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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 rage,
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 boist'rous tongue of war?
Turning your books to graves 70, 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 awhile 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 doth 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 ever yet was your appeal denyd?
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. 7' My brother general, the commonwealth,
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, compellid to banish him:
And then, when 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 sparkling through sights of steel,
And the loud trumpet blowing them together;
Then, then, when there was nothing could have staid
My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,
0, 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, Cry'd hate upon him; and all their prayers, and

love,
Were set on Hereford, whom they doated 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

that
your

demands are just, You shall enjoy them; every thing set off, That might so much as think you enemies.

Mowl. 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,

It shall appear

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