As our conditions fhall confift vpon,

Our peace shall stand as firme as rockie mountaines.
Moub. Yea but our valuation fhal be such,
That euery flight and falfe deriued cause,
Yea euery idle, nice, and wanton reafon,
Shall to the king taste of this action,
That were our royal faiths martires in loue,
We shall be winow'd with fo rough a wind,
That euen our corne shall feeme as light as chaffe,
And good from bad find no partition.

Bifh. No, no, my lord, note this, the king is weary

Of daintie and fuch picking greeuances,

For he hath found, to end one doubt by death,

Reuiues two greater in the heires of life:
And therefore will he wipe his tables cleane,
And keepe no tel-tale to his memorie,
That may repeate, and hiftory his loffe,
To new remembrance: for full wel he knowes,
He cannot fo precifely weed this land,
As his mifdoubts present occafion,
His foes are fo enrooted with his friends,
That plucking to vnfix an enemy,
He doth vnfaften fo, and shake a friend,
So that this land, like an offenfiue wife,
That hath enragde him on to offer strokes,
As he is ftriking, holdes his infant vp,
And hangs refolu'd correction in the arme,
That was vpreard to execution.

Haft. Befides, the king hath wafted al his rods,
On late offendors, that he now doth lacke

The very inftruments of chafticement,

So that his power, like to a phangleffe lion,
May offer, but not hold.

Bishop. Tis very true,

And therefore be affurde, my good lord marshall.

If we do now make our attonement well,

Our peace wil like a broken limbe vnited,

Grow ftronger for the breaking.

Mow. Be it fo, here is returnd my lord of Westmerland.

Enter Weftmerland.

Weft. The prince is here at hand, pleafeth your lordship To meet his grace iuft diftance tweene our armies.

Enter prince Iohn and his armie.

Mow. Your grace of York, in Gods name then fet forward. Bishop. Before, and greete his grace (my lord) we come. Ichn. You are well incountred here, my coufen Mowbray, Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop,

And fo to you lord Haflings, and to all.

My lord of Yorke, it better fhewed with you,
When that your flocke affembled by the bell,
Encircled you, to heare with reuerence,
Your expofition on the holy text,

That now to fee you here, an yron man talking,
Cheering a rowt of rebells with your drumme,
Turning the word to fword, and life to death.
That man that fits within a monarches heart,
And ripens in the fun-fhine of his fauor,
Would he abufe the countenance of the king:
Alacke what mifcheefes might he fet abroach,
In fhadow of fuch greatneffe? with your lord bishop
It is euen fo, who hath not heard it spoken,
How deepe you were within the bookes of God,
To vs the speaker in his parliament,

To vs th'imagine voice of God himfelfe,

The

The very opener and intelligencer,
Betweene the grace, the fanctities of heauen,
And our dull workings? O who fhal beleeue,
But you mifufe the rcuerence of your place,
Imply the countenance and grace of heau'n,
As a falfe fauorite doth his princes name:
In deedes difhonorable you haue tane vp,
Vnder the counterfeited zeale of God,
The fubiects of his fubftitute my father,
And both against the peace of heauen and him,
Haue here vpfwarmd them.

Bishop. Good my lord of Lancaster,

I am not here against your fathers peace,
But as I told my lord of Wefimerland,
The time mifordred doth in common fenfe,
Crowd vs and crush vs to this monftrous forme,
To hold our fafety vp: I fent your grace,

The parcells and particulars of our griefe,

The which hath becne with fcorne fhoued from the court,
Whereon this Hidra, fonne of warre is borne,
Whose dangerous eies may well be charmd asleepe,
With graunt of our moft iuft, and right defires,
And true obedience of this madnes cured,
Stoope tamely to the foote of maieftie.

Mow. If not, we ready are to trie our fortunes,
To the last man.

Haft. And though we here fal downe,
We haue fupplies to fecond our attempt,
If they miscarry, theirs fhal fecond them,
And fo fucceffe of mischiefe fhall be borne,
And heire from heire fhall hold his quarrell vp,

Whiles England shall haue generation.

Prince. You are too shallow Hastings, much too shallow,

To found the bottome of the after times.

Weft.

one it pleases me for a fault of a better to call my friend, I could be fad, and fad indeede too.

Poynes. Very hardly, vpon such a subiect.

Prince. By this hand, thou thinkest me as farre in the diuels booke, as thou and Falstaffe, for obduracie and perfiftancie, let the end trie the man, but I tel thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is fo fick, and keeping fuch vile company as thou arte, hath in reafon taken from me all oftentation of forrowe.

Poynes. The reason.

Prince. What wouldst thou thinke of me if I fhould weep? Poynes. I woulde thincke thee a moft princely hypocrite. Prince. It would bee euery mans thought, and thou arte a bleffed fellow, to thinke as euery man thinkes, neuer a mans thought in the world, keepes the rode way better then thine, euerie man would thinke me an hypocrite indeede, and what accites your most worshipfull thought to thinke fo?

Poynes. Why because you haue been fo lewd and fo much engraffed to Falstaffe.

Prince. And to thee.

Poynes. By this light I am well fpoke on, I can heare it with mine owne eares, the worst that they can fay of me is that I am a fecond brother, and that I am a proper fellow of my hands, and those two things I confefle I cannot helpe: by the maffe here comes Bardolfe.

Enter Bardolfe and boy.

Prince. And the boy that I gaue Falstaffe, a had him from me chriftian, and looke if the fat villaine haue not transformd

him ape.

Bard. God faue your grace.

Prince. And yours moft noble Bardolfe.

Poynes. Come you vertuous affe, you bafhfull foole, muft you be blushing, wherefore blufh you now? what a maidenly

man

man at armes are you become? ist such a matter to get a pottlepots maidenhead ?

Boy. A calls me enow my lord through a red lattice, and I could difcerne no part of his face from the window, at last I fpied his eies, and me thought he had made two holes in the ale wiues peticote and fo peept through.

Prince. Has not the boy profited?

Bard. A way you horfon vpright rabble, away.

Boy. Away you rafcally Altheas dreame, away.
Prince. Inftruct vs boy, what dreame boy?

Boy. Mary my lord, Althear dreampt fhe was deliuered of a firebrand, and therefore I call him her dreame.

Prince. A crownes worth of good interpretation there tis boy.

Poines. O that this bloffome could be kept from cankers! well, there is fixpence to preferue thee.

Bard. And you do not make him hangd among you, the gallowes fhall haue wrong.

Prince. And how doth thy mafter Bardolfe?

Bard. Well my lord, he heard of your graces comming to towne, theres a letter for you.

Poynes. Deliuerd with good refpect, and how doth the Martlemaffe your master ?

Bard. In bodily health fir.

Poynes. Mary the immortall part needes a phifitian, but that moues not him, though that be ficke, it dies not.

Prince. I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me, as my dogge, and he holds his place, for looke you how he writes.

Poynes. Iohn Falstaffe knight, euery man muft know that as oft as he has occafion to name himselfe: euen like thofe that are kin to the king for they neuer pricke their finger, but they faye, theres fome of the kings bloud fpilt: how comes that