KING. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood.

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor Bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs

Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks

March all one way and be no more oppos'd

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies.

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ-

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross

We are impressed and engag'd to fight-

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields

Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old,

And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go.

Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,

What yesternight our Council did decree

In forwarding this dear expedience.