John Falstaff† note.
Fal.
Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
-- 8 --
P. Henry.
Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking old
sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping
upon benches in the afternoon, that thou hast forgotten
to demand that truly, which thou would'st truly know.
What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day?
Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons,
and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of
leaping-houses, I see no reason why thou should'st be
so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
Fal.
Indeed you come near me now, Hal. For we,
that take purses, go by the moon and seven stars, and
not by Phœbus, he, that wand'ring knight so fair.
And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art King—
as save thy grace (Majesty, I should say; for grace thou
wilt have none.)—
P. Henry.
What! none?
Fal.
No, not so much as will serve to be prologue to
an egg and butter* note.
P. Henry.
Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly—
Fal.
Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art King,
let not us, that are squires of the night's body, be call'd
thieves of the day's booty: let us be Diana's foresters,
gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon;
and let men say, we be men of good government, being
governed as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress
the moon, under whose countenance we—steal.
P. Henry.
Thou say'st well, and it holds well, too;
for the fortune of us, that are the moon's men, doth
ebb and flow like the sea, being govern'd as the sea is,
by the moon. As for proof, now: a purse of gold,
most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night, and most
dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing,
Lay by, and spent with crying, Bring in more sack;
now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and,
by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
-- 9 --
Fal.
By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad! and is not
mine hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
P. Henry.
As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the
castle. And is not a buff-jerkin a most sweet robe of
durance* note?
Fal.
How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy
quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do
with a buff-jerkin?
P. Henry.
Why, what a plague have I to do with my
hostess of the tavern?
Fal.
Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning, many
a time and oft.
P. Henry.
Did I ever call thee to pay thy part?
Fal.
No, I'll give thee thy due; thou hast paid all, there.
P. Henry.
Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin
would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my
credit.
Fal.
Yea, and so us'd it, that were it not here apparent,
that thou art heir apparent—But, I pr'ythee,
sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England,
when thou art King? and resolution thus fobb'd, as it
is, with the rusty curb of old father Antic, the law?
Do not thou, when thou art a King, hang a thief.
P. Henry.
No; thou shalt.
Fal.
Shall I? O rare! by the Lord, I'll be a brave
judge!
P. Henry.
Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou
shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a
rare hangman.
Fal.
Well, Hal, well! and in some sort it jumps
with my humour, as well as waiting in the court, I
call tell you.
P. Henry.
For obtaining of suits?—
Fal.
Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman
hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy
as a gib cat† note, or a lugg'd bear.
P. Henry.
Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.
-- 10 --
Fal.
Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou to a hare, or the melancholy
of Moor-ditch?
Fal.
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art,
indeed, the most comparative, rascallest—sweet young
Prince!—But, Hal, I pr'ythee, trouble me no more
with vanity; I would thou and I knew where a commodity
of good names were to be bought: an old
Lord of the council rated me, the other day, in the street,
about you, Sir; but I mark'd him not, and yet he
talk'd very wisely, and in the street too.
P. Henry.
Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out,
and no man regards it* note.
Fal.
O! thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed,
able to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much
harm unto me, Hal; heaven forgive thee for it! Before
I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am
I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of
the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give
it over; an I do not, I am a villain. I'll be damn'd
for never a King's son in Christendom.
P. Henry.
Where shall we take a purse, to-morrow,
Jack?
Fal.
Where thou wilt, lad, where thou wilt.—I'll
make one; an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.
P. Henry.
I see a good amendment of life in thee,
from praying to purse-taking.
Fal.
Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no
sin for a man to labour in his vocation.
Enter Poins.
P. Henry.
Good morrow, Ned.
Poins.
Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur
Remorse? what says Sir John Sack-and-Sugar?
Jack! but, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by
four o'clock, early at Gads-hill; there are pilgrims going
to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding
-- 11 --
to London with fat purses. I have vizors for you all;
you have horses for yourselves. Gads-hill lies to-night
in Rochester; I have bespoke supper to-morrow night
in East-cheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If
you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if
you will not, tarry at home, and be hang'd.
Fal.
Heark ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home, and go
not, I'll hang you for going.
Poins.
You will, chops?
Fal.
Hal, wilt thou make one?
P. Henry.
Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.
Fal.
There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good
fellowship in thee; nor thou cam'st not of the Blood
Royal, if thou dar'st not bid stand, for ten shillings.
P. Henry.
Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.
Fal.
Why, that's well said.
P. Henry.
Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.
Fal.
By the Lord! I'll be a traytor then, when thou
art King.
P. Henry.
I care not.
Poins.
Sir John, I pr'ythee leave the Prince and me
alone; I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure,
that he shall go.
Fal.
Well, may'st thou have the spirit of persuasion,
and he the ears of profiting; that what thou speak'st
may move, and what he hears may be believ'd; that
the true Prince may (for recreation-sake) prove a false
thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance!
Farewel! you shall find me in East-cheap.
P. Henry.
Farewel, thou latter Spring! Farewel, all-hallown
Summer!
[Exit Falstaff.
Poins.
Now, my good sweet honey Lord, ride with us
to-morrow. I have a jest to execute, that I cannot manage
alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gads-hill,
shall rob those men that we have already way-laid;
yourself and I will not be there: and when they have
the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head
off from my shoulders.
-- 12 --
P. Henry.
But how shall we part with them in setting
forth?
Poins.
Why, we will set forth before or after them,
and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at
our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon
the exploit themselves, which they shall have no sooner
atchiev'd, but we'll set upon them.
P. Henry.
Ay; but 'tis like they will know us, by
our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment,
to be ourselves.
Poins.
Tut! our horses they shall not see, I'll tye
them in the wood; our vizors we will change, after we
leave them; and, Sirrah, I have cases of buckram for
the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.
P. Henry.
But I doubt, they will be too hard for us.
Poins.
Well, for two of them, I know them to be as
true-bred cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the
third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear
arms. The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible
lies that this same fat rogue will tell
us, when we meet at supper; how thirty at least he
fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities,
he endured: And in the repoof of this lies the
jest.
P. Henry.
Well, I'll go with thee: provide us all
things necessary, and meet me to-morrow night in East-cheap;
there I'll sup. Farewel!
Poins.
Farewel, my Lord!
[Exit Poins.
* noteP. Henry.
I know you all, and will a while uphold
The un-yok'd humour of your idleness;
Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
-- 13 --
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at* note
.
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify mens hopes,
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall shew more goodly, and attract more eyes,
Than that which hath no foil to set it off:
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill,
Redeeming time, when men think least I will.
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE changes to an Apartment in the Palace.
Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur* note, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.
K. Henry.
My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities;
-- 14 --
And you have found me; for, accordingly,
You tread upon my patience: but be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that title of respect,
Which the proud soul ne'er pays, but to the proud.
Wor.
Our house, my sovereign Liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;
And that same greatness too, which our own hands
Have help'd to make so portly.
North.
My good Lord—
K. Henry.
Worcester, get thee gone! for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye.
O, Sir! your presence is too bold and peremptory:
And Majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier* note of a servant brow† note.
You have good leave to leave us. When we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
[Exit Wor.
You were about to speak.
[To Northumberland.
North.
Yes, my good Lord.
Those prisoners, in your Highness' name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were, as he says, not with such strength deny'd
As was deliver'd to your Majesty.
Hot.
My Liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain Lord, neat, trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new-reap'd,
Shew'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner,
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which, ever-and-anon,
He gave his nose, and took't away again,
And still he smil'd and talk'd;
-- 15 --
And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome coarse,
Betwixt the wind and his nobility:
With many holiday and lady terms,
He question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf.
I, then all-smarting with my wounds, being cold,
(To be so pester'd with a popinjay* note)
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what,
He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so bright, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds (heaven save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth,
Was Parmacity, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd,
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.—
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my Lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said:
And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.
Blunt.
The circumstance consider'd, good my Liege,
Whatever Harry Percy then had said,
To such a person, and, in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest retold,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it, now.
K. Henry.
Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,
But with proviso and exception,
-- 16 --
That we, at our own charge, shall ransom strait
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer,
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd
The lives of those that he did lead to fight,
Against the great magician, damn'd Glendower,
Whose daughter, as we hear, the earl of March
Hath lately marry'd. Shall our coffers then,
Be empty'd, to redeem a traitor home?
Shall we buy treason, and indent with fears,
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No; on the barren mountains let him starve:
For I shall never hold that man my friend,
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost,
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
Hot.
Revolted Mortimer!
He never did fall off, my sovereign Liege,
But bides the chance of war. To prove that true,
Needs no more but one tongue: for all those wounds,
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,
In single opposition, hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour,
In changing hardiment with great Glendower:
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
Who, then affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did base and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly wounds;
Nor ever could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly.
Then let him not be slander'd with revolt* note.
-- 17 --
* noteK. Henry.
Thou dost belie him; Percy, thou beliest him!
He never did encounter with Glendower;
He durst as well have met the devil alone,
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art not asham'd? But, sirrah, from this hour,
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me,
As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland,
We licence your departure with your son.
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.
[Exit K. Henry.
Hot.
And if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after strait,
And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,
Although it be with hazard of my head.
North.
What, drunk with choler? stay and pause, a while:
Here comes your uncle.
Enter Worcester.
Hot.
Speak of Mortimer!
Yes, I will speak of him: and let my soul
Want mercy, if I do not join with him!
