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York. Wherefore do I this? fo the question ftands.
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, dy'd.
But, my most noble lord of Westmorland,
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 fhew a while like fearful war,
To diet rank minds, fick of happiness ;
And purge th' obftructions, which begin to ftop
Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.
I have in equal balance juftly weigh'd

What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we fuffer;
And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
We fee, which way the ftream of time doth run,
And are inforc'd from our moft quiet Sphere,
By the rough torrent of occafion;

And have the fummary of all our griefs,
When time fball ferve, to fhew in articles;
Which long ere this we offer'd to the King,
And might by no fuit gain our audience.
When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs,
We are deny'd accefs unto his perfon,
Ev'n by thofe men that most have done us wrong.
The danger of the days but newly gone,
(Whose memory is written on the earth
With yet-appearing blood) and the Examples
Of every minute's inftance, present now,
Have put us in these ill-befeeming arms:
Not to break peace, or any branch of it;
But to establish here a peace, indeed,
Concurring both in name and quality.

Weft. When ever yet was your appeal deny'd? Wherein have you been galled by the King? What Peer hath been fuborn'd to grate on you,

That

That you should feal this lawless bloody book
Of forg'd Rebellion with a Seal divine,
And confecrate Commotion's Civil Edge?
York. My brother general, the Common-wealth,
To Brother born an household Cruelty,
I make my quarrel in particular.

Weft. There is no need of any fuch 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 fuffer the condition of these times
To lay an heavy and unequal hand
Upon our honours?

Weft. O my good-lord Mowbray,
Conflrue the times to their neceffities,
And you shall fay, indeed, it is the time,
And not the King, that doth you injuries.
Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
Or 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 reftor'd
To all the Duke of Norfolk's Seigniories,

Your noble and right-well-remember'd father's?

Mowb. What thing, in honour, had my father loft, That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me? The King, that lov'd him, as the State ftood then, Was, force-per-force, compell'd to banish him. And then, when Harry Bolingbroke and he Being mounted and both roused in their feats, Their neighing Courfers daring of the fpur, Their armed ftaves in charge, their beavers down, Their eyes of fire sparkling through fights of fteel, And the loud trumpet blowing them together; Then, then, when there was nothing could have staid My father from the breaft 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

That by indictment, or by dint of fword,

Have fince mifcarried under Bolingbroke.

Weft. You fpeak, lord Mowbray, now, you know

not what.

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

In England the moft valiant gentleman.

Who knows, on whom fortune would then have fmil'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
Cry'd hate upon him; all their prayers and love
Were fet on Hereford, whom they doted on,
And blefs'd, and grac'd, indeed, more than the King.
But this is mere digreffion 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 fhall appear that your demands are just,
You fhall enjoy them; every thing fet off,
That might fo much as think you enemies.
Mowb. But he hath forc'd us to compel this offer,
And it proceeds from policy, not love.

Weft. Mowbray, you over-ween 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 ftrong, our cause the best;
Then reason wills, our hearts fhould be as good.
Say you not then, our offer is compell'd.

Mowb. Well; by my will, we shall admit no parley. Weft. That argues but the fhame of your offence: A rotten cafe abides no handling.

In

Haft. Hath the Prince John a full commiffion, very ample virtue of his father,

Το

To hear and abfolutely to determine
Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

Weft. That is intended in the General's name: I muse, you make so flight a question.

York. Then take, my lord of Westmorland, this schedule,

For this contains our general grievances :

Each feveral article herein redrefs'd,

All members of our caufe, both here and hence,
That are infinewed to this action,
Acquitted by a true fubftantial form;
And prefent executions of our wills
To us, and to our properties, confin'd;
We come within our lawful banks again,
And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

Weft. This will I fhew the General. Please you,lords,
In fight of both our battles, we may meet;
And either end in peace, (which heav'n fo frame!)
Or to the place of difference call the fwords,
Which muft decide it.

York. My lord, we will do so.

Mowb.

SCENE

III.

[Exit Weft.

HERE is a thing within my bofom tells

THERE

me,

That no conditions of our peace can stand.

Haft. Fear you not that: if we can make our peace Upon fuch large terms and fo abfolute,

As our conditions shall insist upon,

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
Mowb. Ay, but our valuation shall be such,
That ev'ry flight and false-derived cause,
Yea, ev'ry 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 fo rough a wind,
That ev'n our corn fhall feem as light as chaff,
And good from bad find no partition.

York.

York. No, no, my lord, note this; the King is weary
Of dainty and fuch 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 fo precifely weed this land,
As his mifdoubts prefent occafion;
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 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 chastisement:

So that his pow'r, 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.

Mowb. Be it fo.

Here is return'd my lord of Weftmorland.

Enter Weftmorland.

Weft. The Prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship

To meet his Grace, just distance 'tween our armies ?

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*wipe his tables clean,] Alluding to a Table-book of Slate, Ivory,

Mowb.

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