Fal.
Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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.

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,

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.

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