to him: and I'll be fworn, he never faw him but once in the Tilt-yard, and then he broke his head for crouding among the Marshal's men. I saw it, and told John of Gaunt he beat his own name; for you might have trufs'd him and all his apparel into an Eel-skin : the cafe of a treble hoboy was a Manfion for him, a Court; and now hath he land and beeves. Well, I will be acquainted with him, if I return; and it fhall go hard but I will make him a 3 philofopher's two stones to me. If the young Dace be a bait for the old Pike, I fee no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time fhape, and there's an end, [Exeunt.

A CT IV.

SCENE I

Changes to a Foreft in Yorkshire.

Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray,
Haftings, and Colevile,

WH

YORK:

HAT is this foreft call'd?
Haft. 'Tis Gaultree foreft.

York. Here ftand, my lords, and fend difco
verers forth,

To know the numbers of our enemies.

Haft. We have fent forth already.
York. 'Tis well done.

My friends and brethren in thefe great affairs,
I must acquaint you, that I have receiv'd
New-dated letters from Northumberland;
Their cold intent, tenour and fubftance thus:
Here doth he wish his perfon, with fuch Powers

3 Philofopher's two fones] One of which was an univerfal medicine, and the other a tranfmuter of bafer metals into gold.

A$

As might hold fortance with his quality,
The which he could not levy; whereupon
He is retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes,
To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers,
That your attempts may over-live the hazard
And fearful meeting of their oppofite.

Mowb. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground,

And dash themselves to pieces.

Enter a Messenger.

Haft. Now, what news?

Mell. Weft of this foreft, fcarcely off a mile, In goodly form comes on the enemy:

And by the ground they hide, I judge their number Upon, or near, the rate of thirty thousand.

Mowb. The juft proportion that we gave them out. Let us way on, and face them in the field.

York. What well-appointed leader fronts us here? Mowb. I think, it is my lord of Westmorland. Weft. Health and fair Greeting from our General, The Prince, Lord John, and Duke of Lancaster. York. Say on, my lord of Westmorland, in peace; What doth concern your coming?

Weft. Then, my lord,

Unto your Grace do I in chief addrefs

The fubftance of my fpeech.

If that Rebellion

Came like it felf, in bafe and abject routs,

2

* Led on by bloody youth, goaded with rage,

1 Let us fway on,

march on.

2 Led on by bloody youth,beady youth.

-] We fhould read way on. i. e.

] I believe Shakespear wrote,

And

And countenanc'd by boys and beggary;
I fay, if damn'd Commotion fo appear'd
In his true, native, and moft proper fhape,
You, reverend Father, and thefe noble lords,
Had not been here to drefs the ugly form
Of bafe and bloody infurrection

With your fair honours. You, my lord Arch-bishop,
Whofe See is by a civil peace maintain'd,

Whose beard the filver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor❜d,
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The Dove and every bleffed Spirit of Peace;
Wherefore do you fo ill tranflate your felf,
Out of the fpeech of peace, that bears fuch grace.
Into the harsh and boift'rous tongue of war?

3 Turning your books to glaves, your ink to blood,
Your pens to launces, and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

5

York. Wherefore do I this? fo the question ftands. Briefly, to this end: we are all diseas'd, And with our furfeiting and wanton hours, Have brought our felves into a burning fever, And we must bleed for it: of which disease Our late King Richard being infected, dy'd. But, my most noble lord of Westmorland, I take not on me here as a phyfician: Nor do I, as an enemy to peace, Troop in the throngs of military men: But rather fhew a while like fearful war, To diet rank minds, fick of happiness; And purge th' obstructions, which begin to ftop

3 Turning your books to GRAVES] We fhould certainly read, GLAVES, i. e. fwords.

4 your tongue divine] i. e. Preaching in the meekness of the gospel.

5 Wherefore do Ithis?] Moft of this fpeech inferted fince the fir edition.

Mr. Pope.

Our

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 fee, which way the ftream of time doth run,
And are inforc'd from our moft quiet Sphere,
By the rough torrent of occafion;

And have the fummary of all our griefs,
When time shall serve, to fhew in articles;
Which long ere this we offer'd to the King,
And might by no fuit gain our audience.
When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs,
We are deny'd access unto his perfon,
Ev'n by thofe men that most have done us wrong.
The danger of the days but newly gone,
(Whose memory is written on the earth
With yet-appearing blood) and the Examples
Of every minute's inftance, prefent now,
Have put us in thefe ill-befeeming arms:
Not to break peace, or any branch of it;
But to establish here a peace, indeed,
Concurring both in name and quality.

Weft. When ever yet was your appeal deny'd?
Wherein have you been galled by the King?
What Peer hath been fuborn'd to grate on you,
That you should feal this lawless bloody book
Of forg'd Rebellion with a Seal divine,
? And confecrate Commotion's Civil Edge?

York.

6 And are inforc'd from our most quiet THERE,] This is faid in answer to Westmorland's upbraiding the Archbishop for engaging in a course which fo ill became his profeffion,

You my lord Archbishop

Whofe See is by a civil peace maintain'd, &c.

So that the reply must be this,

And are inforc'd from our most quiet SPHERE. 7 And confecrate Commotion's Civil Edge ?] read. But Mr. Theobald changes edge to page, the uniformity (as he calls it) of the metaphor. underland what was meant by edge. It was an

So the old books out of regard to But he did not old cuftom, con

8

York. My brother general, the Common-wealth, To Brother born an household Cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular.

Weft. There is no need of any fuch redrefs;
Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

Mowb. Why not to him in part, and to us all,
That feel the bruifes of the days before;
And fuffer the condition of these times
To lay an heavy and unequal hand
Upon our honours?

9

Weft, O my good lord Mowbray,
Conftrue the times to their neceffities,
And you fhall fay, indeed, it is the time,
And not the King, that doth you injuries.
Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
Or from the King, or in the prefent time,
That you fhould have an inch of any ground
To build a grief on. Were you not reftor'd

tinued from the time of the first croifades, for the pope to confecrate
the general's fword, which was employ'd in the fervice of the
church. To this cuftom the line in queftion alludes. As to the cant of
uniformity of metaphor in writing, this is to be observed, that
changing the allufion in the fame fentence is indeed vicious, and
what Quintilian condemns, Multi quum initium à tempeftate fum-
ferint, incendio aut ruinâ finiunt. But when one comparison or
allufion is fairly feparated from another, by diftin&t fentences, the
cafe is different. So it is here; in one fentence we fee the book of
rebellion fampt with a feal divine; in the other, the fword of
civil difcord confecrated. But this change of the metaphor is not
only allowable, but fit. For the dwelling overlong upon one occa-
fions the difcourfe to degenerate into a dull kind of allegorifm.
8 My brother general, &c.-

I make my quarrel in particular.] The fenfe is this, My brother general, the Common-wealth, which ought to diftribute its benefits equally, is become an enemy to those of his own house, to brothersborn, by giving fame all, and others none; and this (fays he) I make my quarrel or grievance that honours are unequally difiributed; the conftant birth of male-contents, and fource of civil commotions.

90 my good lord Mowbray, &c.] The two or three next fpeeches were alfo of those inferted.

Mr. Pope.
To