Fal. I would you would, master Shallow. Shal. Go to; I have spoke, at a word. Fare you well.

[Exeunt SHALLOW and SILENCE. Fal. Fare you well, gentle Gentlemen. On, Bardolph; lead the men away. [Exeunt BARDOLPH, Recruits, &c.] As I return, I will fetch off these justices: I do see the bottom of justice Shallow. Lord, lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying! This same starv'd justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about Turnbull-street; and every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's-inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when he was naked, he was, for all the world, like a fork'd radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: he was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were invisible : he was the very Genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores call'd him--mandrake he came ever in the rearward of the fashion; and sung those tunes to the over-scutch'd huswives that he heard the carmen whistle, and sware--they were his fancies, or his good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire; and talks as familiarly of John of Gaunt, as if he had been sworn brother' to him: and I'll be sworn he never saw him but once in the Tiltyard; and then he burst his head, for crowding among the marshal's men. I saw it; and told John of Gaunt, he beat his own name: for you night have truss'd him, and all his apparel, into an eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court; and now has he land

and beeves. Well; I will be acquainted with him, if I return and it shall go hard, but I will make him a philosopher's two stones to me: If the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason, in the law of nature, but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end.

ACT IV. SCENE I

A Forest in Yorkshire.

Enter the Archbishop of York, MOWERAY,
HASTINGS, and Others.

Arch. What is this forest call'd?

Hast. 'Tis Gualtree forest, an't shall please

your Grace.

Arch. Here stand, my Lords; and send dis-
covers 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 ge

neral,

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;

f

1

I say, if damu'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, 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
།: ས 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 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 doth run,
And are enforc'd from our most quiet sphere
By the rough torrent of occasion:

bud

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 brauch of it;
But to establish here a peace indeed,
Concurring both in name and quality.

West. When ever yet was your appeal de-
spy'd?

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 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;