King,
So shaken as we are, so wan with Care,
Find we a time for frighted Peace to pant:
No more shall trenching War channel her Fields,
Nor bruise her Flowrets with the armed Hoofs
Of Hostile Paces.
The edge of War, like an ill-sheathed Knife,
No more shall cut his Master. Then let me hear
Of you my gentle Cousin Westmerland,
What yesternight our Council did decree,
In forwarding this dear Expedience.

West.
My Liege: This haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the Charge set down
But yesternight: When all athwart there came
A Post from Wales, loaden with heavy News;
Whose worst was, That the Noble Mortimer,
Leading the Men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
And a thousand of his People butchered:
Upon whose dead Corps there was such misuse,

Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done, as may not be
(Without much shame) retold or spoken of.

King.
It seems then, that the tidings of this Broil,
Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West.
This matcht, with other like; my gracious Lord,
Far more uneven and unwelcome News
Came from the North, and thus it did report:
On Holy-Rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met, where they did spend
A sad and bloody hour:
As by discharge of their Artillery
And shape of likelihood the News was told:
For he that brought them, in the very Heat
And pride of their Contention, did take Horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

King.
Here is a dear and true industrious Friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his Horse,
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome News.
The Earl of Dowglas is discomfited,
Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights
Balk't in their own Blood did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon's Plains. Of Prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake Earl of Fife, and eldest Son
To beaten Dowglas, and the Earl of Athol,
Of Marry, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an Honourable Spoyl?
A gallant Prize? Ha, Cousin, is it not? In faith it is.

West.
A Conquest for a Prince to boast of.

King.
Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin,
In envy, that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the Father of so blest a Son:
Whil'st I by looking on the Praise of him,
See Ryot and Dishonour stain the Brow
Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov'd,
That some Night-tripping Fairy had exchang'd,
In Cradle-cloaths, our Children where they lay,
And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet:
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine:
But let him from my Thoughts. What think you, Coze,
Of this young Percie's Pride? The Prisoners,
Which he in this Adventure hath surpriz'd,
To his own use he keeps, and sends me word
I shall have none but Mardake Earl of Fife.

West.
This is his Uncles teaching. This is Worcester,
Malevolent to you in all Aspects:
Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up
The crest of Youth against your Dignity.

King.
But I have sent for him to answer this:
And for this cause a while me must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next, our Council we will hold
At Windsor, so inform the Lords,
But come your self with speed to us again,
For more is to be said, and to be done,
Than out of anger can be uttered.

West.
I will, my Liege. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter Henry Prince of Wales, Sir John Falstaff.

Fal.

Now Hal, what time of day is it, Lad?

Prince.

Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old Sack and unbuttoning thee after Supper, and sleeping upon Benches in the afternoon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly, which thou wouldst truly know. What a Devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? unless Hours were Cups of Sack, and Minutes Capons, and Clocks the Tongues of Bawds. I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous, to demand the time of the day.

Fal.

Indeed you came near me now, Hal. For we that take Purses, go by the Moon and seven Stars, and not by Phœbus, he, that wandring Knight so fair. And I pray thee sweet Wag, when thou art King, as God save thy Grace, Majesty I should say, for Grace thou wilt have none.

Prince.

What! none?

Fal.

No, not so much as will serve to be Prologue to an Egg and Butter.

Prince.

Well, how then? Come roundly, roundly.

Fal.

Marry then, sweet Wag, when thou art King, let not us that are Squires of the Nights-body, be call'd Thieves of the Days Beauty. Let us be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moon: and let Men say, we be Men of good Government, being governed as the Sea is, by our noble and chast Mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.

Prince.

Thou say'st well, and it holds well too: for the Fortune of us that are the Moons Men, doth ebb and flow like the Sea, being governed as the Sea is, by the Moon: as for proof. Now a Purse of Gold most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing, Laid by: And spent with crying,

Bring in: Now in as low an ebb, as the foot of the Ladder; and by and by in as high a flow as the ride of the Gallows.

Fal.

Thou say'st true, Lad: And is not my Hostess of the Tavern a most sweet Wench?

Prince.

As is the Honey, my old Lad of the Castle: and is not a Buff Jerkin a most sweet Robe of durance?

Fal.

How, how? how now mad Wag? What in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a Plague have I to do with a Buff Jerkin?

Prince.

Why, what a Pox have I to do with my Hostess of the Tavern?

Fal.

Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

Prince.

Did I ever call thee for to pay thy part?

Fal.

No, I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

Prince.

Yea and elsewhere, so far as my Coyn would stretch, and where it would not, I have us'd my Credit.

Fal.

Yea, and so us'd it, that were it here apparent, that thou art Heir apparent. But I prythee sweet Wag, shall there be Gallows standing in England when thou art King? and Resolution thus fobb'd as it is, with the rusty curb of old Father Antick the Law? Do not thou when thou art a King, hang a Thief.

Prince.

No, thou shalt.

Fal.

Shall I? O rare! I'll be a brave Judge.

Prince.

Thou judgest false already. I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the Thieves, and so become a rare Hangman.

Fal.

