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What is this forest call’d?
What’s this forest called?
’Tis Gaultree Forest, an’t shall please your grace.
It’s Gaultree Forest, if it pleases Your Grace.
Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth To know the numbers of our enemies.
Stand here, my lords, and send scouts out To find out how many of our enemies there are.
We have sent forth already.
We’ve already sent them out.
’Tis well done. My friends and brethren in these great affairs, I must acquaint you that I have received New-dated letters from Northumberland; Their cold intent, tenor and substance, thus: Here doth he wish his person, with such powers As might hold sortance with his quality, The which he could not levy; whereupon He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes, To Scotland: and concludes in hearty prayers That your attempts may overlive the hazard And fearful melting of their opposite.
Good. My friends and brothers in this great cause, I must tell you that I’ve received New letters from Northumberland; The tone, meaning, and content are as follows: He wishes to come with a force That matches his rank, But he could not raise the troops. So, He has withdrawn to grow his fortunes In Scotland. And he ends with sincere prayers That your efforts survive the danger And the feared collapse of their opposition.
Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground And dash themselves to pieces.
So, our hopes in him have fallen apart And shattered.
Now, what news?
Now, what’s the news?
West of this forest, scarcely 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.
Just west of this forest, not far off, The enemy is coming in full force; And judging by the way they are positioned, I think their numbers Are about thirty thousand or so.
The just proportion that we gave them out Let us sway on and face them in the field.
That’s exactly the number we expected. Let’s move forward and meet them in battle.
What well-appointed leader fronts us here?
Who is the well-prepared leader who faces us now?
I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.
I think it’s my Lord of Westmoreland.
Health and fair greeting from our general, The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.
Greetings and good wishes from our general, The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.
Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace: What doth concern your coming?
Go ahead, Lord Westmoreland, in peace: What brings you here?
Then, my lord, Unto your grace do I in chief address The substance of my speech. If that rebellion Came like itself, in base and abject routs, Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags, And countenanced by boys and beggary, I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d, In his true, native and most proper shape, You, reverend father, and these noble lords Had not been here, to dress the ugly form Of base and bloody insurrection With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop, Whose see is by a civil peace maintained, Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d, Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d, Whose white investments figure innocence, The dove and very blessed spirit of peace, Wherefore do you so ill translate ourself Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace, Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war; Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, Your pens to lances and your tongue divine To a trumpet and a point of war?
Then, my lord, I address the main point of my speech to you. If rebellion came in its true form, With ragtag groups, led by young blood, Surrounded by poverty and desperation, If rebellion appeared like that, You, honorable father, and these noble lords Would not be here, to lend dignity To this ugly form of bloody insurrection. You, Lord Archbishop, Whose office thrives on peace, Whose beard is touched by the peaceful hand of time, Whose knowledge has been nurtured by peace, Whose white robes symbolize innocence, The dove, the blessed spirit of peace, Why would you so wrongly move away From the speech of peace that suits you, Into the rough and violent speech of war? Turning your books into graves, your ink to blood, Your pens into lances and your divine tongue Into a trumpet of war?
Wherefore do I this? so the question stands. Briefly to this end: we are all diseased, And with our surfeiting and wanton hours Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, And we must bleed for it; of which disease Our late king, Richard, being infected, died. But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland, I take not on me here as a physician, Nor do I as an enemy to peace Troop in the throngs of military men; But rather show awhile like fearful war, To diet rank minds sick of happiness And purge the obstructions which begin to stop 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 see which way the stream of time doth run, And are enforced from our most quiet there By the rough torrent of occasion; And have the summary of all our griefs, When time shall serve, to show in articles; Which long ere this we offer’d to the king, And might by no suit gain our audience: When we are wrong’d and would unfold our griefs, We are denied access unto his person Even by those men that most have done us wrong. The dangers of the days but newly gone, Whose memory is written on the earth With yet appearing blood, and the examples Of every minute’s instance, present now, Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms, Not to break peace or any branch of it, But to establish here a peace indeed, Concurring both in name and quality.
