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 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 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.
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;
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, 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,
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

the king is weary.

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.

'T is very true:

Arch.
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.

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.

SCENE II.

Another Part of the Forest.

[Exeunt.

Enter, from one side, MOWBRAY, the Archbishop, HASTINGS, and Others: from the other side, Prince JOHN of LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, Officers and Attendants.

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,
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, 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,