Shall to the King taste of this action.

That were our royal faiths martyrs in love,
We fhall 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. No, no, my Lord; note this: the King is Of dainty and fuch picking grievances:

[weary 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 hiftory his lofs

To new remembrance. For full well he knows,
He cannot fo precifely weed this land,
As his mildoubts prefent occafion;
His foes are fo enrooted with his friends,
That, plucking to unfix an enemy,
He doth unfasten fo and fhake a friend.
So that this land, like an offenfive wife,
That hath enrage'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 reds On late offenders, that he now doth lack

The very inftruments of chaftifment:

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 Westmorland.

Enter Weftmorland.

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

To meet his Grace, just distance 'tween our armies? Mob. Your Grace of York in God's name then fet

forward.

Tork.

York. Before, and greet his Grace; my Lord, we

come.

SCENE IV. Enter Prince John of Lancafter.

Lan. You're well encounter'd here, my cousin MowGood day to you, my gentle Lord Archbishop, [bray; 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 fee you here an iron man,
Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,
Turning the word to fword, and life to death.
That man that fits within a monarch's heart,
And ripens in the funthine of his favour,
Would he abuse the count'nance of the King,
Alack, what mifchiefs might he fet abroach,
In fhadow of fuch greatnels? With you, Lord Bishop,
It is ev'n fo. Who hath not heard it spoken,
How deep you were within the books of heav'n?
To us, the fpeaker in his parliament:

To us, th' imagin'd voice of heav'n itself;

The

But

very opener and intelligencer

Between the grace, the fanctities of heav'n,
And our dull workings. O, who fhall believe
you mifuse the rev'rence of
your place,
Employ the countenance and grace of Heav'n,
As a falfe favourite doth his prince's name
In deeds difhonourable? you've taken up,
Under the counterfeited zeal of God,
The fubjects of his fubftitute, my father;
And both against the peace of heav'n and him
Have here up-fwarm'd them.

York. Good my Lord of Lancaster,

I am not here againft your father's peace;
But, as I told my Lord of Westmorland,
The time mif-order'd doth in common fence
Croud us, and crufh us to this monstrous form,
To hold our fafety up. I fent your Grace
The parcels and particulars of our grief,

The which hath been with fcorn fhov'd from the court:

Whereon

Whereon this Hydra-fon of war is born,

Whofe dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep
With grant of our most juft and right defire ;
And true obedience, of this madnefs cur'd
Stoop tamely to the foot of Majesty.

Mowb. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes To the laft man.

Haft. And though we here fall down,
We have fupplies to fecond our attempt:
If they mifcarry, theirs fhall fecond them.
And fo fuccefs * of mischief fhall be born,
And heir from heir fhall hold his quarrel up,
While England fhall have generation.

Lan. You are too fhallow, Haftings, much too shalTo found the bottom of the after-times.

[low, Weft. Pleaseth your Grace, to answer 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 purposes have been mistook;
And fome about him have too lavishly
Wrefted his meaning and authority.

My Lord, thefe griefs fhall be with speed redrefs'd;
Upon my life, they fhall. If this may please you,
Discharge your pow'rs unto their feveral counties,
As we will ours; and here, between the årmies,
Let's drink together friendly, and embrace;
That all their eyes may bear thofe tokens home,
Of our restored love and amity.

York. I take your princely word for thefe redresses. 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 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 I have beftow'd, to breed this prefent peace, [pains You would drink freely; but my love to ye,

Shall thew itself more openly hereafter.

* Success, for fucceffion.

2

York,

York. I do not doubt you.

Weft. I am glad of it.

Health to my Lord, and gentle coufin Mowbray. Mowb. 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 heaviness fore-runs the good event.

Weft. Therefore be merry, coz, fince fudden forrów Serves to fay this, Some good thing comes to-morrow. York. Believe me, I am paffing light in fpirit. Mowb. So much the worfe, if your own rule be true. [Shouts. Lan. The word of peace is render'd; hark! they Mowb. This had been chearful after victory. [fhout, 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 discharged too.

[Exit Weft.

And, good my Lord, so please you, let our trains
March by us, that we may perule the men

We fhould have cop'd withal.

Tork. Go, good Lord Haftings;

And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by.

[Exit Haftings.

Lan. I trüft, Lords, we fhall lie to-night together.

SCENE V. Re-enter Weftmorland.

Now, coufin, wherefore ftands our army ftill?
Weft. The leaders, having charge from you to ftand,
Will not go off until they hear you speak.
Lan. They know their duties.

Re-enter Haftings.

Haft. My Lord, our army is difpers'd already: Like youthful fteers unyok'd, they took their courfe Eaft, west, north, fouth; or, like a school broke up, Each hurries towards his home and fporting-place. Weft. Good tidings, my Lord Haitings; for the I do arreft thee, traitor, of high treason : [which And you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray, Of capital creafon I attach you both. VOL. IV.

E e

Mob.

Mob. Is this proceeding juft 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 Chriftian care.
But for you, rebels, look to taste the due
Meet for rebellion and fuch acts as yours.
Moft fhallowly did you these arms commence,
Fondly brought here, and foolishly fent hence.
Strike up our drums, purfue the scatter'd stray;
Heav'n, and not we, hath fafely fought to-day.
Some guard thefe traitors to the block of death,
Treafon's true bed and yielder up of breath. [Exeunt.
[Alarm. Excurfions.

SCENE VI. Enter Falstaff 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 ftill be your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough: fo fhall you ftill be Colevile of the dale.

Cole. Are not you Sir John Falstaff?

Fal. As good a man as he, Sir, whoe'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 roufe up fear and trembling, and do obfervance to my mercy.

Cole. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me.

Fal. I have a whole fchool of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all fpeaks any other word but my name: an' I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were fimply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb undoes me. Here comes our General.

Enter