Well, Hal, well: and in some sort it jumps with my humour, as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.

Prince.

For obtaining of Suits?

Fal.

Yea, for obtaining of Suits, whereof the Hangman hath no lean Wardrobe. I am as melancholy as a Gyb-Cat, or a lugg'd Bear.

Prin.

Or an old Lion, or a Lovers Lute.

Fal.

Yea, or the Drone of a Lingcolnshire Bagpipe.

Prin.

What say'st thou to a Hare, or the Melancholly of Moor-Ditch?

Fal.

Thou hast the most unsavoury Similes, and art indeed the most comparative rascallest sweet young Prince. But, Hal, I prythee trouble me no more with vanity, I would thou and I knew, where a Commodity of good Names were to be bought: an old Lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, Sir; but I mark'd him not, and yet he talk'd very wisely, but I regarded him not, and yet he talkt wisely, and in the street too.

Prince.

Thou didst well: for no man regards it.

Fal.

O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harm unto me, Hal, God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing: and now I am (if a Man should speak truly) little better than one of the wicked. I must give

over this life, and I will give it over: and I do not, I am a Villain. I'le be damn'd for never a King's Son in Christendom.

Prin.

Where shall we take a Purse to morrow, Jack?

Fal.

Where thou wilt, Lad, I'll make one: and I do not, call me Villain, and baffle me.

Prin.

I see a good amendment of life in thee: From Praying, to Purse-taking.

Fal.

Why, Hal, 'tis my Vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a Man to labour in his Vocation.

Prin.

Good morrow, Ned.

Poin.

Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack and Sugar, Jack? How agrees the Devil and thee about thy Soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last, for a Cup of Madera, and a cold Capons leg?

Prin.

Sir John stands to his word, the Devil shall have his Bargain, for he was never yet a Breaker of Proverbs; He will give the Devil his due.

Poin.

Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the Devil.

Prin.

Else he had been damn'd for cozening the Devil.

Poin.

But, my Lads, my Lads, to morrow morning, by four a Clock early at Gads-hill, there are Pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich Offerings, and Traders riding to London with fat Purses. I have Vizards for you all; you have Horses for your selves: Gads hill lies to night in Rochester, I have bespoke Supper to morrow in Eastcheap; we may do it as secure as sleep: If you will go, I will stuff your Purses full of Crowns: If you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd.

Fal.

Hear ye Yedward, if I tarry at home, and go not, I'll hang you for going.

Poin.

You will, Chops.

Fal.

Hal, Wilt thou make one?

Prin.

Who, I rob? I a Thief? not I.

Fal.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellow-ship in thee, nor thou cam'st not of the Blood Royal, if thou dar'st not bid stand for ten Shillings.

Prin.

Well then, once in my days I'll be a Mad cap.

Fal.

Why, that's well said.

Prin.

Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

Fal.

I'le be a Traitor then, when thou art King.

Prin.

I care not.

Poin.

Sir John, I prethee leave the Prince and me a-lone, I will lay him down such Reasons for this Adventure, that he shall go.

Fal.

Well, may'st thou have the spirit of Perswasion; and he the Ears of profiting, that what thou speakest, may move; and what he hears

may be believed, that the true Prince may for (recreation sake) prove a false Thief; for the poor abuses of the time, want countenance. Farewell, you shall find me in East-cheap.

Prin.

Farewel the latter Spring. Farewel Allhollown Summer.

Poin.

Now, my good sweet honey Lord, ride with us to morrow. I have a jeast to execute, that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Harvey, Rossil, and Gads-hill, shall rob those men that we have already way-laid; your self and I will not be there: and when they have the Booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this Head from my Shoulders.

Prin.

But how shall we part with them in setting forth?

Poin.

Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they venture upon the Exploit themselves, which they have no sooner atchieved, but we'll set upon them.

Prin.

I, but 'tis like that they will know us by our Horses, by our Habits, and by every other Appointment to be our selves.

Poin.

Tut, our Horses they shall not see, I'le tye them in the wood; our Vizards we will change after we leave them: and, Sarrah, I have Cases of Buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward Garments.

Prin.

But I doubt they will be too hard for us.

Poin.

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred Cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees Reason, I'le forswear Arms. The vertue of this jeast will be, the incomprehensible lies that this fat Rogue will tell us, when we meet at Supper; how thirty at least he fought with, what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this, lies the Jeast.

Prin.

Well, I'le go with thee, provide us all things necessary, and meet me to morrow night in Eastcheap, there I'le sup. Farewel.

Poin.
Farewel, my Lord. [Exit Poins.

Prin.
I know you all, and will a while uphold
The unyoak'd Humour of your Idleness:
Yet herein will I imitate the Sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious Clouds
To smother up his Beauty from the World;
That when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wondred at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly Mists.
So when this loose Behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promised:
By how much better than my Word I am,
Bo so much shall I falsifie mens Hopes,
And like bright Metal on a sullen groud,
My Reformation glittering o're my Fault
Shall shew more goodly, and attract more Eyes,
Than that which hath no soyl to set it off.

