P. Henry.

Trust me, I am exceeding weary.

Poins.

Is it come to that? I had thought, weariness durst not have attach'd one of so high blood.

P. Henry.

It doth me, though it discolours the complexion of my Greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not shew vilely in me to desire small beer?

Poins.

Why, a Prince should not be so loosely studied, as to remember so weak a composition.

P. Henry.

Belike then, my appetite was not princely got; for, in troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But, indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with my Greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name? or to know thy face to morrow? or to take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast? (viz. these, and those that were the peach-colour'd ones;) or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as one for superfluity, and one other for use; but that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I, for it is a low ebb of linnen with thee, when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy low Countries have made a shift to eat up thy holland.^{2 note}

Poins.

How ill it follows, after you have labour'd so hard, you should talk so idly? tell me, how many good young Princes would do so, their fathers lying so sick as yours at this time is.

P. Henry.

Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?

Poins.

Yes, and let it be an excellent good thing.

P. Henry.

It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine.

Poins.

Go to; I stand the push of your one thing, that you'll tell.

P. Henry.

Why, I tell thee, it is not meet that I should be sad now my father is sick; albeit, I could tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend, I could be sad, and sad indeed too.

Poins.

Very hardly, upon such a subject.

P. Henry.

By this hand, thou think'st me as far in the Devil's book, as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and persistency. Let the end try the man. But, I tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick; and keeping such vile company, as thou art, hath in reason taken from me ^{3 note}

all ostentation of sorrow.

Poins.

The reason?

P. Henry.

What would'st thou think of me, if I should weep.

Poins.

I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.

P. Henry.

It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed fellow, to think as every man thinks. Never a man's thought in the world keeps the road-way

better than thine. Every man would think me an hypocrite, indeed. And what excites your most worshipful thought to think so?

Poins.

Why, because you have seemed so lewd, and so much ingraffed to Falstaff.

P. Henry.

And to thee.

Poins.

Nay, by this light, I am well spoken of, I can hear it with mine own ears; the worst they can say of me is, that I am a second brother, and that I am a ^{4 note}proper fellow of my hands; and those two things, I confess, I cannot help. Look, look, here comes Bardolph.

P. Henry.

And the Boy that I gave Falstaff; he had him from me christian, and, see, if the fat villain have not transform'd him ape.