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John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
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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. Ribinote, 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
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John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
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