Why do I do this? That’s the question. To put it briefly: we are all sick, And through our excess and indulgence We’ve brought ourselves to a fever, And now we must suffer for it; our late king, Richard, Died from this very sickness. But, my noble Lord Westmoreland, I do not act here as a doctor, Nor as an enemy of peace, Leading men into battle; Rather, I show war as a way To cure the minds sick of too much comfort And to clear the blockages stopping Our lifeblood from flowing. Let me be clearer. I’ve carefully weighed the wrongs we’ve done and suffered, And found that our griefs outweigh our offenses. We see where time is heading, And we are forced from our peace By the turbulent tide of current events; We have the full list of our grievances, Which, when the time is right, we’ll present in full, Grievances we presented to the king before, But we were never heard. When we’re wronged and try to speak our pain, We’re blocked from seeing the king By those who’ve wronged us the most. The dangers of the recent past, Whose memory is written in blood, And the examples from every moment present, Have forced us into these unsightly arms, Not to break peace or any part of it, But to create a real, lasting peace, A peace that matches both in name and substance.
When ever yet was your appeal denied? Wherein have you been galled by the king? What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you, That you should seal this lawless bloody book Of forged rebellion with a seal divine And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge?
When has your appeal ever been denied? How has the king wronged you? What nobleman has been bribed to mistreat you, That you should sign this unlawful, bloody book Of false rebellion with a sacred seal And give legitimacy to chaos?
My brother general, the commonwealth, To brother born an household cruelty, I make my quarrel in particular.
My fellow general, the state, Has committed cruelty against us as a whole, But I make my complaint personally.
There is no need of any such redress; Or if there were, it not belongs to you.
There’s no need for such a complaint; And even if there were, it’s not for you to make.
Why not to him in part, and to us all That feel the bruises of the days before, And suffer the condition of these times To lay a heavy and unequal hand Upon our honours?
Why not for him, and for all of us Who feel the bruises from the past, And suffer the hardships of these times Which have laid an unfair hand On our honor?
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 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 remember’d father’s?
Oh, my good Lord Mowbray, See the times for what they are, And you’ll realize it’s not the king, But the times themselves, that harm you. Yet, for your part, it doesn’t seem to me That either the king or the present circumstances Give you any reason To build your grief on: weren’t you restored To all the lands of the Duke of Norfolk, Your noble father’s inheritance?
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 compell’d to banish him: And then that Harry Bolingbroke and he, 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 sparking through sights of steel And the loud trumpet blowing them together, Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay’d 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 That by indictment and by dint of sword Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.
What honor did my father lose, That needs to be revived in me? The king who loved him, as things were then, Was forced to exile him. And then Harry Bolingbroke and he, Both mounted on their horses, With their fiery steeds daring the spur, Their swords raised, their helmets down, Their eyes burning through steel sights And the trumpet blasting them forward, Then, when nothing could have stopped My father from being defeated by Bolingbroke, Oh, when the king dropped his staff, His life was tied to the staff he threw down; Then, he threw it down himself and all their lives, Those who later fell under Bolingbroke’s sword.
You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what. The Earl of Hereford was reputed then In England the most valiant gentlemen: 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 bless’d 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, every thing set off That might so much as think you enemies.
You speak, Lord Mowbray, and yet you don’t understand. The Earl of Hereford was considered the most valiant man In England at that time: Who can say who fortune would have favored then? But if your father had won that day, He would never have left Coventry: For all the country, in one voice, Hated him; and all their prayers and love Were for Hereford, whom they adored And blessed more than the king. But this is a digression from my point. I come here from our princely general To hear your grievances; to tell you from him That he will listen to you; and if Your demands are just, You will receive them, with everything considered That might make you think of us as enemies.
But he hath forced us to compel this offer; And it proceeds from policy, not love.
But he’s forced us to make this offer; And it comes from strategy, not from affection.
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 heart should be as good Say you not then our offer is compell’d.