In his behalf I'll empty all these veins,
And shed my dear blood, drop by drop, in dust,
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer
As high i'th' air as this unthankful king,
As this ingrate and cank'red Bolingbroke.
North.
Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.
[To Worcester.
Wor.
Who struck this heat up, after I was gone?
Hot.
He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;
And when I urg'd the ransom once again,
Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,
Trembling ev'n at the name of Mortimer.
-- 18 --
Wor.
I cannot blame him. Was he not proclaim'd,
By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?
North.
He was; I heard the proclamation.
Hot.
But soft, I pray you!—Did king Richard then
Proclaim my brother Mortimer
Heir to the crown?
North.
He did; myself did hear it.
Hot.
Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,
That wish'd him on the barren mountains starv'd.
But shall it be, that you, that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man,
And for his sake wear the detested blot
Of murd'rous subornation? shall it be,
That you a world of curses undergo,
Being the agents, or base second means,
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman, rather?
(O, pardon me! that I descend so low,
To shew the line, and the predicament,
Wherein you range under this subtle king)
Shall it, for shame, be spoken, in these days,
Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
That men of your nobility and power,
Engag'd them both in an unjust behalf!
(As both of you, heaven pardon it! have done)
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?
And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken,
That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off,
By him, for whom these shames ye underwent?
No: yet time serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish'd honours, and restore yourselves,
Into the good thoughts of the world again;
Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt,
Of this proud King, who studies, day and night,
To answer all the debt he owes unto you,
Ev'n with the bloody payments of your deaths:
Therefore, I say—* note
-- 19 --
Wor.
Peace, cousin! say no more!
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And, to your quick-conceiving discontents,
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and advent'rous spirit,
As to o'erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unstedfast footing of a spear.
Hot.
If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim:
Send danger from the East unto the West,
So honour cross it from the North to South,
And let them grapple.—O! the blood more stirs
To rouze a lion, than to start a hare.
North.
Imagination of some great exploit,
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.
* noteHot.
By heav'n! methinks it were an easy leap,
To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon;
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear,
Without corrival, all her dignities.
But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!
Wor.
He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.
Good cousin, give me audience, for a while.
Hot.
I cry you mercy.
Wor.
Those same noble Scots,
That are your prisoners—
Hot.
I'll keep them all;
By heav'n, he shall not have a Scot of them!
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not!
I'll keep them, by this hand.
Wor.
You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes;
Those prisoners you shall keep.
Hot.
I will; that's flat.
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer;
-- 20 --
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer:
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I'll holla, Mortimer!
Nay, I will have a starling taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion* note.
North.
Why, what a wasp-tongu'd and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
Hot.
Why, look you! I am whipt and scourg'd with rods,
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear
Of this vile politician Bolingbroke.
In Richard's time—what do ye call the place?—
A plague upon't!—it is in Glo'stershire—† note
'Twas where the mad-cap duke his uncle kept—
His uncle York—where I first bow'd my knee
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke;
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.
North.
At Berkley castle.
Hot.
You say true.
Why, what a deal of candied courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
Look, when his infant Fortune came to age.—
And, gentle Harry Percy—and kind Cousin—
The devil take such cozeners!—heaven forgive me!—
Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.
Wor.
Nay, if you have not, to't again;
We'll stay your leisure.
Hot.
I have done, I'faith.
Wor.
Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.
[To Hotspur.
Deliver them without their ransom strait,
And make the Dowglas' son your only mean
-- 21 --
For pow'rs in Scotland; which, for divers reasons,
Will easily be granted.—You, my Lord,
[To North.
Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd,
Shall secretly into the bosom creep
Of that same noble Prelate, well-belov'd,
Th' Arch-bishop.
Hot.
York, is't not?
Wor.
True; who bears hard
His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be; but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
And only stays but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
Hot.
I smell it; on my life it will do well.
North.
Before the game's a-foot, thou still lett'st slip.
Hot.
It cannot choose but be a noble plot:
And then the power of Scotland, and of York,
To join with Mortimer. Ha!—
Wor.
So they shall.
Hot.
In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd.
Wor.
And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads, by raising of a head;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The king will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfy'd,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home:
And see, already, how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.
Hot.
He does, he does; we'll be reveng'd on him.
Wor.
Cousin, farewell! No further go in this,
Than I, by letters, shall direct your course.
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,
I'll steal to Glendower, and Lord Mortimer,
Where you, and Dowglas, and our pow'rs at once
(As I will fashion it) shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.
Hot.
Uncle, adieu! O let the hours be short,
-- 22 --
Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport!
[Exeunt.* note
ACT II.
Scene
SCENE, An Inn at Rochester.
Enter a Carrier, with a Lanthorn in his Hand.
1 Carrier* note.
Heigh ho! ant' be not four by the day, I'll be
hang'd. Charles' Wain is over the new chimney,
and yet our horse not packt. What, ostler?
Ost. [Within.]
Anon, anon.
1 Car.
I pr'ythee, Tom, beat Cutt's saddle; put a
few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the
withers, out of all cess.
Enter another Carrier.
2 Car.
Pease and beans are as dank here as a dog,
and that is the next way to give poor jades the botts† note.
This house is turn'd upside-down, since Robin the ostler
dy'd.
1 Car.
Poor fellow never joy'd since the price of
Oats rose; it was the death of him.
-- 23 --
2 Car.
I think this be the most villainous house in
all London road, for fleas: I am stung like a tench.
1 Car.
Like a tench! by th' mass, there's ne'er a
King in Christendom could be better bit, than I have
been, since the first cock.
2 Car.
Why, they will allow us ne'er a jourden,
and then we leak in your chimney; and your chamberley
breeds fleas like a loach* note
1 Car.
What, ostler! come away, and be hang'd,
come away!
2 Car.
I have a gammon of bacon and two razes† note
of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing-cross.
1 Car.
'Odsbody! the turkies in my panniers are
quite starv'd. What, ostler! a plague on thee! hast
thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? an't
were not as good a deed as drink, to break the pate of
thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang'd! hast
no faith in thee?
Enter Gads-hill.
Gads.
Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?
Car.
I think it be two o'clock.
Gads.
I pr'ythee lend me thy lanthorn, to see my
gelding in the stable.
1 Car.
Nay, soft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth
two of that, i'faith.
Gads.
I pr'ythee, lend me thine.
2 Car.
Ay, when? canst tell? lend me thy lanthorn,
quoth a! marry, I'll see thee hang'd first.
Gads.
Sirrah, carrier, what time do you mean to
come to London?
2 Car.
Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I
warrant thee. Come, neighbour Mugges, we'll call up
the gentlemen.
[Exeunt.
-- 24 --
Scene
SCENE changes to the Highway.
Enter Prince Henry, Poins, and Peto.
Poins.
Come, shelter, shelter! I have removed Falstaff's
horse, and he frets like a gumm'd velvet.
P. Henry.
Stand close.
Enter Falstaff.
Fal.
Poins, Poins, and be hang'd, Poins!
P. Henry.
Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rascal! what a
brawling dost thou keep!
Fal.
What, Poins! Hal!—
P. Henry.
He is walk'd up to the top of the hill;
I'll go seek him.
Fal.
I am accurst to rob in that thief's company;
the rascal hath remov'd my horse, and ty'd him, I
know not where. If I travel but four foot by the square,
farther afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt
not but to die a fair death, for all this, if I escape hanging
for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company
hourly any time this two-and-twenty year, and
yet I am bewitch'd with the rogue's company. If the
rascal have not given me medicines to make me love
him, I'll be hang'd: it could not be else: I have
drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! a plague upon you
both! Bardolph! Peto! I'll starve, ere I'll rob a foot
further. An't were not as good a deed as to drink, to
turn true-man, and to leave these rogues, I am the
veriest varlet that ever chew'd with a tooth. Eight
yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles
afoot with me, and the stony-hearty villains know it
well enough. A plague upon't, when thieves cannot
be true one to another! [They whistle.] Whew!—A
plague upon you all! give me my horse, you rogues!
give me my horse, and be hang'd* note!
P. Henry.
Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down, lay thine
-- 25 --
ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the
tread of travellers.
Fal.
Have you any levers to lift me up again, being
down? 'sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so
far afoot again, for all the coin in thy father's exchequer!
what a plague mean ye, to colt me thus?
P. Henry.
Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art
uncolted.
Fal.
I pr'ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my
horse! good King's son!
P. Henry.
Out, you rogue! shall I be your ostler?
Fal.
Go, hang thyself in thy own heir-apparent garters!
if I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not
ballads made on you all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a
cup of sack be my poison! when a jest is so forward
and afoot too! I hate it.
Enter Gads-hill, Peto, and Bardolph.
Bard.
Stand!—
Fal.
So I do, against my will.
Poins.
O, 'tis our setter! I know his voice. Bardolph,
what news?
Bard.
Case ye, case ye! on with your vizors! there's
money of the King's coming down the hill; 'tis going
to the King's exchequer.
Fal.
You lie, you rogue! 'tis going to the King's
tavern.
Gads.
There's enough to make us all—
Fal.
To be hang'd.
P. Henry.
Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow
lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower; if they
'scape from your encounter, then they light on us.
Peto.
But how many be of them?
Gads.
Some eight or ten.
Fal.
Will they not rob us?
P. Henry.
What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?
Fal.
Indeed I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather;
but yet no coward, Hal.
P. Henry.
Well, we'll leave that to the proof.
