Pity the city of London, pity us!
The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester's men,
Forbidden late to carry any weapon,
Have fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones, 80
And banding themselves in contrary parts
Do pelt so fast at one another's pate,
That many have their giddy brains knock'd out:
Our windows are broke down in every street, 84
And we for fear compell'd to shut our shops.
Enter, in skirmish, [the Serving-men of Gloucester and Winchester] with bloody pates.
King. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,
To hold your slaught'ring hands, and keep the peace.—
Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. 88
First Serv. Nay, if we be forbidden stones,
we'll fall to it with our teeth.
Sec. Serv. Do what ye dare, we are as resolute.
Skirmish again.
Glo. You of my household, leave this peevish broil, 92
And set this unaccustom'd fight aside.
Third Serv. My lord, we know your Grace to be a man
Just and upright, and, for your royal birth,
Inferior to none but to his majesty; 96
And ere that we will suffer such a prince,
So kind a father of the commonweal,
To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate,
We and our wives and children all will fight, 100
And have our bodies slaught'red by thy foes.
First Serv. Ay, and the very parings of our nails
78-85 Cf. n.
99 inkhorn mate: low pedant
