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. |
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