Poins.
Sirrah, Jack, thy horse stands behind the -- 26 --
hedge; when thou needest him, there shalt thou find
him. Farewel, and stand fast!
Fal.
Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd.
P. Henry.
Ned, where are our disguises?
Poins.
Here, hard by. Stand close!
Fal.
Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say
I: every man to his business.
Enter Travellers.
Trav.
Come, neighbour, the boy shall lead our
horses down the hill; we'll walk afoot a while, and
ease our legs.
Thieves.
Stand!—
Fal.
Down with them! cut the villains throats!
down with them! fleece them!
[Exeunt.
Enter Prince Henry and Poins.
P. Henry.
The thieves have bound the true men;
now, could thou and I rob the thieves, and go merrily
to London, it would be argument for a week,
laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.
Poins.
Stand close; I hear them coming.
Enter Thieves again.
Fal.
Come, my masters, let us share, and then to
horse, before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two
arrant cowards, there's no equity stirring: there's no
more valour in that Poins, than in a wild duck.
P. Henry.
Your money!
Poins.
Villains!
[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon
them. They all run away; and Falstaff, after a
blow or two, runs away too, leaving the booty
behind them.]
P. Henry.
Got with much ease; now merrily to horse.
The thieves are scatter'd, and possess'd with fear
So strongly, that they dare not meet each other;
Each takes his fellow for an officer.
Away, good Ned.—Falstaff sweats to death,
-- 27 --
And lards the lean earth as he walks along:
Wer't not for laughing, I should pity him.
Poins.
How the rogue roar'd!
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE, Lord Percy's House.
Enter Hot-spur solus, reading a Letter* note.
But for mine own part, my Lord, I could be well contented
to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house.
He could be contended to be there! why is he not,
then? in respect of the love he bears our house! he shews
in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our
house. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake
is dangerous. Why, that's certain; 'tis dangerous
to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my
Lord Fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this
flower, safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous,
the friends you have named uncertain, the time itself unsorted,
and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of
so great an opposition. Say you so? say you so? I say
unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and
you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our
plot is a good plot as ever was laid, our friends true and
constant; a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation;
an excellent plot, very good friends. What
a frosty-spirited rogue is this! why, my Lord of York
commends the plot, and the general course of the action.
By this hand, if I were now by this rascal, I
could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my
father, my uncle, and myself, Lord Edmund Mortimer,
my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? is there not
besides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters, to
meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and
are there not some of them set forward already? What
a pagan rascal is this! an Infidel! ha! you shall see
-- 28 --
now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he
to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I
could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such
a dish of skimm'd-milk, with so honourable an action!
hang him, let him tell the king! we are prepared; I
will set forward, to-night.
Enter Lady Percy.
How now, Kate! I must leave you, within these two hours.
Lady.
O, my good Lord! why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been
A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?
Tell me, sweet Lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?
Why dost thou bend thy eyes upon the earth,
And start so often, when thou sitt'st alone?
* note
O! what portents are these?
-- 29 --
Some heavy business hath my Lord in hand,
And I must know it; else he loves me not.
Hot.
What, hoa! is Gilliams with the packet gone?
Servant within.
Serv.
He is, my Lord, an hour agon.
Hot.
Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?
Serv.
One horse, my Lord, he brought ev'n now.
Hot.
What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
Serv.
It is, my Lord.
Hot.
That roan shall be my throne.
Well, I will back him strait. O Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.
Lady.
But hear you, my Lord!
Hot.
What say'st thou, my lady?
Lady.
What is it carries you away?
Hot.
Why my horse, my love; my horse.
Lady.
Out, you mad-headed ape! a weazel hath not
Such a deal of spleen, as you are tost with.
In faith, I'll know your business, that I will!
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir,
About his title, and hath sent for you,
To line his enterprize: but if you go—
Hot.
—So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
Lady.
Come, come, you paraquito, answer me,
Directly to this question I shall ask.
I'll break thy little finger, Harry,
An if thou wilt not tell me all things true* note.
Hot.
Away, away, you trifler!—love! I love thee not;
I care not for thee, Kate! this is no world,
To play with mammets† note, and to tilt with lips:
We must have bloody noses, and crack'd crowns,
And pass them current, too—odds me, my horse!
-- 30 --
What say'st thou, Kate? what would'st thou have with me?
Lady.
Do ye not love me? do you not, indeed?
Well, do not then: for, since you love me not,
I will not love myself. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me, if you speak in jest, or no?
Hot.
Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when I am o'horse-back, I will swear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth question me,
Whither I go; nor reason, whereabout:
Whither I must, I must: and, to conclude,
This evening must I leave thee, gentle Kate.
I know you wise; but yet no further wise,
Than Harry Percy's wife: constant you are,
But yet a woman; and for secrecy,
No lady closer; for I well believe
Thou wilt not utter, what thou dost not know:
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate* note.
Lady.
How, so far?
Hot.
Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate.
Whither I go, thither shall you go, too:
To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.
Will this content you, Kate?
Lady.
It must, of force.
Scene
SCENE changes to the Boar's-Head Tavern, in East-Cheap.
Enter Prince Henry, and Poins.
P. Henry.
Ned, pr'ythee come out of that fat-room,
and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.
Poins.
Where hast been, Hal?
P. Henry.
With three or four loggerheads, amongst
three or four score hogsheads. I have sounded the very
-- 31 --
base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother
to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their
christian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. To conclude,
I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an
hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own
language: but, sweet Ned—(to sweeten which name
of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapt even
now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that never
spake other English in his life, than eight shillings and
sixpence, and you are welcome, Sir; with this shrill
addition, anon, anon, Sir; score a pint of bastard in
the Half-moon, or so.) But, Ned, to drive away the
time, till Falstaff come, I pr'ythee, do thou stand in
some bye room, while I question my puny drawer to
what end he gave me the sugar; and do thou never
leave calling Francis, that his tale to me may be nothing
but, anon. Step aside, and I'll shew thee a precedent* note.
[Poins retires.
Poins.
Francis,—
P. Henry.
Thou art perfect.
Poins.
Francis,—
† noteEnter Francis the Drawer.
Fran,
Anon, anon, Sir. Look down into the pomgranet,
Ralph.
P. Henry.
Come hither, Francis.
Fran.
My Lord.
P. Henry.
How long hast thou to serve, Francis?
Fran.
Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—
Poins.
Francis,—
Fran.
Anon, anon, Sir.
P. Henry.
Five years! by'r lady, a long lease for
the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so
-- 32 --
valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture, and
shew it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?
Fran.
O Lord, Sir! I'll be sworn upon all the books
in England, I could find in my heart—
Poins.
Francis,—
Fran.
Anon, anon, Sir.
P. Henry.
How old art thou, Francis?
Fran.
Let me see, about Michaelmas next, I shall be—
Poins.
Francis,—
Fran.
Anon, Sir. Pray you stay a little, my Lord.
P. Henry.
Nay, but hark you, Francis; for the suga
thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not?
Fran.
O Lord! I would it had been two!
P. Henry.
I will give thee for it a thousand pound
ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.
Poins.
Francis,—
Fran.
Anon, anon.
P. Henry.
Anon, Francis! no, Francis, but to-morrow,
Francis; or, Francis, on Thursday; or, indeed,
Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis.—
Fran.
My Lord.
P. Henry.
Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button,
knot-pated, agat-ring, puke-stocking, caddice-garter,
smooth-tongue, Spanish pouch?
Fran.
O Lord, Sir! who do you mean?
P. Henry.
Why then, you brown bastard is your
only drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas
doublet will sully. In Barbary, Sir, it cannot come to
so much* note.
Fran.
What, Sir?
Poins.
Francis,—
P. Henry.
Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear
them call?
[Here they both call; the drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go.
-- 33 --
Enter Hostess.
Host.
My Lord, old Sir John, with half a dozen
more, are at the door. Shall I let them in?
P. Henry.
Let them alone, awhile, and then open the
door. Poins,—
Enter Poins.
Poins.
Anon, anon, Sir.
P. Henry.
Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves,
are at the door: shall we be merry?
Poins.
As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye;
what cunning match have you made with this jest of
the drawer? come, what's the issue?
P. Henry.
I am now of all humours, that have shew'd
themselves humours, since the old days of good-man
Adam, to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock
at midnight. What's o'clock, Francis?
Fran.
Anon, anon, Sir.
P. Henry.
That ever this fellow should have fewer
words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman!—
his industry is up stairs and down stairs; his eloquence
the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's* note
mind, the Hot-spur of the North; he that kills me
some six or seven dozen of Scots, at a breakfast, washes
his hands, and says to his wife, Fye upon this quiet
life! I want work. O my sweet Harry! says she,
how many hast thou kill'd, to-day? give my roan horse
a drench, says he, and answers, some fourteen, an hour
after; a trifle! a trifle! I pr'ythee call in Falstaff; I'll
play Percy, and that damn'd brawn shall play dame
Mortimer, his wife. Ribi† note, says the drunkard. Call
in Ribs, call in Tallow.
Enter Falstaff, Gads-hill, Bardolph, and Peto.
Poins.
Welcome, Jack! where hast thou been?‡ note
-- 34 --
Fal.
A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance
too, marry and amen! give me a cup of sack,
boy—ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether socks,
and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all
cowards! give me a cup of sack, rogue! Is there no
virtue extant?
[He drinks.
