York.
Thus have you heard our Causes, and know our Means:
And my most noble Friends, I pray you all
Speak plainly your Opinions of our Hopes,
And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?

Mow.
I well allow the occasion of our Arms,
But gladly would be better satisfied,
How, in our Means, we should advance our selves,
To look with Forehead bold and big enough,
Upon the Power and Puissance of the King?

Hast.
Our present Musters grow upon the File
To five and twenty thousand Men of choice:
And our Supplies live largely in the hope
Of great Northumberland, whose Bosom burns
With an incensed Fire of Injuries.

Bard.
The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus,
Whether our present five and twenty thousand
May hold up Head without Northumberland?

Hast.
With him we may.

Bard.
Ay marry, there's the point:
But if without him we be thought too feeble,
My Judgment is, we should not step too far
'Till we had his Assistance by the Hand.
For in a Theam so bloody fac'd as this,
Conjecture, Expectation, and Surmise
Of Aids uncertain, should not be admitted.

York.
'Tis true, Lord Bardolph, for indeed
It was young Hot-spur's case at Shrewsbury.

Bard.
It was, my Lord, who lin'd himself with hope,
Eating the Air, on promise of Supply,
Flattering himself with Project of a Power,
Much smaller than the smallest of his Thoughts,
And so with great Imagination,
Proper to mad Men, lead his Powers to Death,
And, winking, leap'd into Destruction.

Hast.
But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt,
To lay down likelihoods, and forms of hope.

Bard.
Yes, if this present quality of War,
Indeed the instant Action, a Cause on foot,
Lives so in hope, as in an early Spring
We see th' appearing Buds, which to prove Fruit,
Hope gives not so much warrant, as Despair
That Frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,
We first survey the Plot, then draw the Model,
And when we see the figure of the House,
Then must we rate the Cost of the Erection,
Which if we find out-weighs Ability,
What do we then, but draw a-new the Model
In fewer Offices; or at least, desist
To build at all? Much more, in this great work,
Which is, almost, to pluck a Kingdom down,
And set another up, should we survey
The Plot of Situation, and the Model,
Consent upon a sure Foundation,
Question Surveyors, know our own Estate,
How able such a Work to undergo,
To weigh against his Opposite? or else,
We fortifie in Paper, and in Figures,
Using the Names of Men, instead of Men:
Like one that draws the Model of a House
Beyond his Power to build it; who, half through,
Gives o'er, and leaves his part-created Cost
A naked subject to the weeping Clouds,
And waste, for churlish Winters tyranny.

Hast.
Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,
Should be still-born; and that we now possest
The utmost Man of Expectation:
I think we are a Body strong enough,
Even as we are, to equal with the King.

Bard.
What, is the King but five and twenty thousand?

Hast.
To us no more; nay not so much, Lord Bardolph.
For his Divisions, as the Times do brawl,
Are in three Heads; one Power against the French,
And one against Glendower; perforce a third
Must take up us: So is the unfirm King
In three divided; and his Coffers sound
With hollow Poverty, and Emptiness.

York.
That he should draw his several strengths together,
And come against us in full Puissance,
Need not be dreaded.

Hast.
If he should do so,
He leaves his Back unarm'd, the French, and Welsh
Baying him at the Heel; never fear that.

Bard.
Who is it like should lead his Forces hither?

Hast.
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmorland:
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth.
But who is substituted 'gainst the French,
I have no certain notice.

York.
Let us on:
And publish the Occasion of our Arms.
The Commonwealth is sick of their own choice,
Their over-greedy Love hath surfeited,
An Habitation giddy and unsure
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar Heart.
O thou fond Many! with what loud Applause
Did'st thou beat Heav'n with blessing Bullingbroke,
Before he was, what thou would'st have him be?
And being now trim'd up in thine own desires,
Thou, beastly Feeder, art so full of him,
That thou provok'st thy self to cast him up.
So, so, thou common Dog, didst thou disgorge
Thy glutton-bosom of the Royal Richard,
And now thou would'st eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these Times?
They, that when Richard liv'd, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd on his Grave.
Thou that threwst Dust upon his goodly Head,
When through proud London he came sighing on,
After th'admired Heels of Bullingbroke,

Cry'st now, O Earth yield us that King again,
And take thou this. O thoughts of Men accurs'd,
Past, and to come, seems best; things present, worst.

Mow.
Shall we go draw our Numbers, and set on?

Hast.
We are Time's Subjects, and Time bids, be gone.

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