Mowbray, you misunderstand it; This offer comes from mercy, not fear: For, look! Our army is close by, And, on my honor, we are confident And have no fear. Our army has more famous leaders than yours, Our men are more skilled in battle, Our armor is as strong, our cause is just; So reason tells us our hearts are just as strong. Can you say our offer is forced?
Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.
Well, if it were up to me, we wouldn’t discuss this.
That argues but the shame of your offence: A rotten case abides no handling.
That only shows the shame of your actions: A lost cause cannot stand being handled.
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?
Does Prince John have full authority, Given by his father, To hear and decide On what conditions we will stand?
That is intended in the general’s name: I muse you make so slight a question.
That is meant in the general’s name: I wonder why you ask such a simple question.
Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule, For this contains our general grievances: Each several article herein redress’d, All members of our cause, both here and hence, That are insinew’d to this action, Acquitted by a true substantial form And present execution of our wills To us and to our purposes confined, We come within our awful banks again And knit our powers to the arm of peace.
Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this list, For this contains our main complaints: Each specific point here addressed, All those involved in our cause, both here and elsewhere, Who are tied to this action, Cleared by a true formal process And immediate execution of our wishes To us and to our goals confined, We return to our proper limits again And unite our efforts for peace.
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 difference call the swords Which must decide it.
I will show this to the general. If it pleases you, lords, We may meet in sight of both our armies; And either end in peace, as God would have it! Or bring out the swords to settle it.
My lord, we will do so.
My lord, we will do that.
There is a thing within my bosom tells me That no conditions of our peace can stand.
There’s something inside me telling me That no terms of peace will hold.
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.
Don’t worry about that: if we can make peace On such broad and final terms As our agreement will be based on, Our peace will stand as firm as mountains.
Yea, but our valuation shall be such That every slight and false-derived 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 winnow’d with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff And good from bad find no partition.
Yes, but our evaluation will be such That every trivial and false reason, Every petty, foolish, and unreasonable cause Will reach the king through this action; That, even if our royal promises were as pure as martyrs’ love, We’ll be blown away by such a strong wind That even our best efforts will seem as light as chaff, And we won’t be able to tell good from bad.
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, And therefore will he wipe his tables clean And keep no tell-tale to his memory That may repeat and history his loss To new remembrance; for full well he knows He cannot so precisely weed this land As his misdoubts present occasion: His foes are so enrooted with his friends That, plucking to unfix an enemy, He doth unfasten so and shake a friend: So that this land, like an offensive wife That hath enraged him on to offer strokes, As he is striking, holds his infant up And hangs resolved correction in the arm That was uprear’d to execution.
No, no, my lord. Listen: the king is tired Of delicate and picky complaints: For he has found that ending one problem by death Only creates two bigger ones for those who live, And so he will clear his mind And forget anything that might remind him Of his losses, Because he knows very well That he can’t perfectly remove every problem As his doubts seem to suggest: His enemies are so deeply connected with his friends That in trying to undo one enemy, He might end up hurting a friend: So this land, like an angry wife Who has provoked him to strike, As he is about to strike, holds her child up And prevents the punishment he meant to carry out.
Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods On late offenders, that he now doth lack The very instruments of chastisement: So that his power, like to a fangless lion, May offer, but not hold.
Besides, the king has used up all his means of punishment On recent offenders, and now he lacks The tools for chastisement: So his power, like a lion without teeth, Can threaten, but can’t truly act.
’Tis very true: And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal, If we do now make our atonement well, Our peace will, like a broken limb united, Grow stronger for the breaking.
That’s very true: And so be sure, my good lord marshal, If we now make peace properly, Our peace, like a broken limb that’s healed, Will be stronger for having been broken.
Be it so. Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland.
So be it. Here is my Lord of Westmoreland returned.
The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship To meet his grace just distance ’tween our armies.
The prince is near: would your lordship Meet his grace at a proper distance between our armies?
Your grace of York, in God’s name then, set forward.
Your grace of York, then, in God’s name, proceed.
Before, and greet his grace: my lord, we come.
After you, and greet his grace: my lord, we come.