WESTMORELAND.
I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains
I have bestow’d to breed this present peace,
You would drink freely; but my love to ye
Shall show itself more openly hereafter.
ARCHBISHOP.
I do not doubt you.
WESTMORELAND.
I am glad of it.
Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.
MOWBRAY.
You wish me health in very happy season,
For I am on the sudden something ill.
ARCHBISHOP.
Against ill chances men are ever merry,
But heaviness foreruns the good event.
WESTMORELAND.
Therefore be merry, coz, since sudden sorrow
Serves to say thus, “Some good thing comes tomorrow.”
ARCHBISHOP.
Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.
MOWBRAY.
So much the worse, if your own rule be true.
[Shouts within.]
LANCASTER.
The word of peace is render’d. Hark how they shout!