York.
What is the Forest call'd?

Hast.
'Tis Gualtree Forest, and't please your Grace.

York.
Stand here, my Lords, and send discoveries forth,
To know the number of our Enemies.

Hast.
We have sent 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, tenure and substance thus.
How 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.

Mow.
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.

Mow.
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?

Mow.
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, guarded with Rage,
And countenanc'd by Boys and Beggary:
I say, if damn'd Commotion so appear
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, Lord Archbishop,
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 lowd 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 Ballance 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 e'er 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,
Even by those Men that most have done us wrong.
The dangers of the Day's but newly gone,
Whose Memory is written on the Earth
With yet appearing Blood; and the Examples
Of every minutes instance, present now,
Hath 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?

York.
My Brother General, the Commonwealth
I make my Quarrel in particular.

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

Mow.
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,
Either 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 Seignories,
Your noble and right well remembred Father's?

Mow.
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 forc'd, perforce compell'd to banish him:
And when, that Henry Bullingbroke 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 Bullingbroke;
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, and by dint of Sword,
Have since miscarried under Bullingbroke.

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 born it out of Coventry.
For all the Country, in a general Voice,
Cry'd hate upon him; and all their Prayers, and Love,
Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,
And bless'd, and grac'd, more than the King himself.
But this is meer digression from my Purpose.
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.

Mow.
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 will, our Hearts should be as good.
Say you not then our Offer is compell'd.

Mow.
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
At either end in Peace; which Heav'n so frame,
Or to the place of difference call the Swords,
Which must needs decide it.

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

Mow.
There is a thing within my Bosom tells me,
That no Condition of our Peace can stand.

Host.
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.

Mow.
Ay, but our Valuation shall be such,
That every slight, and false-derived Cause,
Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton Reason,
Shall to the King taste of this Action;
That were our Royal Faiths, Martyrs in Love,
We shall be winnowed with so rough a Wind,
That even 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 Power, 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.

Mow.
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?

Mow.

Your Grace of York, in Heav'n's Name then forward.

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

Lan.
You are well encountred here, my Cousin Mowbray;
Good Day to you, 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 Countenance of the King,
Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach,
In shadow of such greatness? With you, Lord Bishop,
It is even 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, the imagine 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 reverence of your Place,
Employ the Countenance and Grace of Heav'n,
As a false Favourite doth his Prince's Name,
In Deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,
Under the counterfeited Zeal of Heav'n,
The Subjects of Heav'n's Substitute, my Father,
And both against the Peace of Heav'n, and him,
Have here up-swarmed 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.

Mow.
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 this Quarrel up,
Whiles 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 Powers 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.

Mow.
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.

Mow.
So much the worse, if your own Rule be true.

Lan.

The word of Peace is render'd; hark how they shout.

Mow.
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.

Bish.
Go, good Lord Hastings:
And e'er they be dismiss'd, let them march by. [Exit Host.

Lan.
I trust, Lords, we shall to night lye together. 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. Enter Hastings.

Hast.
Our Army is dispers'd:
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.

Mow.
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,
Heaven, and not we, have safely fought to Day.
Some guard these Traitors to the Block of Death,
Treasons true Bed, and yielder up of Breath. [Exeunt. Enter Falstaffe and Colevile.

Fal.

What's your Name, Sir? Of what Consideration are you? And of what place, I pray?

Col.
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: And 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.