Mayor.
Oh, my good Lords, and virtuous Henry,
Pity the city of London, pity us,
The Bishop and the Duke of Glo'ster's men,
Forbidden late to carry any weapon,
Have fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones,
And, banding themselves in contrary parts,
Do pelt so fast at one another's pates,
That many have their giddy brains knock'd out;
Our windows are broke down in ev'ry street,
And we for fear compell'd to shut our shops.

Enter men in Skirmish with bloody pates.

K. Henry.
We charge you on allegiance to ourselves,
To hold your slaught'ring hands, and keep the peace.
—Pray, uncle Glo'ster, mitigate this strife.

1 Serv.

Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we'll fall to it with our teeth.

2 Serv.
Do what ye dare, we are as resolute. [Skirmish again.

Glou.
You of my houshold, leave this peevish broil;
And set this * ^noteunaccustom'd fight aside.

3 Serv.
My Lord, we know your Grace to be a man
Just and upright, and for your royal birth
Inferior to none but to his Majesty;
And ere that we will suffer such a Prince,
So kind a father of the Common-weal,
^{4 note}To be disgraced by an Inkhorn mate,
We, and our wives, and children, all will fight:
And have our bodies slaughter'd by thy foes.

1 Serv.
Ay, and the very parings of our nails
Shall pitch a field, when we are dead. [Begin again.

Glou.
Stay, stay, I say;
And if you love me, as you say you do,
Let me persuade you to forbear awhile.

K. Henry.
O, how this discord doth afflict my soul!
Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold
My sighs and tears, and will not once relent?
Who should be pitiful, if you be not?
Or who should study to prefer a peace,
If holy churchmen take delight in broils?

War.
My Lord Protector, yield, yield, Winchester,
Except you mean with obstinate repulse
To slay your Sovereign, and destroy the Realm.
You see, what mischief, and what murder too,

Hath been enacted thro' your enmity,
Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood.

Win.
He shall submit, or I will never yield.

Glou.
Compassion on the King commands me stoop,
Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest
Should ever get that privilege of me.

War.
Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the Duke
Hath banish'd moody discontented fury,
As by his smoothed brows it doth appear.
Why look you still so stern and tragical?

Glou.
Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

K. Henry.
Fy, uncle Beaufort; I have heard you preach,
That malice was a great and grievous sin,
And will not you maintain the thing you teach,
But prove a chief offender in the same?

War.
Sweet King! the Bishop hath a kindly gird?
—For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent;
What, shall a child instruct you what to do?

Win.
Well, Duke of Glo'ster, I will yield to thee;
Love for thy love, and hand for hand, I give.

Glou.
Ay, but I fear me, with a hollow heart.
See here, my friends and loving countrymen,
This token serveth for a flag of truce
Betwixt ourselves, and all our followers.
So help me God, as I dissemble not!

Win. [Aside.]
So help me God, as I intend it not!

K. Henry.
O loving uncle, gentle Duke of Glo'ster,
How joyful am I made by this contract!
—Away, my masters, trouble us no more;
But join in friendship as your Lords have done.

1 Serv.
Content. I'll to the Surgeon's.

2 Serv.
So will I.

3 Serv.
And I'll see what physick the tavern affords. [Exeunt.

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