P. Henry.
Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of
butter, (pitiful-hearted Titan) that melted at the sweet
tale of the sun? If thou did'st, then behold that compound.
Fal.
You rogue, here's lime in this sack too. There
is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man;
yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in
it. A villainous coward!—go thy ways, old Jack, die
when thou wilt; if manhood, good manhood, be not
forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten-herring.
There live not three good men unhang'd in
England, and one of them is fat, and grows old.
Heaven help the while, a bad world! I say: a plague
of all cowards! I say still.
P. Henry.
How now, Woolsack! what mutter you?
Fal.
A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy
kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects
afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never,
wear hair on my face more! You prince of Wales!
* noteP. Henry.
Why, you whorson round man! what's
the matter?
Fal.
Are you not a coward? answer me to that;
and Poins there?
P. Henry.
Ye fat-paunch, and ye call me coward, I'll
stab thee.
Fal.
I call thee coward! I'll see thee damn'd ere I'll
call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I
could run as fast as thou canst. You are strait enough
in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back:
call you that backing of your friends? a plague upon
-- 35 --
such backing! give me them that will face me—give
me a cup of sack: I am a rogue if I drank to-day.
P. Henry.
O villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd since
thou drank'st last.
Fal.
All's one for that.
[He drinks.
A plague of all cowards! still, say I.
P. Henry.
What's the matter?
Fal.
What's the matter! here be four of us have
ta'en a thousand pound, this morning.
P. Henry.
Where is it, Jack? where is it?
Fal.
Where is it! taken from us, it is: a hundred
upon poor four of us.
P. Henry.
What! a hundred, man?
Fal.
I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with
a dozen of them, two hours together. I have escap'd
by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the
doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through
and through, my sword hack'd like a handsaw, ecce signum!
I never dealt better since I was a man: all would
not do. A plague of all cowards!—let them speak;
if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains,
and the sons of darkness.
P. Henry.
Speak, Sirs, how was it?
Gads.
We four set upon some dozen.
Fal.
Sixteen, at least, my Lord.
Gads.
And bound them.
Pet.
No, no, they were not bound.
Fal.
You rogue, they were bound, every man of
them, or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.
Gads.
As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh
men set upon us.
Fal.
And unbound the rest, and then came in the
other.
P. Henry.
What, fought ye with them all?
Fal.
All! I know not what ye call all; but if I
fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish;
if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old
Jack, then am I no two-legg'd creature.
Poins.
Pray heav'n, you have not murdered some of
them!
-- 36 --
Fal.
Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd
two of them; two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues
in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee
a lie, spit in my face, call me horse; thou know'st
my old ward: here I lay, and thus I bore my point;
four rogues in buckram let drive at me* note
P. Henry.
What, four? thou saidst but two, even
now.
Fal.
Four, Hal, I told thee four.
Poins.
Ay, ay, he said four.
Fal.
These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust
at me: I made no more ado, but took all their seven
points in my target, thus.
P. Henry.
Seven? why there were but four, even
now.
Fal.
In buckram.
Poins.
Ay, four, in buckram suits.
Fal.
Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
P. Henry.
Pr'ythee let him alone; we shall have
more, anon.
Fal.
Dost thou hear me, Hal?
P. Henry.
Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
Fal.
Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These
nine in buckram, that I told thee of—
P. Henry.
So, two more, already.
Fal.
Their points being broken—
Poins.
Down fell his hose.
Fal.
Began to give me ground; but I follow'd me
close, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought,
seven of the eleven I paid.
P. Henry.
O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown
out of two.
Fal.
But as the devil would have it, three mis-begotten
knaves, in Kendal-green, came at my back, and
let drive at me; (for it was so dark, Hal, that thou
couldst not see thy hand.)
-- 37 --
P. Henry.
These lies are like the father that begets
them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why,
thou clay-brain'd guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou
whorson obscene greasy tallow-catch—
Fal.
What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the
truth the truth?
P. Henry.
Why, how couldst thou know these men
in Kendal-green, when it was so dark thou could'st not
see thy hand? come, tell us your reason: what say'st
thou to this?
Poins.
Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
Fal.
What, upon compulsion? no. Were I at the
strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not
tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion!
if reasons were as plenty as black-berries, I
would give no man a reason upon compulsion. I!
P. Henry.
I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. This
sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker,
this huge hill of flesh—
Fal.
Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dry'd
neat's tongue, bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O, for
breath to utter! what is like thee? you taylor's yard,
you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck—
P. Henry.
Well, breathe a while, and then to't again;
and when thou hast tir'd thyself in base comparisons,
hear me speak but this.
Poins.
Mark, Jack.
P. Henry.
We two saw you four set on four; you
bound them, and were masters of their wealth: mark* note
now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did
we two set on you four, and, with a word, out-fac'd
you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can shew
it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carry'd
your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity,
and roar'd for mercy, and still ran and roar'd, as ever
I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy
-- 38 --
sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight!
—What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst
thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent
shame?
Poins.
Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast
thou now?
Fal.
Ha! ha! ha! d'ye think I did not know you?
By the Lord, I knew you as well as he that made you.
Why, hear ye, my masters, was it for me to kill the
heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true prince?
why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware
instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince;
instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct,
I grant you: and I shall think the better of myself and
thee, during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for
a true prince* note. But, my lads, I am glad you have the
money. Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night,
pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold,
all the titles of good fellowship come to you! what,
shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?
P. Henry.
Content!—and the argument shall be, thy
running away.
Fal.
Ah!—no more of that, Hal, if thou lovest me.
Enter Hostess.
Host.
O my Lord, my Lord the prince!
P. Henry.
How now, my Lady the hostess, what
say'st thou to me?
Host.
Marry, my Lord, there is a nobleman of the
court at door would speak with you; he says, he comes
from your father.
P. Henry.
Give him as much as will make him a royal
man, and send him back again to my mother.
Fal.
What manner of man is he?
Host.
An old man.
Fal.
What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight?
shall I give him his answer?
-- 39 --
P. Henry.
Pr'ythee do, Jack.
Fal.
Faith, and I'll send him packing.
[Exit.
P. Henry.
Now, Sirs, you fought fair; so did you,
Peto; so did you, Bardolph; you are lions too; you
ran away upon instinct; you will not touch the true
prince; no, fy!
Bard.
Faith, I ran when I saw others run.
P. Henry.
Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's
sword so hackt?
Peto.
Why, he hack't it with his dagger, and said,
he would swear truth out of England, but he would
make you believe it was done in fight, and persuaded
us to do the like.
Bard.
Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass,
to make them bleed, and then beslubber our garments
with it, and swear it was the blood of true men. I did
that I did not these seven years before—I blush'd, to
hear his monstrous devices.
P. Henry.
O villain! thou stolest a cup of sack,
eighteen years ago, and wert taken in the manner, and
ever since thou hast blush'd extempore. Thou hadst
fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rannest away;
what instinct hadst thou for it?
Bard.
My Lord, do you see these meteors? do you
behold these exhalations?
P. Henry.
I do.
Bard.
What think you they portend?
P. Henry.
Hot livers and cold purses.
Bard.
Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken.
P. Henry.
No, if rightly taken, halter.
Re-enter Falstaff.
Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How
now, my sweet creature of bombast* note! how long is't ago,
Jack, since thou saw'st thy own knee?
Fal.
My own knee? When I was about thy years,
Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the waist; I could
-- 40 --
have crept into an alderman's thumb-ring: a plague
of sighing and grief, it blows a man up like a bladder.
There's villainous news abroad: here was Sir John
Braby from your father; you must go to the court in
the morning. That same mad fellow of the North,
Percy—and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the bastinado,
and made Lucifer a cuckold, and swore the devil
his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook, what
a plague call you him—
Poins.
O, Glendower.
Fal.
Owen, Owen; the same; and his son-in-law
Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly
Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs a horseback up a hill
perpendicular.
P. Henry.
He that rides at high speed, and with a
* note pistol kills a sparrow flying.
Fal.
You have hit it.
P. Henry.
So did he never the sparrow.
Fal.
Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him, he
will not run.
P. Henry.
Why, what a rascal art thou then, to
praise him so for running?
Fal.
A horseback, ye cuckow!—But afoot, he will
not budge a foot.
P. Henry.
Yes, Jack, upon instinct† note.
Fal.
I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there
too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more.
Worcester is stol'n away by night: Thy father's beard
is turn'd white with the news: you may buy land now
as cheap as stinking mackarel.
P. Henry.
Then 'tis like, if there come a hot June,
and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads,
as they buy hob-nails, by the hundred.
Fal.
By the mass, lad, thou say'st true; it is like
we shall have good trading, that way. But tell me,
Hal, art not thou horribly afeard? thou being heir-apparent,
could the world pick thee out three such
-- 41 --
enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that sprite Percy,
and that devil Glendower? art thou not horribly afraid?
doth not thy blood thrill at it?
P. Henry.
Not a whit, i'faith: I lack some of thy
instinct.
Fal.
Well, thou wilt be horribly chid, to-morrow,
when thou comest to thy father. If thou do love me,
practise an answer* note
Re-enter the Hostess.
Host.
O, my Lord, my Lord!
Fal.
Heigh, heigh! the devil rides upon a fiddle-stick.
What's the matter?
Host.
The sheriff and all the watch are at the door:
they are come to search the house. Shall I let them
in?
Fal.
Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of
gold a counterfeit. Thou art essentially mad, without
seeming so.
P. Henry.
And thou a natural coward, without instinct.
Fal.
I deny your major. If you will deny the sheriff,
so; if not, let him enter. If I become not a cart as
well as another man, a plague on my bringing-up: I
hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter, as another.
P. Henry.
Call in the sheriff.
[Exit Hostess.
Go hide thee behind the arras, the rest walk up above.
Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.
Fal.
Both which I have had; but their date is out,
and therefore I'll hide me.
[Exeunt Falstaff, Bardolph, &c.
Enter Sheriff and Carrier.
P. Henry.
Now, master Sheriff, what is your will with me?
Sher.
First, pardon me, my Lord! a hue and cry
Hath follow'd certain men unto this house.
-- 42 --
P. Henry.
What men?
Sher.
One of them is well known, my gracious Lord!
A gross fat man.
Car.
As fat as butter.
P. Henry.
The man, I do assure you, is not here,
For I myself at this time have employ'd him;
And, Sheriff, I engage my word to thee,
That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time,
Send him to answer thee, or any man,
For any thing he shall be charg'd withal:
And so, let me intreat you, leave the house.
Sher.
I will, my Lord. There are two gentlemen
Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.
P. Henry.
It may be so. If he have robb'd these men,
He shall be answerable: and so farewell.
Sher.
Good night, my noble Lord.
P. Henry.
I think it is good morrow, is it not?
Sher.
Indeed, my Lord, I think it be two o'clock.
[Exit.
P. Henry.
This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's.
Go, call him forth.
Poins.
Falstaff!—Fast asleep behind the arras, and
snorting like a horse.
P. Henry.
Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search
his pockets.
[Poins searches his pockets, and finds certain papers.
What hast thou found?
Poins.
Nothing but papers, my Lord.
P. Henry.
Let's see, what be they?
[Takes a paper and reads.
Item. A capon, 2s. 6d.* note
Item. Sawce, 4d.
Item. Sack, two gallons, 5s. 8d.
Item. Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d.
Item. Bread, a halfpenny.
O monstrous! but one halfpenny-worth of bread,
to this intolerable deal of sack! what there is else
-- 43 --
keep close, we'll read it at more advantage; there
let him sleep till day. I'll to the court in the morning:
we must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honourable.
I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot, and,
I know, his death will be a march of twelve score.
The money shall be paid back again with advantage.
Be with me betimes in the morning: and so, good
morrow, Poins.
Poins.
Good morrow, my Lord.
[Exeunt.
note
ACT III.* [Footnote:
Scene
SCENE changes to the Presence-Chamber in Windsor.
† noteEnter King Henry, Prince of Wales, Lords, and others.
‡ noteKing Henry.
Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I
Must have some private conference; but be near,
For we shall presently have need of you.—
[Ex. Lords.
I know not whether heaven will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That in his secret doom, out of my blood,
He breeds revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life,
Make me believe that thou art only mark'd
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heav'n,
-- 44 --
To punish my mis-treadings. Tell me else,
Could such inordinate and low desires;
Such barren, base, such lewd, such mean attempts;
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood,
And hold their level with thy princely heart?
P. Henry.
So please your Majesty, I wish I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse,
As well as, I am doubtless, I can purge
Myself of many I am charg'd withal:
Yet such extenuation let me beg,
I may for some things true (wherein my youth
Hath faulty wander'd, and irregular)
Find pardon, on my true submission.* note
K. Henry.
Heav'n pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger brother is supply'd;
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the Court, and Princes of my blood:
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession,
And left me, in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark, nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But like a comet I was wonder'd at!
That men would tell their children, This is he;
Others would say, Where? which is Bolingbroke?
But now there's not an eye
But is a-weary of thy common sight,
Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;
Which now doth, what I would not have it do,
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
-- 45 --
P. Henry.
I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious Lord,
Be more myself.
K. Henry.
For all the world,
As thou art at this hour, was Richard then,
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;
And ev'n as I was then, is Percy now.
Now, by my scepter, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the state,
Than thou, the shadow of succession!
For, of no right, nor colour like to right,
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
Turns head against the lion's armed jaws;
And, being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and rev'rend bishops on,
To bloody battles, and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got,
Against renowned Douglas!
Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars, in swathing-clothes,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises,
Discomfited great Douglas, ta'en him once,
Enlarg'd him, and made a friend of him,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,
And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
Th' archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, and Mortimer,
Capitulate against us, and are up.
But wherefore do I tell this news to thee?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?
For thou art like enough, through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
To fight against me under Percy's pay;
To dog his heels, and court'sy at his frowns,
To shew how much thou art degenerate.* note
P. Henry.
Do not think so! you shall not find it so!
And heav'n forgive them that so much have sway'd
-- 46 --
Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head,
And in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you, that I am your son;
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
Which, washt away, shall scow'r my shame with it:
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet:
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I shall make this Northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my Lord,
T'engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call him to so strict account,
That he shall render every glory up,
Or I will tear the reck'ning from his heart.
This, in the name of heav'n, I promise here;
The which if I perform, and do survive,
I do beseech your Majesty may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperature:
If not, the end of life cancels all bonds;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.* note
K. Henry.
A hundred thousand rebels die in this!
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.
Enter Blunt.
How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.
Blunt.
So is the business that I come to speak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word,
That Douglas and the English rebels met,
-- 47 --
Th' eleventh of this month, at Shrewsbury:
A mighty and a pow'rful head they are,
If promises be kept on every hand,
As ever offer'd foul play in a state.
K. Henry.
The earl of Westmorland set forth, to-day,
With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;
For this advertisement is five days old.
On Wednesday next, Harry, thou shalt set forward;
On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting
Is at Bridgnorth; and, Harry, you shall march
Thro' Glo'stershire: By which, some twelve days hence,
Our general forces at Bridgnorth shall meet.
Our hands are full of business: let's away,
Advantage feeds them fat, while we delay.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE changes to the Boar's-Head Tavern, in East-cheap.
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.
Fal.
Bardolph, am not I fall'n away vilely since this
last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? why,
my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown:
I am wither'd like an old apple-john. Well, I'll repent,
and that suddenly, while I am in some liking;
I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no
strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the
inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a
brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company,
villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
Bard.
Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live
long.
Fal.
Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy
song, to make me merry. I was as virtuously given as
a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough, swore little,
diced not above seven times a week, went to a bawdy-house
not above once in a quarter—of an hour; paid
money, that I borrow'd—three or four times; liv'd well,
and in good compass; and now I live out of all order,
out of all compass.
-- 48 --
Bard.
Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must
needs be out of all compass; out of all reasonable compass,
Sir John.
Fal.
Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my
life. Thou art our admiral; he beareth the lanthorn
in the poop, but 'tis in the nose of thee. Thou art
the knight of the burning-lamp.
Bard.
Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.
Fal.
No, I'll be sworn, I make as good use of it
as many a man doth of a death's-head, or a memento
mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire;
when thou rann'st up Gads-hill in the night, to catch
my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an Ignis
Fatuus, or a ball of wild-fire, there's no purchase in
money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting
bonfire light! Thou hast saved me many a thousand
marks, in links and torches, walking with thee in the
night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack that
thou hast drunk me, would have bought me lights as
cheap, at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have
maintain'd that Salamander of your's with fire, any
time this two-and-thirty years, heav'n reward me for
it!* note
Bard.
I would, my face were in your belly.
Fal.
So should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.
Enter Hostess.
How now, dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired
yet who pick'd my pocket?
Host.
Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John?
do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have
search'd, I have enquir'd, so has my husband, man by
man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tythe of a
hair was never lost in my house before.
Fal.
Ye lie, Hostess! I'll be sworn my pocket was
pick'd. Go to; you are a woman, go.
-- 49 --
Host.
Who I? I defy thee. I was never call'd so in
mine own house, before.
Fal.
Go to; I know you well enough.
Host.
No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John.
I know you, Sir John; you owe me money, Sir John;
and now you pick a quarrel, to beguile me of it. I
bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.
Fal.
Dowlas, filthy dowlas! I have given them
away to bakers' wives, and they have made boulters
of them.
Host.
Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight
shillings an ell. You owe money here, besides, Sir
John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and money lent
you, four and twenty pounds.
* noteFal.
He had his part of it: let him pay.
Host.
He? alas! he is poor; he hath nothing.
Fal.
How! poor? look upon his face: what call
you rich? let him coin his nose, let him coin his
cheeks; I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make
a yonker of me? shall I not take mine ease in mine inn,
but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a seal-ring
of my grandfather's, worth forty marks.
Host.
I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not
how oft, that the ring was copper.
Fal.
How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup;
and if he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if
he would say so.
[a March.
Enter Prince Henry marching, and Peto; Falstaff meets them.
Fal.
How now, lad, is the wind in that door? must
we all march?
Bard.
Yea; two and two, Newgate-fashion.
Host.
My Lord, I pray you hear me.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? how
-- 50 --
does your husband? I love him well; he is an honest
man.
Host.
Good my Lord, hear me.
Fal.
Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou, Jack?
Fal.
The other night I fell asleep here behind the
arras, and had my pocket pickt. This house is turn'd
bawdy-house; they pick pockets.
P. Henry.
What didst thou lose, Jack?
Fal.
Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds,
of forty pounds apiece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.
P. Henry.
A trifle, some eight-penny matter!
Host.
