Poins.
Fal.
Peace, good Dol, do not speak like a death's-head,
do not bid me remember mine end.
Dol.
Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of?
Fal.
A good shallow young fellow; he would have
made a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd bread
well.
Dol.
They say, Poins has a good wit.
Fal.
He a good wit? hang him, baboon!—his wit
is as thick as Tewksbury mustard, there is no more
conceit in him, than is in a mallet.
Dol.
Why doth the Prince love him so then?
Fal.
Because their legs are both of a bigness, and
he plays at quoits well, and 9 noteeats conger and fennel, and
drinks off candles' ends for flap dragons, and rides the
wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint-stools,
and swears with a good grace, and wears his boot very
smooth like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no
bate with telling of 1 notediscreet stories; and such other
gambol faculties he hath, that shew a weak mind and
an able body, for the which the Prince admits him,
for the Prince himself is such another, the weight of
an hair will turn the scales between their Averdupois.
P. Henry.
Would not this * noteNave of a wheel have
his ears cut off?
Poins.
Let us beat him before his whore.
P. Henry.
Look, if the wither'd Elder hath not his
poll claw'd like a Parrot.
Poins.
Is it not strange, that desire should so many
years out-live performance?
-- 283 --
Fal.
Kiss me, Dol.
P. Henry.
2 noteSaturn and Venus this year in conjunction!
what says the almanack to that?
Poins.
And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, his man,
be not 3 note
lisping to his master's old Tables, his note-book,
his counsel-keeper?
Fal.
Thou dost give me flattering busses.
Dol.
By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant
heart.
Fal.
I am old, I am old.
Dol.
I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy
young boy of them all.
Fal.
What stuff wilt thou have a kirtle of? I shall
receive money on Thursday. Thou shalt have a cap to
morrow. A merry song, come—it grows late, we
will to bed. Thou wilt forget me when I am gone.
Dol.
By my troth, thou wilt set me a weeping if
thou say'st so. Prove, that ever I dress myself handsom
till thy return—Well, hearken the end.
Fal.
Some sack, Francis.
P. Henry.
Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.
Fal.
4 noteHa! a bastard son of the King's! and art not
thou Poins his brother?
P. Henry.
Why, thou globe of sinful continents,
what a life dost thou lead?
Fal.
A better than thou: I am a gentleman, thou
art a drawer.
P. Henry.
Very true, Sir; and I come to draw you
out by the ears.
-- 284 --
Host.
Oh, the Lord preserve thy good Grace! Welcome
to London.—Now heav'n bless that sweet face of
thine. What, are you come from Wales?
Fal.
Thou whorson-mad compound of majesty, by
this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome.
[Leaning his hand upon Dol.
Dol.
How! you fat fool, I scorn you.
Poins.
My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge,
and turn all to a merriment, if you take not
the heat.
P. Henry.
You whorson 5 notecandle-mine, you, how
vilely did you speak of me even now, before this honest,
virtuous, civil gentlewoman?
Host.
'Blessing on your good heart, and so she is,
by my troth.
Fal.
Didst thou hear me?
P. Henry.
Yes; and you knew me, as you did when
you ran away by Gads-hill; you knew, I was at your
back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.
Fal.
No, no, no; not so; I did not think, thou
wast within hearing.
P. Henry.
I shall drive you then to confess the wilful
abuse, and then I know how to handle you.
Fal.
No abuse, Hal, on my honour, no abuse.
P. Henry.
Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler,
and bread-chipper, and I know not what!
Fal.
No abuse, Hal.
Poins.
No abuse!
Fal.
No abuse, Ned, in the world; honest Ned, none.
I disprais'd him before the wicked, that the wicked
might not fall in love with him; in which doing, I
have done the part of a careful friend, and a true subject.
—And thy father is to give me thanks for it. No
abuse, Hal, none, Ned, none; no, boys, none.
P. Henry.
See now, whether pure fear and entire
cowardise doth not make thee wrong this virtuous
-- 285 --
gentlewoman, to close with us? Is she of the wicked?
is thine Hostess here of the wicked? or is the boy of
the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in
his nose, of the wicked?
Poins.
Answer, thou dead Elm, answer.
Fal.
The fiend hath prickt down Bardolph irrecoverable,
and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he
doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy,
there is a good angel about him, but the devil out-bids
him too.
P. Henry.
For the women,—
Fal.
For one of them, she is in hell already, 6 noteand
burns, poor soul! for the other, I owe her mony;
and whether she be damn'd for that, I know not.
Host.
No, I warrant you.
Fal.
No, I think, thou art not; I think thou art
quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon
thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house,
contrary to the law, for the which, I think, thou wilt
howl.
Host.
All victuallers do so. What is a joint of mutton
or two in a whole Lent?
P. Henry.
You, gentlewoman.
Dol.
What says your Grace?
Fal.
His Grace says that, which his flesh rebels
against.
Host.
Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the
door there, Francis.
-- 286 --
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
