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 forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: he was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were invincible: he was the very genius of famine; he came ever in the rearward of the fashion; and sung those tunes to the over-scutched 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 tilt-yard; 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 might have trussed him, and all his apparel, into an eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court; and now hath 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.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.-A Forest in Yorkshire.

Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, MOWBRAY
HASTINGS, and others.

Archbishop.

HAT is this forest call'd?

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

Arch. Here stand, my lords, and

send discoverers 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 af

fairs,

I must acquaint you that I have received
New-dated letters from Northumberland;
Their cold intent, tenor, and substance,
thus:-
[powers
Here doth he wish his person, with such
As might hold sortance with his quality;
The which he could not levy; whereupon
He is retired, 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.

Hast.

Enter a Messenger.

Now, what news?

Mess. West of this forest, scarcely off a

mile,

In goodly form comes on the enemy: [number And, by the ground they hide, I judge their 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 re bellion

Came like itself, in base and abject routs, Led on by bloody youths, guarded with rags, And countenanced by boys and beggary;

I say,
if damm'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 [op,-
With your fair honors. You, lord archbish
Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd;
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath
touch'd;
[tutor'd;
Whose learning and good letters peace hath
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 boisterous tongue of war? Turning your books to greaves, 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 ques
tion stands.

Briefly to this end:-We are all diseased;
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 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 enforced 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 denied?

Wherein have you been galled by the king? What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you?