York. A Room in the ARCHBISHOP'S Palace. |
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Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, LORD HASTINGS, MOWBRAY, and BARDOLPH. |
Arch. Thus have you heard our cause and known 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? |
Mowb. I well allow the occasion of our arms; |
But gladly would be better satisfied |
How in our means we should advance ourselves |
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. |
L. 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. |
L. 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 theme so bloody-fac'd as this, |
Conjecture, expectation, and surmise |
Of aids incertain should not be admitted. |
Arch. 'Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for, indeed |
It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury. |
L. 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 madmen, led 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. |
L. 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 the 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 outweighs ability, |
What do we then but draw anew the model |
In fewer offices, or at last 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 fortify 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 winter's tyranny. |
Hast. Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth, |
Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd |
The utmost man of expectation; |
I think we are a body strong enough, |
Even as we are, to equal with the king. |
L. 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. |
Arch. 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 heels: never fear that. |
L. Bard. Who is it like should lead his forces hither? |
Hast. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland; |
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth: |
But who is substituted 'gainst the French |
I have no certain notice. |
Arch. Let us on |
And publish the occasion of our arms. |
The commonwealth is sick of their own choice; |
Their over-greedy love hath surfeited. |
A habitation giddy and unsure |
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. |
O thou fond many! with what loud applause |
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke |
Before he was what thou wouldst have him be: |
And being now trimm'd in thine own desires, |
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him |
That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up. |
So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge |
Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard, |
And now thou wouldst 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 threw'st dust upon his goodly head, |
When through proud London he came sighing on |
After the admired heels of Bolingbroke, |
Cry'st now, 'O earth! yield us that king again, |
And take thou this!' O, thoughts of men accurst! |
Past and to come seem best; things present worst. |
Mowb. Shall we go draw our numbers and set on? |
Hast. We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone. [Exeunt. |
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