Upon our honours?

WESTMORLAND 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, 105

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 restored

To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories,

Your noble and right well-remembered father’s? 110

MOWBRAY

What thing in honour had my father lost

That need to be revived and breathed in me?

The King that loved him, as the state stood then,

Was force perforce compelled to banish him;

And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he, 115

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 stayed

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke—

O, 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 125

That by indictment and by dint of sword

Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

WESTMORLAND

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

smiled?

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

Cried hate upon him, and all their prayers and love

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

And blessed and graced, 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

It shall appear that your demands are just,

You shall enjoy them, everything set off

That might so much as think you enemies.

MOWBRAY

But he hath forced us to compel this offer,

And it proceeds from policy, not love.

WESTMORLAND

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,

Our armour all as strong, our cause the best.

Then reason will our hearts should be as good.

Say you not then our offer is compelled.

MOWBRAY

Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.

WESTMORLAND

That argues but the shame of your offence.

A rotten case abides no handling.

HASTINGS

Hath the Prince John a full commission,

In very ample virtue of his father,

To hear and absolutely to determine

Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

WESTMORLAND

That is intended in the general’s name.

I muse you make so slight a question.

ARCHBISHOP OF YORK

Then take, my lord of Westmorland, this schedule;

For this contains our general grievances.

Each several article herein redressed,

All members of our cause, both here and hence,

That are ensinewed to this action

Acquitted by a true substantial form,

And present execution of our wills

To us and to our purposes consigned,

We come within our awe-full banks again,

And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

WESTMORLAND (taking the schedule)

This will I show the general. Please you, lords,

In sight of both our battles we may meet,

And either end in peace—which God so frame—

Or to the place of diff’rence call the swords

Which must decide it.

ARCHBISHOP OF YORK My lord, we will do so. 180

Exit Westmorland

MOWBRAY

There is a thing within my bosom tells me

That no conditions of our peace can stand.

HASTINGS

Fear you not that. If we can make our peace

Upon such large terms and so absolute

As our conditions shall consist upon,

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

MOWBRAY

Yea, but our valuation shall be such

That every slight and false-derivèd cause,

Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason,

Shall to the King taste of this action,

That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,

We shall be winnowed with so rough a wind

That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff,

And good from bad find no partition.

ARCHBISHOP OF YORK

No, no, my lord; note this. The King is weary

Of dainty and such picking grievances,

For he hath found to end one doubt by death

Revives two greater in the heirs of life;