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Whose beard the filver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whofe learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The dove and very bleffed fpirit of peace ;-
Wherefore do you fo ill tranflate yourself
Into the harsh and boift'rous tongue of war?
Turning your books to fwords, your ink to blood,
Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet, and a point of war?

York. My Lord of Weftmoreland, we are
difeas'd,

And with our furfeiting and wanton hours
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,
And we must bleed for it: of this disease,
Richard, our lawful King, infected, died.
I do not, as an enemy to peace,

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,
But might by no fuit gain an audience..

When we are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs,

We

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We are denied admittance to his perfon

Ev'n by those men, who most have done us wrong.
West. When ever yet was your appeal denied,
That you should feal this lawless, bloody book
Of forg'd rebellion with a feal divine,

And confecrate commotion's bitter edge?

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And fuffer the oppreffion of thefe times
To lay a heavy and unequal hand
Upon our honors.

West. O my good Lord Haftings,
Conftrue the times to their neceffities,
And you shall say, it is indeed the time,
And not the King, that does you injuries.-
Here come I from our princely General

To know your griefs, and tell you from his Grace
That he will give you audience; and wherever
It shall appear that your demands are juft,
You shall enjoy them, ev'ry cause remov'd,
That might fo much as think you enemies.

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,

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Our men more perfect in the use of arms,
Our hearts undaunted in our Monarch's cause.
Call you not then our offers infincere.

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,
Which muft decide it.

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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
rods

On late offenders, and he now shall want
The very inftruments of chastisement,

So that his pow'r, ev'n like a fanglefs Lion,
May offer, but not hold.

York. Then be affur'd

If reconciliation fhall be made,

Our peace will, like a broken limb united,
Grow ftronger for the breaking.

Enter WESTMORLAND.

West. Here at hand

Is come the General. Please your Lordship
To meet the Prince, just distance 'twixt our ar-

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,
&c. on the other.

Lanc. My Lord of York, this ill befits your
Grace.

The man, that fits within a monarch's heart,
And ripens in the funshine of his favor,
Would he abuse the countenance of the King,
Alas, what mischief might he set on foot,
In fhadow of fuch greatnefs! With your Grace
It is ev'n fo. Who has not heard it faid

How deep you were within the facred volumes?
To us th' imagin'd voice of Heav'n itself. -
O mifufe the rev'rence of your place,
Employ the countenance and grace of Heav'n,
As a falfe fav'rite does his Prince's name,

you

In deeds difhonorable. You have raised,
Under the counterfeited zeal of God,
The fubjects of his substitute, your King,

And arm'd them 'gainst the peace of Heav'n

and him.

York.

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