Poins.

Welcome, Jack; where hast thou been?

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 sow 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?

P. Henry.

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? (15) ^notepitiful-hearted Butter, that melted at the

sweet tale of the Sun? if thou didst, 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, God help, the while! a bad world; I say. (16) ^noteI would, I were a weaver; I could sing psalms, and all manner of songs. 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?

P. 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, an 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 such backing! give me them that will face me— Give me a cup of sack; I am a rogue, if I drunk to day.

P. Henry.

O villain, thy lips are scarce wip'd since thou drunk'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 hand-saw, 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.

Peto.

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 murthered some of them.

Fal.

Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two, I am sure, I have pay'd, 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.

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 listning 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 pay'd.

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.)

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 greasie tallow-catch—

Fal.

What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?

P. Henry.

Why, how could'st 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 horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,—

Fal.

Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dry'd neats-tongue, bull's pizzel, 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 thy self 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 now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and with a word, outfac'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 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.

By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. 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 shall think the better of my self, and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant Lion, and thou for a true Prince. But, by the lord, lads, I am glad you have the mony. 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.

Host.

O Jesu! 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?

P. Henry.

Pr'ythee, do, Jack.

Fal.

Faith, and I'll send him packing.

P. Henry.

Now, Sirs, by'r lady 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, fie!

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 hackt 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 stollest 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.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombast, 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 waste; I could have crept into any 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 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, Dowglas, that runs a horseback, up a hill perpendicular—

P. Henry.

He that rides at high speed, and with a 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.

Fal.

I grant ye, upon instinct: well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester is stoln away by night: thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.

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 enemies again as that fiend Dowglas, that spirit 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 com'st to thy father: if thou do love me, practise an answer.

P. Henry.

Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life.

Fal.

Shall I? content: this Chair shall be my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my Crown.

P. Henry.

Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald crown.

Fal.

Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved—Give me a cup of Sack to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, (17) ^noteand I will do it in King Cambyses' vein.

P. Henry.

Well, here is my leg.

Fal.

And here is my speech—Stand aside, Nobility—

Host.

This is excellent sport, i'faith.

Fal.
Weep not, sweet Queen, for trickling tears are vain.

Host.

O the father! how he holds his countenance?

Fal.
For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen,
For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Host.

O rare, he doth it as like one of those harlotry Players, as I ever see.

Fal.

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain— Harry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows: yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. Thou art my son; I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lyeth the point; why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed Son of heav'n

prove a micher, and eat black-berries? a question not to be ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? a question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our Land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keep'st; for, Harry, now do I not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also; and yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

P. Henry.

What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?

Fal.

A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a chearful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r-lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceives me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now; thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?

P. Henry.

Dost thou speak like a King? do thou stand for Me, and I'll play my father.

Fal.

Depose me?—If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbet-sucker, or a poulterer's hare.

P. Henry.

Well, here I am set.

Fal.

And here I stand; judge, my masters.

P. Henry.

Now, Harry, whence come you!

Fal.

My noble lord, from East-cheap.

P. Henry.

The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

Fal.

'Sblood, my lord, they are false.—Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young Prince.

P. Henry.

Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me; thou art violently carry'd away from grace; there's a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man: a tun of man is thy companion.

Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that boulting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stufft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manning-tree Ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

Fal.

I would, your Grace would take me with you: whom means your Grace?

P. Henry.

That villainous abominable mis-leader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Sathan.

Fal.

My lord, the man I know.

P. Henry.

I know, thou dost.

Fal.

But to say, I know more harm in him than in my self, were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more's the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but that he is, (saving your reverence,) a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked: if to be old and merry, be a sin, then many an old Host, that I know, is damn'd: if to be fat, be to be hated, then Pharoah's lean kine are to be lov'd. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is, old Jack Falstaff; banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

P. Henry.

I do, I will.

Bard.

O, my lord, my lord, the Sheriff with a most monstrous Watch, is at the door.

Fal.

Out, you rogue! play out the Play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

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.

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.

P. Henry.
Call in the Sheriff.— Enter Sheriff and Carrier.
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.

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 my self at this time have imploy'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 farewel.

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.

Peto.

Falstaff?—fast asleep, behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.

P. Henry.

Hark, how hard he fetches breath: search his pockets.

P. Henry.

What hast thou found?

Peto.

Nothing but papers, my lord.

P. Henry.

Let's see, what be they? read them.

Peto.
Item, a capon, 2 s. 2 d.
Item, Sawce, 4 d.
Item, Sack, two gallons, 5 s. 8 d.
Item, Anchoves and sack after supper, 2 s. 6 d.
Item, Bread, a halfpenny.

P. Henry.

O monstrous! but one halfpenny-worth of bread, to this intolerable deal of sack? What there is else, 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 change of foot, and, I know, his death will be a march of twelvescore. The mony shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so good morrow, Peto.

Peto.

Good morrow, good my lord.

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