounter'd here, my cousin Mowbray;
Good day to you, my gentle lord Arch-bishop,
And so to you, lord Hastings, and to all.
My lord of York, it better shew'd with you,
When that your flock, assembled by the bell,
Encircled you, to hear with reverence
Your exposition on the holy text;
Than now to see you here an iron man,
Cheering a rout of Rebels with your drum,
Turning the word to sword, and life to death.

That man that sits within a monarch's heart,
And ripens in the sun-shine of his favour,
Would he abuse the count'nance of the King,
Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach,
In shadow of such Greatness? With you, lord Bishop,
It is ev'n so. Who hath not heard it spoken,
How deep you were within the books of heav'n?
To us, the Speaker in his Parliament:
To us, th'imagin'd voice of heav'n it self;
The very opener, and intelligencer
Between the grace, the sanctities of heav'n,
And our dull workings. O, who shall believe
But you misuse the rev'rence of your place,
Employ the countenance and grace of heav'n,
As a false favourite doth his Prince's name
In deeds dishon'rable? you've taken up,
Under the counterfeited zeal of God,
The Subjects of his substitute, my father;
And both against the peace of heav'n and him
Have here up-swarm'd them.

York.
Good my lord of Lancaster,
I am not here against your father's peace:
But, as I told my lord of Westmorland,
The time mis-order'd doth in common sense
Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form,
To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace
The parcels and particulars of our grief,
The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the Court:
Whereon this Hydra-son of war is born,
Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep
With Grant of our most just and right desire;
And true Obedience, of this madness cur'd,
Stoop tamely to the foot of Majesty.

Mowb.
If not, we ready are to try our fortunes
To the last man.

Hast.
And though we here fall down,
We have Supplies to second our attempt:
If they miscarry, theirs shall second them.
And so Success of mischief shall be born,

And heir from heir shall hold his quarrel up,
While England shall have generation.

Lan.
You are too shallow, Hastings, much too shallow,
To sound the bottom of the after-times.

West.
Pleaseth your Grace, to answer them directly,
How far-forth you do like their articles?

Lan.
I like them all, and do allow them well:
And swear here, by the honour of my blood,
My father's purposes have been mistook;
And Some about him have too lavishly
Wrested his meaning and authority.
My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redrest;
Upon my life, they shall. If this may please you,
Discharge your Pow'rs unto their several Counties,
As we will ours; and here, between the armies,
Let's drink together friendly, and embrace;
That all their eyes may bear those tokens home,
Of our restored love and amity.

York.
I take your princely word for these Redresses.

Lan.
I give it you; and will maintain my word;
And thereupon I drink unto your Grace.

Hast.
Go, captain, and deliver to the army
This news of peace; let them have pay, and part:
I know, it will well please them. Hie thee, captain. [Exit Colevile.

York.
To you, my noble lord of Westmorland.

West.
I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains
I have bestow'd, to breed this present peace,
You would drink freely; but my love to ye
Shall shew it self more openly hereafter.

York.
I do not doubt you.

West.
I am glad of it.
Health to my lord, and gentle cousin Mowbray.

Mowb.
You wish me health in very happy season,
For I am on the sudden something ill.

York.
Against ill chances men are ever merry,
But heaviness fore-runs the good event.

West.
Therefore be merry, Coz, since sudden sorrow
Serves to say thus; some good thing comes to morrow.

York.
Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.

Mowb.
So much the worse, if your own rule be true. [Shouts.

Lan.
The word of peace is render'd; hark! they shout.

Mowb.
This had been chearful after victory.

York.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest;
For then both parties nobly are subdu'd,
And neither party loser.

Lan.
Go, my lord,
And let our army be discharged too. [Exit West.
And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains
March by us, that we may peruse the men
We should have cop'd withal.

York.
Go, good lord Hastings:
And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by. [Exit Hastings.

Lan.
I trust, lords, we shall lye to night together. Re-enter Westmorland.
Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?

West.
The Leaders, having charge from you to stand,
Will not go off until they hear you speak.

Lan.
They know their duties. Re-enter Hastings.

Hast.
My lord, our army is dispers'd already:
Like youthful Steers unyoak'd, they took their course
East, west, north, south: or like a school broke up,
Each hurries towards his home and sporting-place.

