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Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
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Scene 2 SCENE changes to a publick 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-top-hill to night.

Bard.

Will you give me mony, captain?

Fal.

Lay out, lay out.

Bard.

This bottel 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 coynage. 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 sowc'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; enquire me out contracted batchelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the banes: such a commodity of warm slaves, as had as lieve hear the devil, as a drum; such as fear the report of a culverin, 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

-- 414 --

services: and now my whole Charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the Glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but dis-carded unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers; revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; (19) note


ten times more dishonourably ragged, than an old-fac'd ancient; 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 prest the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such skare-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 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

-- 415 --

thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stoll'n from my Host of St. Albans; or the red-nos'd Inn-keeper of Daintry. But that's all one, they'll find linnen enough on every hedge.

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, I cry you mercy; I thought, your Honour had already been at Shrewsbury.

West.

'Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my Powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all; we must away all 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.

-- 416 --

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Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
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