So I told him, my Lord; and I said, I heard
your Grace say so: and, my Lord, he speaks most vilely
of you, like a foul-mouth'd man as he is, and said, he
would cudgel you.
P. Henry.
What! he did not?
Host.
There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood, in
me else.
Fal.
There's no more faith in thee, than in a stew'd
prune; no more truth in thee, than in a drawn fox;
and for womanhood, maid Marian may be a deputy's
wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go!
Host.
Say, what thing! what thing!
Fal.
What thing? why a thing to thank heaven on.
Host.
I am nothing to thank heaven on, I would
thou should'st know it; I am an honest man's wife;
and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to
call me so.
Fal.
Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast
to say otherwise.
Host.
A beast!—say what beast, thou knave, thou?
Fal.
What beast? why, an otter.
P. Henry.
An otter, Sir John, why an otter?
Fal.
Why she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows
not where to have her.
Host.
Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou or
any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou
-- 51 --
P. Henry.
Thou say'st true, hostess, and he slanders
thee most grossly.
Host.
So he doth you, my Lord, and said, this other
day, you ow'd him a thousand pound.
P. Henry.
Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?
Fal.
A thousand pound, Hal! a million; thy love is
worth a million: thou ow'st me thy love.
Host.
Nay, my Lord, he call'd you Jack, and said
he would cudgel you.
Fal.
Did I, Bardolph?
Bard.
Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
Fal.
Yea, if he said my ring was copper.
P. Henry.
I say 'tis copper. Dar'st thou be as good
as thy word, now?
Fal.
Why, Hal, thou know'st, as thou art but a man,
I dare; but as thou art a prince, I fear thee, as I fear
the roaring of a lion's whelp.
P. Henry.
And why not as the lion?
Fal.
The king himself is to be fear'd as the lion:
dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay,
if I do, let my girdle break!
P. Henry.
O, if it should, how would thy guts fall
about thy knees! why, thou whorson, impudent, imboss'd* note
rascal, if there were any thing in thy pocket
but tavern-reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses,
and one poor penny-worth of sugar-candy, to make thee
long-winded; and yet you will stand to it, you will not
pocket up wrongs. Art thou not asham'd?
Fal.
Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know'st, in the
state of innocency, Adam fell; and what should poor
Jack Falstaff do, in the days of villainy? thou seest,
I have more flesh than another man, and therefore
more frailty. You confess then you pickt my pocket?
P. Henry.
It appears so by the story.
Fal.
Hostess, I forgive thee. Go, make ready
breakfast, love thy husband, look to thy servants, and
cherish thy guests; thou shalt find me tractable to any
-- 52 --
honest reason; thou seest I am pacify'd still. Nay,
I pr'ythee be gone.
[Exit Hostess.
Now, Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery,
lad—how is that answer'd?
P. Henry.
The money is paid back again.
Fal.
O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double
labour.
P. Henry.
I am good friends with my father, and
may do any thing.
Fal.
Rob me the Exchequer, the first thing thou dost,
and do it with unwash'd hands too.
Bard.
Do, my Lord.
P. Henry.
I have procur'd thee, Jack, a charge of
foot.
Fal.
I would, it had been of horse. Where shall I
find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of
two-and-twenty, or thereabout! I am heinously unprovided.
Well, heaven be thank'd for these rebels, they
offend none but the virtuous! I laud them, I praise
them.
P. Henry.
Bardolph.
Bard.
My Lord?
P. Henry.
Go, bear this letter to Lord John of
Lancaster, to my brother John; this to my lord of
Westmoreland. Jack, meet me, to-morrow, in the
Temple-hall, at two o'clock in the afternoon; there
shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive money
and order for their furniture.
The land is burning, Percy stands on high,
And either they, or we, must lower lie.
Fal.
Rare words! brave world! hostess, my breakfast, come:
Oh! I could wish this tavern were my drum.
[Exeunt.
note
-- 53 --
ACT IV.
Scene
SCENE changes to Shrewsbury.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.
Hotspur.
Well said, my noble Scot! if speaking truth,
In this fine age, were not thought flattery,
Such attribution should the Douglas have,
As not a soldier of this season's stamp,
Should go so gen'ral current through the world.
By heaven, I cannot flatter! I defy
The tongues of soothers; but a braver place
In my heart's love, hath no man than yourself:
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, Lord.
Dou.
Thou art the king of honour;
No man so potent breathes upon the ground,
But I will beard him.
Enter a Messenger.
Hot.
Do so, and 'tis well—what letters hast thou there?—
Mes.
These come from your father.
Hot.
Letters from him? why comes he not himself?
Mes.
He cannot come, my Lord; he's grievous sick.
Hot.
Heavens! how has he the leisure to be sick* note,
In such a justling time? who leads his power?
Under whose government come they along?
Mes.
His letters bear his mind, not I, my Lord.
Hot.
His mind!
Wor.
I pr'ythee tell me, doth he keep his bed?
Mes.
He did, my Lord, four days ere I set forth;
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear'd by his physicians.
[Exit.
-- 54 --
Wor.
I would the state of time had first been whole,
Ere he by sickness had been visited:
His health was never better worth than now.
Hot.
Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect
The very life-blood of our enterprize;
'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.
He writes me here, that inward sickness—
And that his friends, by deputation,
Could not so soon be drawn:
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
That with our small conjunction we should on,
To see how fortune is dispos'd to us;
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the King is certainly possest
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
Wor.
I well could wish your father had been here:
The quality and hair of our attempt,
Brooks no division. It will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence.
This absence of your father draws a curtain,
That shews the ignorant a kind of fear,
Before not dreamt upon.
Hot.
You strain too far.
I rather of his absence make this use:
It lends a lustre and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprize,
Than if the earl were here; for men must think,
If we without his help can make a head,
To push against the kingdom, with his help
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.
Dou.
As heart can think; there is not such a word
Spoke of in Scotland, as this term of fear.
Enter Sir Richard Vernon.
Hot.
My Cousin Vernon, welcome, by my soul!
Ver.
Pray heaven my news be worth a welcome, Lord.
-- 55 --
The earl of Westmorland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherward, with Prince John.
Hot.
No harm: what more?
Ver.
And further, I have learn'd,
The King himself in person hath set forth,
Or hitherwards intended speedily,
With strong and mighty preparation.
Hot.
He shall be welcome, too. Where is his son,
The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daft the world aside,
And bid it pass?
Ver.
All furnish'd, all in arms* note,
All plum'd like estridges, that with the wind
Baited like eagles, having lately bath'd;
Glittering in golden coats like images,
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at Midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rise from the ground, like feather'd Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
Hot.
No more, no more! worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come:
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of smokey war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them.
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours. Come, let me take my horse,
-- 56 --
Who is to bear me, like a thunder-bolt,
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales.
Harry to Harry shall (and horse to horse)
Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a coarse.
Oh, that Glendower were come!
Ver.
There is more news.
I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days,
Dou.
That's the worst tidings that I hear of, yet.
Wor.
Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
Hot.
What may the King's whole battle reach unto?
Ver.
To thirty thousand.
Hot.
Forty let it be:
My father and Glendower being both away,
The power of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily;
Doom's-day is near: die all, die merrily.
[A march.
[Exeunt
Scene
SCENE changes to a public road, near Coventry.
Enter Falstaff and 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.
And if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it
make twenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage.
Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town's end.
Bard.
I will, captain; farewel.
[Exit.
Fal.
If I be not asham'd of my soldiers, I am a souc'd
gurnet: I have mis-us'd the King's press, damnably.
I have got, in exchange of an hundred and fifty soldiers,
three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none
but good housholders, yeomens sons; inquire me out
contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on
the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves as had
-- 57 --
as lieve hear the devil, as a drum; such as fear the report
of a caliber worse than a struck fowl, or a hurt
wild-duck. I press me none but such toasts and butter,
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, and such as indeed were never soldiers,
but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons
to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n,
the cankers of a calm world and long peace;
and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have
bought out their services, that you would think I had
a hundred and fifty tatter'd 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 press'd the dead bodies. No
eye hath seen such scare-crows. 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* note on;
for, indeed, I had the most of them out of prison.
There's but a shirt and a half, in all my company; and
the half shirt is two napkins tack'd together, and thrown
over the shoulders, like a herald's coat without sleeves:
and the shirt, to say the truth, stol'n from my host of
St. Albans, or the red-nos'd innkeeper of Daintry. But
that's all one, they'll find linen enough, on every
hedge† note.
Enter Prince Henry and Westmorland.
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 Westmorland,
-- 58 --
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, to-night.
Fal.
Tut, never fear me, I am as vigilant, as a cat
to steal cream.
P. Henry.
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. Henry.
I did never see such pitiful rascals.
Fal.
Tut, tut, good enough to toss; food for powder,
food for powder; they'll fill a pit, as well as better:
tush, man; mortal men, mortal men.
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
learn'd that of me.
P. Henry.
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 encamp'd?
West.
He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long.
Fal.
Well,
The latter end of a fray, and beginning of a feast,
Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE changes to Shrewsbury.
[A march.
Enter Hot-spur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon.
Hot.
We'll fight with him, to-night.
Wor.
It may not be.
Dou.
You give him then advantage.
Ver.
Not a whit.
Hot.
Why say you so? looks he not for supply?
Ver.
So do we.
-- 59 --
Hot.
He is certain, ours is doubtful.
Wor.