West.
Good tidings, my lord Hastings; for the which
I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason:
And you, lord Arch-bishop, and you, lord Mowbray,
Of capital treason I attach you both.

Mowb.
Is this proceeding just and honourable?

West.
Is your assembly so?

York.
Will you thus break your faith?

Lan.
I pawn'd you none:
I promis'd you Redress of these same grievances,
Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,
I will perform with a most christian care.
But for you, Rebels, look to taste the due
Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours.
Most shallowly did you these arms commence,
Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.
Strike up our drums, pursue the scatter'd stray,
Heav'n, and not we, hath safely fought to day.
Some guard these traitors to the block of death,
Treason's true bed and yielder up of breath. [Exeunt. [Alarm. Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Colevile.

Fal.

What's your name, Sir? of what condition are you? and of what place, I pray?

Cole.

I am a Knight, Sir: and my name is Colevile of the dale.

Fal.

Well then, Colevile is your name, a Knight is your degree, and your place, the dale. Colevile shall still be your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough: so shall you still be Colevile of the dale.

Cole.

Are not you Sir John Falstaff?

Fal.

As good a man as he, Sir, who e'er I am: do ye yield, Sir, or shall I sweat for you? if I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death; therefore rowze up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.

Cole.

I think, you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me.

Fal.

I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name: an I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb undoes me. Here comes our General.

Enter Prince John of Lancaster, and Westmorland.

Lan.
The heat is past, follow no farther now,
Call in the Pow'rs, good cousin Westmorland. [Exit West.
Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When every thing is ended, then you come.
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,
One time or other break some Gallows' back.

Fal.

I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet, but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought? I speeded hither with the very extreamest inch of possibility. I have founder'd ninescore and odd posts: and here, travel-tainted as I am, have in my pure and immaculate valour taken Sir John Colevile of the dale, a most furious Knight and valorous enemy: but what of that? he saw me and yielded; that I may justly say with the hook-nos'd fellow of Rome there, Cæsar,—I came, saw, and overcame.

Lan.

It was more of his courtesie than your deserving.

Fal.

I know not; here he is, and here I yield him; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this day's deeds; or, by the lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top of it, Colevile kissing my foot: to the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all shew like gilt two-pences to me; and I, in the clear sky of fame, o'ershine you as much as the full Moon doth the cinders of the element, which shew like pins heads to her; believe not the word of the noble. Therefore let me have Right, and let desert mount.

Lan.

Thine's too heavy to mount.

Fal.

Let it shine then.

Lan.

Thine's too thick to shine.

Fal.

Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will.

Lan.

Is thy name Colevile?

Cole.

It is, my lord.

Lan.

A famous Rebel art thou, Colevile.

Fal.

And a famous true Subject took him.

Cole.
I am, my lord, but as my betters are,
That led me hither; had they been rul'd by me,
You should have won them dearer than you have.

Fal.

I know not how they sold themselves; but thou, like a kind fellow, gav'st thy self away gratis; and I thank thee for thee.

Lan.

Now, have you left pursuit?

West.
Retreat is made, and execution stay'd.

Lan.
Send Colevile then with his Confederates
To York, to present execution.
Blunt, lead him hence; and see, you guard him sure. [Ex. with Colevile.
And now dispatch we tow'rd the Court, my lords;
I hear, the King, my father, is sore sick:
Our news shall go before us to his Majesty,
Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him:
And we with sober speed will follow you.

Fal.

My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through Glo'stershire; and when you come to Court, 'pray, stand my good Lord in your good report.

Lan.
Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition,
Shall better speak of you than you deserve. [Exit.

Fal.

I would, you had but the wit; 'twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded Boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There's never any of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good Sherris-Sack hath a two-fold operation

in it; it ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish, dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which deliver'd o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent Sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale; which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardise; but the Sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards, to the parts extreme; it illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little Kingdom, Man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart; who great, and puft up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and this valour comes of Sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without Sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning a meer hoard of gold kept by a devil, till Sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it, that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril and bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertil Sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to Sack.

How now, Bardolph?

Bard.

The army is discharged all, and gone.

Fal.

Let them go; I'll through Glocestershire, and there will I visit master Robert Shallow, Esquire: I have him already tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away.

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