Bardolph.
Fal.
Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill
me a bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march
through; we'll to Sutton-Colfield to-night.
Bard.
Will you give me money, captain?
Fal.
Lay out, lay out.
Bard.
This bottle makes an angel.
Fal.
An if it do, take it for thy labour; and if
it make twenty, take them all, I'll answer the coinage.
Bid my lieutenant Peto1 note meet me at the
town's end.
Bard.
I will, captain: farewell.
[Exit.
Fal.
If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am
a souced gurnet2 note
. I have misused the king's press
-- 367 --
damnably3 note. I have got, in exchange of a hundred
and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds.
I press me none but good householders4 note, yeomen's
sons: inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as
had been asked twice on the bans; such a commodity
of warm slaves, as had as lief hear the devil as
a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver, worse
than a struck fowl, or a hurt wild-duck5 note
. I pressed
-- 368 --
me none but such toasts and butter6 note
, with hearts
in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they
have bought out their services; and now my whole
charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants,
gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus
in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs
licked his sores: and such as, indeed, were never
soldiers; but discarded unjust serving men, younger
sons to younger brothers7 note
, revolted tapsters, and
ostlers trade fallen; the cankers of a calm world,
-- 369 --
and a long peace8 note; ten times more dishonourable
ragged than an old faced ancient9 note
: and such have
-- 370 --
I, to fill up the rooms of them that have bought
out their services, that you would think that I had
a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come
from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks.
A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I
had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the dead
bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll
not march through Coventry with them, that's flat:
—Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the
legs, as if they had gyves on1 note
; for, indeed, I
had the most of them out of prison. There's but
a shirt and a half2 note
in all my company: and the
half-shirt is two napkins, tacked together, and
thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without
sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen
from my host at St. Albans, or the red-nose innkeeper
of Daintry3 note. But that's all one; they'll
find linen4 note enough on every hedge.
-- 371 --
Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland.
P. Henry.
How now, blown Jack? how now, quilt?
Fal.
What, Hal? How now, mad wag? what
a devil dost thou in Warwickshire?—My good lord
of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy; I thought,
your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.
West.
'Faith, sir John, 'tis more than time that
I were there and you too; but my powers are there
already: The king, I can tell you, looks for us all;
we must away all night5 note
.
Fal.
Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant as a
cat to steal cream.
P. Hen.
I think, to steal cream indeed; for thy
theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me,
Jack; Whose fellows are these that come after?
Fal.
Mine, Hal, mine.
P. Hen.
I did never see such pitiful rascals.
Fal.
Tut, tut; good enough to toss6 note
; food for
powder, food for powder; they'll fill a pit, as well as
better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.
-- 372 --
West.
Ay, but, sir John, methinks they are exceeding
poor and bare; too beggarly.
Fal.
'Faith, for their poverty,—I know not where
they had that: and for their bareness,—I am sure,
they never learned that of me.
P. Hen.
No, I'll be sworn; unless you call three
fingers on the ribs, bare. But, sirrah, make haste;
Percy is already in the field.
Fal.
What, is the king encamped?
West.
He is, sir John; I fear we shall stay too
long.
Fal.
Well,
To the latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast,
Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.
[Exeunt.
James Boswell [1821], The plays and poems of William Shakspeare, with the corrections and illustrations of various commentators: comprehending A Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, by the late Edmond Malone. With a new glossarial index (J. Deighton and Sons, Cambridge) [word count] [S10201].
