Shallow. How fubject we old men are to this Vice of lying this fame ftarv'd Juftice hath done nothing but prated to me of the wildnefs of his youth, and the feats he hath done about Turnbal-ftreet; and every third word a lie, more duly paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made after fupper of a cheese-paring. When he was naked, he was for all the world like a forked radish, with a head fantaftically carv'd upon it with a knife. He was fo forlorn, that his dimenfions to any thick fight were invincible. He was the very Genius of famine, yet leacherous as a Monkey, and the whores call'd him Mandrake: he came ever in the rere-ward of the fashion; and sung those tunes to the over-fcutcht hufwives that he heard the carmen whistle, and fware 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 fworn brother to him: and I'll be fworn, he never faw him but once in the Tiltyard, and then he broke his head for crowding among the Marthal's men. I faw it, and told John of Gaunt he beat his own name; for you might have trufs'd him and all his apparel into an Eel-skin: the case of a treble hoboy was a Manfion for him, a Court; and now hath he land and beeves. Well, I will be acquainted with him, if I return; and it fhall go hard but I will make him a philofopher's two ftones to me. If the young Dace be a bait for the old Pike, I fee no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time fhape, and there's an end. [Exeunt.

ACT

SCENE I.

ACT IV.

Changes to a Foreft in Yorkshire.

Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Haflings, and Colevile.

York. Here stand, my lords, and send discoverers forth,

To know the numbers of our enemies.

Haft. We have fent forth already.
York. '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 fubftance thus:
Here doth he wifh his perfon, with fuch Powers
As might hold fortance 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 over live 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 Meffenger.

Haft. Now, what news?

Melf. Weft of this foreft, fcarcely 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.

Mowb. The juft proportion that we gave them out. Let us way on, and face them in the field.

York. WHAT well-appointed leader fronts us

Mowb. I thing, it is my lord Westmorland. Weft. Health and fair Greeting from our General, The Prince, Lord John, and Duke of Lancaster. York. Say on, my lord of Westmorland, in peace: What doth concern your coming?

West. Then, my lord,

Unto your Grace do I in chief address

The substance of my fpeech. If that Rebellion
Came like itself, in bafe and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, goaded with rage,
And countenanc'd by boys and beggary;
I fay, if damn'd Commotion fo appear'd
In his true, native, and most proper shape,
You, reverend Father, and thefe noble lords,
Had not been here to dress the ugly form
Of bafe and bloody infurrection

With your fair honours. You, my lord Archbishop,
Whofe See is by a civil peace maintain'd,

Whofe beard the filver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The Dove and every blessed Spirit of Peace;
Wherefore do you fo ill tranflate yourself,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears fuch grace.
Into the harsh and boift'rous tongue of war?

* Turning your books to glaves, your ink to blood, Your pens to launces, your tongue divine

To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

*Turning your books to Graves] We should certainly read, Glaves, i. c. Swords.

York.

York. Wherefore do I this? fo the question ftands.
Briefly, to this end: we are all difeas'd,
And with our furfeiting and wanton hours,
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,
And we muft bleed for it: of which disease
Our late King Richard being infected, dy'd.
But, my moft noble lord of Westmorland,
I take not on me here as a phyfician:
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 fhall 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 access unto his person,
Ev'n by those men that moft have done us wrong.
The danger of the days but newly gone,
(Whofe 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 fhould 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 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 bruifes 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,
Conftrue the times to their neceffities,
And you fhall 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 fhould have an inch of any ground
To build a grief on. Were you not restor'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 roufed in their feats, Their neighing Courfers daring of the fpur, Their armed ftaves in charge, their beavers down, Their eyes of fire fparkling 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 ftaff he threw; Then threw he down himself, and all their lives,

That