Good cousin, be advis'd; stir not, to-night.
Ver.
Do not, my Lord.
Dou.
You do not counsel well;
You speak it out of fear, and from cold heart.
Ver.
Do me no slander, Douglas. By my life,
And I dare well maintain it with my life,
If well-respected honour bid me on,
I hold as little counsel with weak fear,
As you, my Lord, or any Scot that lives:
Let it be seen, to-morrow, in the battle,
Which of us fears.
Dou.
Yea, or to-night.
Ver.
Content.
Hot.
To-night, say I* note
Ver.
Come, come, it may not be: I wonder much,
Being men of such great leading as you are,
That you foresee not what impediments
Drag back our expedition: certain horse
Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up;
Your uncle Worcester's horse came but to-day,
And now their pride and mettle is asleep,
Their courage with hard labour tame and dull.
Hot.
So are the horses of the enemy,
In gen'ral, journey-bated, and brought low:
The better part of ours are full of rest.
Wor.
The number of the King's exceedeth ours.
For heaven's sake, cousin, stay till all come in.
[The trumpet sounds a parley.
Enter Sir Walter Blunt.
Blunt.
I come with gracious offers from the King,
If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.
Hot.
Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to heaven
You were of our determination:
Some of us love you well; and ev'n those some
Envy your great deservings, and good name,
-- 60 --
Because you are not of our quality,
But stand against us like an enemy.
Blunt.
And heaven defend but still I should stand so,
So long as, out of limit and true rule,
You stand against anointed Majesty.
But, to my charge—the King hath sent to know
The nature of your griefs, and whereupon
You conjure from the breast of civil peace
Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land
Audacious cruelty. If that the King
Have any way your good deserts forgot,
Which he confesseth to be manifold,
He bids you name your griefs; and with all speed
You shall have your desires, with interest;
And pardon absolute for yourself, and these,
Herein misled by your suggestion* note.
Hot.
The King is kind; and well we know, the King
Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.
My father and my uncle, and myself,
Did give him that same royalty he wears;
And when he was not six-and-twenty strong,
Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low,
A poor unminded out-law, sneaking home,
My father gave him welcome to the shore;
And when we heard him swear, and vow to heaven,
He came to be but Duke of Lancaster,
My father. in kind heart and pity mov'd,
Swore him assistance, and perform'd it too.
Now, when the lords and barons of the realm
Perceiv'd Northumberland did lean to him,
They, more or less, came in with cap and knee;
Met him in boroughs, cities, villages;
Laid gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths,
As pages followed him,
Even at the heels, in golden multitudes.
He presently, as greatness knows itself,
Steps me a little higher than his vow
-- 61 --
Made to my father, while his blood was poor,
Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurg:
And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform
Some certain edicts, and some strait decrees,
That lay too heavy on the commonwealth;
Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep
Over his country's wrongs; and by this face,
This seeming brow of justice, did he win
The hearts of all that he did angle for:
Proceeded further, cut me off the heads
Of all the fav'rites of the absent King,
In deputation left behind him here,
When he was personal in the Irish war* note.
Blunt.
I came not to hear this.
Hot.
Then, to the point—
In short time after, he depos'd the King;
Soon after that, depriv'd him of his life;
And, in the neck of that, task'd the whole state:
To make that worse, suffer'd his kinsman March,
(Who is, if every owner were right plac'd,
Indeed, his King) to be engag'd in Wales,
There without ransom to lie forfeited;
Disgrac'd me in my happy victories,
Sought to entrap me by intelligence,
Rated my uncle from the council-board,
In rage dismiss'd my father from the court,
Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong,
And, in conclusion, drove us to seek out
This head of safety, and withal to pry
Into his title too, the which we find
Too indirect for long continuance.
Blunt.
Shall I return this answer to the King?
Hot.
Not so, Sir Walter; we'll withdraw, a while.
Go to the King, and let there be impawn'd
Some surety for a safe return again;
And in the morning early shall my uncle
-- 62 --
Bring him our purposes: and so farewel.
Blunt.
I would you would accept of grace and love!
Hot.
It may be so we shall.
Blunt.
Pray heaven, you do!
[Exeunt.* note
ACT V.
Scene
SCENE, the Camp at Shrewsbury.
King Henry, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmorland, Sir Walter Blunt, Falstaff, &c. discoverd.
King Henry.
How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale,
At his distemperature.
[The trumpet sounds.
Enter Worcester, and Sir Richard Vernon.
K. Henry.
How now, my Lord of Wor'ster? 'tis not well,
That you and I should meet upon such terms,
As now we meet. You have deceiv'd our trust,
And made us doff our easy robes of peace,
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel:
This is not well, my Lord, this is not well
What say you to't? will you again unknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,
And move in that obedient orb again,
Where you did give a fair and natural light;
And be no more an exhal'd meteor,
-- 63 --
A prodigy of fear, and a portent
Of broached mischief, to the unborn times?
Wor.
Hear me, my Liege:—
For mine own part, I could be well content
To entertain the lag-end of my life,
With quiet hours; for, I do protest,
I have not sought the day of this dislike.
K. Henry.
You have not sought it, Sir! how comes it then?
Fal.
Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.
P. Henry.
Peace, chewet* note! peace!
Wor.
It pleas'd your Majesty to turn your looks
Of favour from myself, and all our house;
And yet, I must remember you, my Lord,
We were the first and dearest of your friends:
For you my staff of office did I break,
In Richard's time, and posted day and night,
To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand;
When yet you were, in place, and in account,
Nothing so strong and fortunate as I:
It was myself, my brother, and his son,
That brought you home, and boldly did out-dare
The dangers of the time. You swore to us,
(And you did swear that oath at Doncaster)
That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state,
Nor claim no further than your new-fall'n right,
The seat of Gaunt, Dukedom of Lancaster:
To this we sware our aid: but in short space
It rain'd down fortune show'ring on your head,
And such a flood of greatness fell on you,
What with our help, what with the absent King,
That, being fed by us, you us'd us so,
As that ungentle gull, the cuckow's bird† note,
Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest,
Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk,
-- 64 --
That ev'n our love durst not come near your sight,
For fear of swallowing; but, with nimble wing,
We were inforc'd, for safety's sake, to fly
Out of your sight, and raise this present head* note.
K. Henry.
These things, indeed, you have articulated,
Proclaim'd at market-crosses, read in churches,
To face the garment of rebellion;
And never yet did insurrection want
Such water-colours to impaint his cause;
Nor moody beggars, starving for a time
Of pell-mell havock and confusion.
P. Henry.
In both our armies, there is many a soul
Shall pay full dearly for this bold encounter,
If once they join in tryal. Tell your nephew,
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world,
In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes,
(This present enterprize set off his head)
I do not think a braver gentleman,
More active-valiant, or more valiant-young,
More daring, or more bold, is now alive,
To grace this latter age with noble deed.
For my part (I may speak it to my shame)
I have a truant been to chivalry,
And so, I hear, he doth account me too:
Yet this, before my father's Majesty—
I am content that he shall take the odds
Of his great name and estimation,
And will, to save the blood on either side,
Try fortune with him in a single fight.
K. Henry.
And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee† note;
-- 65 --
Albeit, considerations infinite
Do make against it. No, good Wor'ster, no:
We love our people well, even those we love
That are misled upon your cousin's part;
And, will they take the offer of our grace,
Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man,
Shall be my friend again, and I'll be his:
So tell your cousin, and return me word
What he will do. But if he will not yield,
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,
And they shall do their office. So, be gone;
We will not now be troubled with reply!
We offer fair, take it advisedly.
[Exit Worcester, with Vernon.
P. Henry.
It will not be accepted, on my life.
The Douglas and the Hot-spur, both together,
Are confident against the world in arms.
K. Henry.
Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge;
For on their answer will we set on them:
And heav'n befriend us, as our cause is just!
[Exeunt.
Manent Prince Henry and Falstaff.
Fal.
Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, and
bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship.
P. Henry.
Nothing but a Colossus can do thee that
friendship: say thy prayers, and farewel.
Fal.
I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all well.
P. Henry.
Why, thou owest heaven a death.
Fal.
Ay, but 'tis not due yet: I would be loth to
pay him before his day. [Exit Prince.] What need I
be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well,
'tis no matter, honour pricks me on. But how if honour
prick me off, when I come on? how then? can
honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take
away the grief of a wound? no, honour hath no skill
in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word.
What is that word, honour? air; a trim reckoning.
Who hath it? he that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel
it? no. Doth he hear it? no. Is it insensible, then?
-- 66 --
yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living?
no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll
none of it: honour is a mere scutcheon; and so ends
my catechism* note.
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE changes to Percy's Camp.
Enter Worcester and Sir Richard Vernon.
Wor.
O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,
The liberal kind offer of the King.
Ver.
'Twere best, he did.
Wor.
Then we are all undone:
It is not possible, it cannot be,
The King should keep his word in loving us;
Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know,
In any case, the offer of the King.
Ver.
Deliver what you will, I'll say, 'tis so.
Here comes your cousin.
Enter Hot-spur and Douglas.
Hot.
My uncle is return'd.
Deliver up my Lord of Westmorland.
Uncle, what news?
Wor.
The King will bid you battle, presently.
Dou.
Defy him, by the Lord of Westmorland.
Hot.
Lord Douglas, go you then, and tell him so.
Dou.
Marry, I shall, and very willingly.
[Exit Douglas.
Wor.
