Mow. Ay, but our Valuation fhall be fuch,
That every flight, and falfe-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 fo rough a Wind,
That even our Corn fhall feem 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 füch 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 Lofs,

To new Remembrance. For full well he knows,
He cannot so precifely weed this Land,
As his mifdoubts prefent occafion;

His Foes are fo enrooted with his Friends,
That plucking to unfix an Enemy,

He doth unfaften fo, and shake a Friend.
So that this Land, like an offenfive Wife,
That hath enrag'd him on, to offer strokes,
As he is ftriking, holds his Infant up,
And hangs refolv'd Correction in the Arm,
That was uprear'd to Execution.

Haft. Befides, the King hath wafted all his Rods
On late Offenders, that he now doth lack

The very Inftruments of Chaftisement:

So that his Power, like to a Fangless Lion,
May offer, but not hold.

York. 'Tis

very true:

And therefore be affur'd, my good Lord Marshal,

If we do now make our Atonement well,

Our Peace will, like a broken Limb united,
Grow ftronger, for the breaking.

Mow. Be it fo.

Here is return'd my Lord of Westmorland.

Enter Weftmorland.

Weft. The Prince is here at hand: Pleafeth your Lordship

Το

To meet his Grace, just distance 'tween our Armies? Mow. Your Grace of York, in Heav'n's Name then for Ward.

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

Lan. You are well encountred here, my Coufin Mowbray
Good Day to you, gentle Lord Arch-Bishop,
And fo to you, Lord Haftings, and to all.
My Lord of York, it better fhew'd with you,
When that your Flock, affembled by the Bell,
Encircled you, to hear with reverence.
Your Expofition 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 fits within a Monarch's Heart,
And ripens in the Sun-fhine of his Favour,
Would he abuse the Countenance of the King,
Alack, what Mischiefs might he fet abroach,
In fhadow of fuch Greatness? With you, Lord Bishop,
It is even fo. 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, th' imagin'd Voice of Heav'n it felf;
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 falfe 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 Subftitute, my Father,
And both against the Peace of Heav'n, and him,
Have here up-fwarmed 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, mif-order'd, doth in common Senfe
Crowd us, and crush us, to this monftrous Form,

Το

To hold our fafety up. I fent your Grace

The Parcels and Particulars of our Grief,

The which hath been with Scorn fhov'd from the Court:

Whereon this Hydra-Son of War is born,

Whofe dangerous Eyes may well be charm'd asleep,
With grant of our moft just and right Defire;

And true Obedience, of this Madness cur'd,
Stoop tamely to the Foot of Majefty.

Mow. If not, we ready are to try our Fortunes
To the laft Man.

Haft. And though we here fall down,
We have Supplies to fecond our Attempt:
If they mifcarry, theirs fhall fecond them:
And fo, fuccefs of Mischief shall be born,
And Heir from Heir fhall hold this Quarrel up,
Whiles England fhall have Generation.

Lan. You are too fhallow, Haftings, much too fhallow, To found the bottom of the After-times.

Weft. Pleaseth your Grace, to anfwer them directly,
How far-forth you do like their Articles?

Lan. I like them all, and do allow them well:
And fwear here, by the Honour of my Blood,
My Father's Purpofes have been miftook,
And fome, about him, have too lavishly
Wrefted his Meaning and Authority.

My Lord, thefe Griefs fhall be with speed redreft;
Upon my Life, they fhall. If this may pleafe you,
Difcharge your Powers unto their feveral 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 Redreffes.
Lan. I give it you, and will maintain my word;
And thereupon I drink unto your Grace.

Haft. 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.
Weft. 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 fhew it felf more openly hereafter.

York. I do not doubt

Weft. I am glad of it.

you.

Health to my Lord, and gentle Coufin Mowbray.
Mow. You wish me Health in very happy Season,
For I am on the fudden fomething ill.

York. Against ill Chances Men are ever merry,
But Heavinefs fore-runs the good Event.

Weft. Therefore be merry Coz, fince fudden Sorrow Serves to fay thus; fome good thing comes to Morrow. York. Believe me, I am paffing 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

fhout.

Mow. This had been chearful after Victory.

York. A Peace is of the Nature of a Conqueft; For then both Parties nobly are fubdu'd,

And neither Party Lofer.

Lan. Go, my Lord,

And let our Army be difcharged too.

[Exit Weft,

And, good my Lord, fo pleafe you, let our Trains

March by us, that we may peruse the Men

We fhould have cop'd withal.

York. Go, good Lord Haftings:

And ere they be difmifs'd, let them march by. [Ex. Haft,

Lan. I trust, Lords, we fhall to Night lye together.
Enter Weftmorland.

Now Coufin, wherefore ftands our Army ftill?
Haft. The Leaders, having Charge from you to ftand,
Will not go off until they hear you speak,

Lan. They know their Duties.

Enter Haftings.

Haft. Our Army is difpers'd:

Like Youthful Steers unyoak'd, they took their Courfe Eaft, Weft, North, South: Or like a School broke up,

Each

Each hurries towards his Home, and sporting Place.
Weft Good Tidings, my Lord Haftings, for the which
I do arreft thee, Traitor, of high Treafon:

And you Lord Arch-bishop, and you Lord Mowbray,
Of Capital Treafon, I attach you both.

Mow. Is this Proceeding just and honourable ?
Weft. Is your Affembly fo?

York. Will you thus break your Faith?

Lan. I pawn'd you none:

I promis'd you Redress of these fame Grievances
Whereof you did complain; which by mine Honour,
I will perform, with a moft Christian Care.
But for you, Rebels, look to tafte the Due
Meet for Rebellion, and such Acts as yours.
Moft fhallowly did you these Arms commence,
Fondly brought here, and foolishly fent hence.
Strike up our Drums, pursue the scatter'd ftray,
Heav'n, and not we, have fafely fought to Day.
Some guard thefe Traitors to the Block of Death,
Treafons true Bed, and Yielder up of Breath.

[Execunt

Enter Falftaff and Colevile. Fal. What's your Name, Sir? Of what Condition are you? And of what Place, I pray?

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 fhall still be your Name, a Traitor your Degree, and the Dungeon your Place, a place deep enough: So fhall you ftill 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 fhall I fweat for you? If I do fweat, they are the drops of thy Lovers, and they weep for thy Death, therefore rowze up Fear and Trembling, and do obser vance 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