Arch.
What is this forest call'd?

Hast.
'Tis Gaultree forest, an't shall please your grace.

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

Hast.
We have sent forth already.

Arch.
'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 11Q0630
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 overlive the hazard,
And fearful meeting of their opposite^{2 note}.

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. 11Q0631 Enter Westmoreland.

Arch.
What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

Mowb.
I think it is my lord of Westmoreland.

West.
Health and fair greeting from our general,
The prince, lord John and duke of Lancaster.

Arch.
Say on, my lord of Westmoreland, in peace,
What doth concern your coming?

West.
Then, my lord^{3 note},

Unto your grace do I in chief address
The substance of my speech. If that rebellion
Came like itself, in base and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rage,
And countenanc'd by boys, and beggary; 11Q0632
I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd^{4 note},
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 yourself,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war?
Turning your books to graves^{5 note}, your ink to blood,
Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet, and a point of war? 11Q0634

Arch.
Wherefore do I this? — so the question stands:
Briefly to this end.—We are all diseas'd;
And, with our surfeiting, and wanton hours^{6 note},
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,
And we must bleed for it: of which disease
Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.
But, my most noble lord of Westmoreland,
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, show 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 enforc'd from our most quiet there^{7 note}
By the rough torrent of occasion;
And have the summary of all our griefs,
When time shall serve, to show 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 denied access unto his person,
Even by those men that most have done us wrong.
The dangers 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 denied?
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,
[And consecrate commotion's bitter edge^{8 note}?]

Arch.
My brother general, the commonwealth,
[To brother born an household cruelty,]
I make my quarrel in particular^{9 note}.

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 a heavy and unequal hand
Upon our honours?

West.
O! my good lord Mowbray^{1 note},
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 signiories,
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^{2 note} Harry Bolingbroke, and he,
Being mounted, and both roused 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 stay'd
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, and 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,
Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers, and love,
Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,
And bless'd, and grac'd, indeed, more than the king^{3 note}.
But this is mere 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.

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

West.
Mowbray, you overween, to take it so.
This offer comes from mercy, not from fear;
For, lo! within a ken our army lies,

Upon mine honour, all too confident
To give admittance to a thought of fear.
Our battle 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.

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.

Arch.
Then take, my lord of Westmoreland, 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 insinew'd to this action,
Acquitted by a true substantial form;
And present execution of our wills
To us, and to our purposes, confin'd^{4 note};
We come within our awful banks again,
And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

West.
This will I show the general. Please you, lords,
In sight of both our battles we may meet:
And either end in peace^{5 note}, which God so frame,

Or to the place of difference call the swords
Which must decide it.

Arch.
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 consist upon,
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Mowb.
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 winnow'd with so rough a wind,
That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff,
And good from bad find no partition.

Arch.
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. 11Q0636

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.

Arch.
'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 Westmoreland. Re-enter Westmoreland.

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.

Arch.
Before, and greet his grace, my lord: we come. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Another Part of the Forest. Enter, from one side, Mowbray, the Archbishop, Hastings, and Others: from the other side, Prince John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Officers and Attendants.

P. John.
You are well encounter'd here, my cousin Mowbray.—
Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop;
And so to you, lord Hastings,—and to all.—
My lord of York, it better show'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^{6 note},
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 sunshine 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 God?
To us, the speaker in his parliament;
To us, th' imagin'd voice of God himself;
The very opener and intelligencer,
Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven,
And our dull workings: O! who shall believe,
But you misuse the reverence of your place,
Employ the countenance and grace of heaven,
As a false favourite doth his prince's name,
In deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,
Under the counterfeited zeal of God,
The subjects of his substitute, 11Q0637 my father;
And, both against the peace of heaven and him,
Have here up-swarm'd them.

Arch.
Good my lord of Lancaster,
I am not here against your father's peace;
But, as I told my lord of Westmoreland,
The time misorder'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 desires,
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 this quarrel up,
Whiles England shall have generation.

P. John.
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.

P. John.
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 redress'd;
Upon my soul, 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.

Arch.
I take your princely word for these redresses.

P. John.
I give it you, and will maintain my word:
And thereupon I drink unto your grace.

Hast.
Go, captain, [To an Officer] 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 Officer.

Arch.
To you, my noble lord of Westmoreland.

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 you
Shall show itself more openly hereafter.

Arch.
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.

Arch.
Against ill chances men are ever merry,
But heaviness foreruns the good event.

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

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

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

P. John.
The word of peace is render'd. Hark, how they shout!

Mowb.
This had been cheerful, after victory.

Arch.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest,
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party loser.

P. John.
Go, my lord,
And let our army be discharged too.— [Exit Westmoreland.
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.

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

P. John.
I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.— Re-enter Westmoreland.
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.

P. John.
They know their duties. Re-enter Hastings.

Hast.
My lord, our army is dispers'd already^{7 note}.
Like youthful steers unyok'd, they take their courses
East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke up,
Each hurries toward 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 archbishop,—and you, lord Mowbray;
Of capital treason I attach you both.

Mowb.
Is this proceeding just and honourable?

West.
Is your assembly so?

Arch.
Will you thus break your faith?

P. John.
I pawn'd thee 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^{8 note}.
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, hath safely fought to-day.—
Some guard these traitors to the block of death;
Treason's true bed, and yielder up of breath. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. Another Part of the Forest. Alarums: Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Colevile, meeting.

Fal.

What's your name, sir? of what condition are you; and of what place, I pray^{9 note}?

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 be still Colevile of the dale. 11Q0638

Cole.

Are not you sir John Falstaff?

Fal.

As good a man as he, sir, whoe'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, rouse 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.