A Forest in Yorkshire. |
|
Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, MOWBRAY, HASTINGS, and Others. |
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 |
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. |
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. |
|
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, |
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 rags, |
And countenanc'd by boys and beggary; |
I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd, |
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 greaves, your ink to blood, |
Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine |
To a loud trumpet and a point of war? |
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 |
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 the 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 both run |
And are enforc'd from our most quiet sphere |
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 everyet 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? |
Arch. My brother general, the common-wealth, |
To brother born an household cruelty, |
I make my quarrel in particular. |
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, |
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 signories, |
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 that 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 sparking 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 consign'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 WESTMORELAND. |
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. Yea, 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 be 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. |
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. |
Design © 1995-2007 ZeFLIP.com All rights reserved.