Bish. Here stand (my Lords) and send discouerers forth, To know the numbers of our Enemies Hast. Wee haue sent forth alreadie Bish. 'Tis well done. My Friends, and Brethren (in these great Affaires) I must acquaint you, that I haue receiu'd New-dated Letters from Northumberland: Their cold intent, tenure, and substance thus. Here doth hee wish his Person, with such Powers As might hold sortance with his Qualitie, The which hee could not leuie: whereupon Hee is retyr'd, to ripe his growing Fortunes, To Scotland; and concludes in heartie prayers, That your Attempts may ouer-liue the hazard, And fearefull meeting of their Opposite Mow. Thus do the hopes we haue in him, touch ground, And dash themselues to pieces. Enter a Messenger. Hast. Now? what newes? Mess. West of this Forrest, scarcely off a mile, In goodly forme, comes on the Enemie: And by the ground they hide, I iudge their number Vpon, or neere, the rate of thirtie thousand Mow. The iust proportion that we gaue them out. Let vs sway-on, and face them in the field. Enter Westmerland. Bish. What well-appointed Leader fronts vs here? Mow. I thinke it is my Lord of Westmerland West. Health, and faire greeting from our Generall, The Prince, Lord Iohn, and Duke of Lancaster Bish. Say on (my Lord of Westmerland) in peace: What doth concerne your comming? West. Then (my Lord) Vnto your Grace doe I in chiefe addresse The substance of my Speech. If that Rebellion Came like it selfe, in base and abiect Routs, Led on by bloodie Youth, guarded with Rage, And countenanc'd by Boyes, and Beggerie: I say, if damn'd Commotion so appeare, In his true, natiue, and most proper shape, You (Reuerend Father, and these Noble Lords) Had not beene here, to dresse the ougly forme Of base, and bloodie Insurrection, With your faire Honors. You, Lord Arch-bishop, Whose Sea is by a Ciuill Peace maintain'd, Whose Beard, the Siluer Hand of Peace hath touch'd, Whose Learning, and good Letters, Peace hath tutor'd, Whose white Inuestments figure Innocence, The Doue, and very blessed Spirit of Peace. Wherefore doe you so ill translate your selfe, Out of the Speech of Peace, that beares such grace, Into the harsh and boystrous Tongue of Warre? Turning your Bookes to Graues, your Inke to Blood, Your Pennes to Launces, and your Tongue diuine To a lowd Trumpet, and a Point of Warre