Whose beard the filver hand of peace hath touch'd, York. My Lord of Weftmoreland, we are And with our furfeiting and wanton hours Flame in the van of military hofts. I have in equal balance juftly weigh'd What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we fuffer, And find our injuries outweigh the danger Excited by our arms: thus are we drawn, By the rough torrent of occafion, From the still stream of peace. We have the fum Of all our griefs to fhew in articles; Which, long ere this, we offer'd to the King, When we are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs, We We are denied admittance to his perfon Ev'n by those men, who most have done us wrong. And confecrate commotion's bitter edge? And fuffer the oppreffion of thefe times West. O my good Lord Haftings, To know your griefs, and tell you from his Grace Mow. This offer comes from policy, not love. West. This offer comes from mercy, not from fear. The royal army is 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, Mow. Well, by my will we fhall admit no parley. West. That argues but the fhame of your offence. 'Tis a bad caufe, that will not bear difcuffion. York. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule: For it contains our general grievances. Each article, here specified, redress'd; Our friends, and all the members of our caufe, Acquitted by a true substantial form ; We flow within our loyal banks again, And knit our powers to the arm of peace. West. This will I fhew the General. Pleafe you, Lords, In fight of both our armies let us meet; And either end in peace,--which Heav'n may frame! Or to the place of diff'rence call the swords, Mow. There is a fomething in my bofom tells me, That no conditions of our peace can stand. Hast. Fear you not that: if we can make our peace Upon fuch lib'ral terms, fo abfolute As our conditions shall infift upon, 1 Qur peace will ftand as firm as rocky moun➡ tains. Mor. Befides, the King has wafted all his On late offenders, and he now shall want So that his pow'r, ev'n like a fanglefs Lion, York. Then be affur'd If reconciliation fhall be made, Our peace will, like a broken limb united, Enter WESTMORLAND. West. Here at hand Is come the General. Please your Lordship mies? (Exeunt. I a SCENE 1 1 SCENE II. A Forest in Yorkshire. (Trumpets, in parley.) Enter YORK, MOWBRAY, HASTINGS, MORTON, &c. on one side. PRINCE JOHN, WESTMORELAND, Gower, Lanc. My Lord of York, this ill befits your The man, that fits within a monarch's heart, How deep you were within the facred volumes? you In deeds difhonorable. You have raised, And arm'd them 'gainst the peace of Heav'n and him. York. |