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.

'Faith, it does 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 linen 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: ^{5 note}

that bawl out the ruins of thy linen, shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say, the children are not in the fault; whereupon the world encreases, and kindreds are mightily strengthen'd.

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 being 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 will 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 ^{6 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 roadway better than thine: every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful thought, to think so?

Poins.

Why, because you have been so lewd, and so much engraffed to Falstaff.

P. Henry.

And to thee.

Poins.

Nay, by this light, I am well spoken of, I can hear it with my own ears: the worst that they can say of me is, that I am a second brother, and that I am a ^{7 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.

Bard.

'Save your grace!

P. Henry.

And yours, most noble Bardolph!

^{8 note}Bard. [to the page.]

Come, you virtuous ass,9Q0732 you bashful fool, must you be blushing? wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man at arms are you become? Is it such a matter, to get a pottle-pot's maiden-head?

Page.

He call'd me even now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face

from the window: at last, I spy'd his eyes; and, methought, he had made two holes in the ale-wife's new petticoat,9Q0733 and peep'd through.

P. Henry.

Hath not the boy profited?

Bard.

Away, you whoreson upright rabbet, away!

Page.

Away, you rascally Althea's dream, away!

P. Henry.

Instruct us, boy: What dream, boy?

Page.

Marry, my lord, ^{9 note}Althea dream'd she was deliver'd of a firebrand; and therefore I call him her dream.

P. Henry.

A crown's-worth of good interpretation. —There it is, boy.

Poins.

O, that this good blossom could be kept from cankers!—Well, there is six-pence to preserve thee.

Bard.

An you do not make him be hang'd among you, the gallows shall have wrong.

P. Henry.

And how doth thy master, Bardolph?

Bard.

Well, my good lord. He heard of your grace's coming to town; there's a letter for you.

P. Henry.

Deliver'd with good respect.—And how doth ^{1 note}

Bard.

In bodily health, sir?

Poins.

Marry, the immortal part needs a physician: but that moves not him; though that be sick, it dies not.

P. Henry.

I do allow ^{2 note}this wen to be as familiar

with me as my dog: and he holds his place; for, look you, how he writes.

Poins reads.

John Falstaff, knight,—Every man must know that, as oft as he hath occasion to name himself. Even like those that are kin to the king; for they never prick their finger, but they say, There is some of the king's blood spilt: How comes that? says he, that takes upon him not to conceive: ^{3 note}the answer is as ready as a borrower's cap; I am the king's poor cousin, sir.

P. Henry.

Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter:—

Poins.

Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the king, nearest his father, Harry prince of Wales, greeting.—Why, this is a certificate.

^{4 note}P. Henry.

Peace!

Poins.

^{5 note}I will imitate the honourable Roman in brevity: —sure he means brevity in breath; short-winded. —I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses thy favours so much, that he swears, thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou may'st, and so farewel. Thine, by yea and no, (which is as much as to

say, as thou usest him) Jack Falstaff, with my familiars; John, with my brothers and sisters; and sir John, with all Europe.

My lord I will steep this letter in sack, and make him eat it.

P. Henry.

^{6 note}

Poins.

May the wench have no worse fortune! but I never said so.

P. Henry.

Well, thus we play the fool with the time; and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds, and mock us.—Is your master here in London?

Bard.

Yes, my lord.

P. Henry.

Where sups he? doth the old boar feed in the old ^{7 note}frank?

Bard.

At the old place, my lord; in East-cheap.

P. Henry.

What company?

Page.

^{8 note}
Ephesians, my lord; of the old church.

P. Henry.

Sup any women with him?

Page.

None, my lord, but old mistress Quickly, and mistress Doll Tear-sheet^{9 note}

.

P. Henry.

^{1 note}

Page.

A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master's.

P. Henry.

Even such kin, as the parish heifers are to the town bull.—Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper?

Poins.

I am your shadow, my lord; I'll follow you.

P. Henry.

Sirrah, you boy,—and Bardolph;—no word to your master, that I am yet come to town: There's for your silence.

Bard.

I have no tongue, sir.

Page.

And for mine, sir,—I will govern it.

P. Henry.

Fare ye well; go.—This Doll Tear-sheet should be some road.

Poins.

I warrant you, as common as the way between saint Alban's and London.

P. Henry.

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen?

Poins.

^{2 note}Put on two leather jerkins, and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers.

P. Henry.

From a god to a bull? ^{3 note}