There is no seeming mercy in the King.
Hot.
Did you beg any? heav'n forbid!
Wor.
I told him gently of our grievances,
Of his oath breaking, which he mended thus,
By now forswearing that he is forsworn.
He calls us rebels, traitors, and will scourge,
With haughty arms, this hateful name in us.
-- 67 --
Enter Douglas.
Dou.
Arm, gentlemen, to arms; for I have thrown
A brave defiance in King Henry's teeth:
And Westmorland, that was engag'd, did bear it;
Which cannot chuse but bring him quickly on.
Wor.
The Prince of Wales stept forth before the King,
And, nephew, challeng'd you to single fight.
Hot.
O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads,
And that no man might draw short breath to-day,
But I and Harry Monmouth! tell me, tell me,
How shew'd his talking? seem'd it in contempt?
Ver.
No, by my soul! I never in my life
Did hear a challenge urg'd more modestly,
Unless a brother should a brother dare
To gentle exercise and proof of arms:
He gave you all the duties of a man,
Trim'd up your praises with a princely tongue,
Spoke your deservings like a chronicle,
Making you ever better than his praise;
And, which became him like a Prince indeed,
He made a blushing cital* note of himself,
And chid his truant youth with such a grace,
As if he master'd there a double spirit,
Of teaching, and of learning, instantly.
There did he pause: but let me tell the world,
If he out-live the envy of this day,
England did never owe so sweet a hope,
So much misconstrued in his wantonness† note.
Hot.
Cousin, I think, thou art enamoured
Upon his follies:
But be he as he will, yet, once ere night
I will embrace him with a soldier's arm,
That he shall shrink under my courtesy.
Arm, arm with speed!
-- 68 --
Enter a Messenger.
Mess.
My Lord, here are letters for you.
Hot.
I cannot read them now.
O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long,
Tho' life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at th' arrival of an hour:
And if we live, we live to tread on Kings;
If die, brave death, when princes die with us* note!
Enter another Messenger.
Mess.
My Lord, prepare; the King comes on apace.
Hot.
I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale,
For I profess not talking; only this,
Let each man do his best. And here I draw my sword,
Whose worthy temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal,
In the adventure of this perilous day.
Sound all the lofty instruments of war,
And by that musick let us all embrace;
For (heaven to earth) some of us never shall
A second time do such a courtesy.
[They embrace. The Trumpets sound.
Now, Esperance!—Percy!—and set on.
[Exeunt.
Alarm to the Battle. Enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt.
Blunt.
What is thy name, that thus in battle crossest me?
What honour dost thou seek upon my head?
Dou.
Know then, my name is Douglas,
And I do haunt thee in the battle thus,
Because some tell me that thou art a King.
Blunt.
They tell thee true.
Dou.
The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought
Thy likeness; for, instead of thee, King Harry,
-- 69 --
This sword hath ended him; so shall it thee,
Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
Blunt.
I was not born to yield, thou haughty Scot,
And thou shalt find a King that will revenge
Lord Stafford's death.
Fight, Blunt is slain: then enter Hotspur.
Hot.
O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,
I ne'er had triumph'd o'er a Scot.
Dou.
All's done, all's won, here breathless lies the
King.
Hot.
Where?
Dou.
Here.
Hot.
This, Douglas? no; I know his face, full well:
A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt,
Semblably furnish'd like the King himself.
Dou.
Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a King?
Hot.
Up, and away!
Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.
[Exeunt.
Alarm. Enter Falstaff solus.
Fal.
Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear
the shot here: here's no scoring, but upon the pate.
Soft! who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt! There's honour
for you! here's no vanity. I am as hot as molten
lead, and as heavy too: heav'n keep lead out of me,
I need no more weight, than mine own bowels! I have
led my rag-o-muffins where they are pepper'd: there's
not three of my hundred-and-fifty left alive, and they
are for the town's-end, to beg during life. But who
come's here?
Enter Prince Henry.
P. Henry.
What, stand'st thou idle here? lend me thy sword:
Many a noble man lies stark and stiff,
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are unreveng'd. Lend me thy sword.
-- 70 --
Fal.
O, Hal, I pr'ythee give me leave to breathe a
while. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms,
as I have done, this day. I have paid Percy; I have
made him sure.
P. Henry.
He is, indeed, and living to kill thee.
I pr'ythee lend me thy sword.
Fal.
Nay, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett'st not my
sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
P. Henry.
Give it me: what, is it in the case?
Fal.
Ay, Hal, 'tis hot. There's that will sack a city.
[The prince draws out a bottle of sack.
P. Henry.
What, is't a time to jest and dally, now?
[Throws it at him, and exit.
Fal.
If Percy be alive, I'll pierce him: if he do come
in my way, so; if he do not, if I come in his, willingly,
let him make a carbonado of me. I like not
such grinning honour, as Sir Walter hath. Give me
life, which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes
unlook'd-for, and there's an end.
Another part of the Field of Battle.
Alarm. Enter Hotspur, meeting Prince Henry.
Hot.
If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.
P. Henry.
Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name.
Hot.
My name is Harry Percy.
P. Henry.
Then I see
A very valiant rebel of that name.
I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,
To share with me in glory, any more:
Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,
Nor can one England brook a double reign,
Of Harry Percy, and the Prince of Wales.
Hot.
Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come
To end the one of us: And would to heav'n
Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!
P. Henry.
I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee;
And all the budding honours on thy crest,
I'll crop, to make a garland for my head.
Hot.
I can no longer brook thy vanities.
[Fight.
-- 71 --
Enter Falstaff.
Fal.
Well said, Hal; to it, Hal! Nay, you shall
find no boy's play here, I can tell you.
Enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead. The Prince kills Hotspur* note.
Hot.
Oh, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth!
I better brook the loss of brittle life,
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;
They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh:
But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool,
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop. O, I could prophecy,
But that the earthy and cold hand of death,
Lies on my tongue! No, Percy, thou art dust,
And food for—
[Dies.
P. Henry.
Worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well!
Ill-weav'd ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now two paces of the vilest earth,
Is room enough! this earth, that bears thee dead,
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heav'n!
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember'd in thy epitaph† note!
[He sees Falstaff.
-- 72 --
—What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? poor Jack, farewel!
I could have better spar'd a better man.
O, I should have a heavy miss of thee,
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a deer, to-day,
Though many a dearer in this bloody fray:
Imbowel'd will I see thee, by-and-by,
Till then, in blood by noble Percy lie.
[Exit.
Falstaff rises.
* noteFal.
Imbowel'd!—if thou imbowel me, to-day, I'll
give you leave to powder me, and eat me, to-morrow!
'Twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot
had paid me scot and lot, too. Counterfeit! I am no
counterfeit: to die is to be a counterfeit; for he is but
the counterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a
man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby
liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect
image of life indeed. The better part of valour is
discretion; in the which better part, I have saved my
life. I am afraid of this gun-powder Percy, though
he be dead. How, if he should counterfeit too, and
rise? I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit;
therefore I'll make him sure, yea, and I'll swear I
kill'd him. Why may not he rise, as well as I? nothing
confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me;
therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh,
come you along with me.
[Takes Hotspur on his back.
-- 73 --
Enter Prince Henry and Lord John of Lancaster.
P. Henry.
Come, Brother John, full bravely hast thou flesht
Thy maiden sword.
Lan.
But soft! whom have we here?
Did not you tell me this fat man was dead?
P. Henry.
I did; I saw him dead,
And breathless on the ground. Art thou alive?
Or is it fancy plays upon our eye-sight?
I pr'ythee speak, we will not trust our eyes
Without our ears! thou art not what thou seem'st.
Fal.
No, that's certain; I am not a double man;
but if I am not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There
is Percy for you: if your father will do me any honour,
so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself.
I look either to be earl or duke, I can assure you.
P. Henry.
Why, Percy I kill'd myself, and saw thee
dead.
Fal.
Did'st thou? lord! lord! how the world is giv'n
to lying! I grant you, I was down, and out of breath,
and so was he; but we rose both at an instant, and
fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock: If I may
be believ'd, so; if not, let them that should reward
valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I'll take't
on my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh:
if the man were alive, and would deny it, I would
make him eat a piece of my sword* note.
Lan.
This is the strangest tale that e'er I heard.
P. Henry.
This is the strangest fellow, brother John.
Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:
For my part, if a lye may do thee grace,
I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
[A retreat is sounded.
The trumpets sound retreat, the day is ours:
Come, brother, let's to the highest of the field—
To see what friends are living; who are dead!
[Exeunt.
-- 74 --
Fal.
I'll follow (as they say) for reward. He that
rewards me, heav'n reward him! if I do grow great,
I'll grow less; for I'll purge, and leave sack, and live
cleanly, as a nobleman should do.
[Exit.
The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Prince of Wales,
Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmorland, with
Worcester and Vernon prisoners.
K. Henry.
Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.
Ill-spirited Wor'ster, did we not send grace,
Pardon, and terms of love, to all of you?
And would'st thou turn our offers contrary?
Wor.
What I have done, my safety urg'd me to;
And I embrace this fortune patiently,
Since not to be avoided it falls on me.
K. Henry.
Bear Worcester to death, and Vernon too.
Other offenders we will pause upon.
[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded.
K. Henry.
Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway,
Meeting the check of such another day;
And since this business so far fair is done,
Let us not leave, till all our own be won.
[Exeunt.* note