I'll so offend, to make Offence a skill,
Redeeming time, when men think least I will. SCENE III. Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, and others.

King.
My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these Indignities,
And you have found me; for accordingly,
You tread upon my Patience: But be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be my self,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, then my condition,
Which hath been smooth as Oyl, soft as young Down,
And therefore lost the Title of Respect,
Which the proud ne're pays, but to the proud.

Wor.
Our House (my Soveraign Liege) little deserves
The scourge of Greatness to be used on it,
And that same Greatness too, which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.

Nor.
My Lord.

King.
Worcester get thee gone: for I do see
Danger and Disobedience in thine Eye.
O Sir, your Presence is too bold and peremptory,
And Majesty might never yet endure
The moody Frontier of a Servant brow,
You have good leave to leave us. When we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
You were about to speak.

North.
Yea, my good Lord.
Those Prisoners in your Highness Name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were (as he says) not with such strength deny'd
As was delivered to your Majesty:
Who either through envy, or misprision,
Was guilty of this fault: and not my Son.

Hot.
My Liege, I did deny no Prisoners.
But, I remember when the fight was done,
When I was dry with Rage, and extream Toyl,
Breathless and faint leaning upon my Sword,
Came there a certain Lord, neat and trimly drest;
Fresh as a Bride-groom, and his Chin new reapt,
Shew'd like a stubble Land at Harvest home.
He was perfumed like a Milliner,
And 'twixt his Finger and his Thumb, he held

A Civit-Box: which ever and anon
He gave his Nose, and took't away again:
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in Snuff. And still he smil'd and tlak'd:
And as the Soldiers bare dead Bodies by,
He call'd them untaught Knaves, Unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome Coarse
Betwixt the wind, and his Nobility.
With many Holiday and Lady terms
He question'd me: Among the rest, demanded
My Prisoners, in your Majesties behalf.
I then, all-smarting with my Wounds being cold,
(To be so pestered with a Popingay)
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd (neglectingly) I know not what,
He should or should not: For he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a Waiting-Gentlewoman,
Of Guns, and Drums, and Wounds: God save the mark;
And telling me, the Soveraign'st thing on Earth
Was Parmacity, for an inward Bruise:
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That Villanous Salt-peter should be digg'd
Out of the Bowels of the harmless Earth,
Which many a good tall Fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly. And but for these vile Guns,
He would himself have been a Souldier.
This bald, unjointed Chat of his (my Lord)
Made me to answer indirectly (as I said.)
And I beseech you, let not this Report
Come currant for an Accusation,
Betwixt my Love and your high Majesty.

Blunt.
The Circumstance considered, good my Lord,
What ever Harry Percy then had said,
To such a person, and in such a Place,
At such a time, with all the rest retold,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it now.

King.
Why yet he doth deny his Prisoners,
But with Proviso and Exception,
That we at our own Charge, shall ransom streight
His Brother-in-law the foolish Mortimer,
Who (in my Soul) hath wilfully betray'd
The lives of those, that he did lead to Fight,
Against the great Magician, damn'd Glendower,

Whose Daughter (as we hear) the Earl of March
Hath lately married. Shall our Coffers then
Be emptied, to redeem a Traitor home?
Shall we buy Treason? and indent with Fears?
No: on the barren Mountains let him starve:
For I shall never hold that Man my Friend,
Whose Tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Hot.
Revolted Mortimer?
He never did fall off, my Soveraign Liege,
But by the Chance of War: to prove that true,
Needs no more but one Tongue. For all those Wounds,
Those mouthed Wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn's Sedgie Bank,
In single opposition hand to hand
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower:
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink
Upon agreement of swift Severn's Flood;
Who then affrighted with their Bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling Reeds,
And hid his crisped-head in a hollow Bank,
Blood-stained with these valiant Combatants.
Never did base, and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly Wounds;
Nor never could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly:
Then let him not be slander'd with Revolt.

King.
Thou do'st belye him, Percy, thou do'st belye him;
He never did encounter with Glendower:
I tell thee, he durst as well have met the Devil alone,
As Owen Glendower for an Enemy.
Art thou not asham'd? But Sirrah, henceforth
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
Send me your Prisoners with the speediest means,
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
As will displesie ye. My Lord Northumberland
We license your departure with your Son:
Send us your Prisoners, or you'll hear of it. [Exit King.

Hot.
And if the Devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after streight
And tell him so: for I will ease my Heart,
Although it be with hazard of my Head.

Nor.
What? drunk with Choller? stay, and pause a while,
Here comes your Uncle.

Enter Worcester,

Hot.
Speak of Mortimer?
Yes, I will speak of him, and let my Soul
Want mercy, if I do not joyn with him.
In his behalf, I'll empty all those Veins,
And shed my dear Blood drop by drop i'th' dust,
But I will lift the downfaln Mortimer
As high i'th' Air as this unthankful King,
And this ingrate and cankred Bullingbrook.

Nor.
Brother, the King hath made your Nephew mad.

Wor.
Who strook this heat up after I was gone?

Hot.
He will (forsooth) have all my Prisoners:
And when I urg'd the Ransom once again
Of my Wives Brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my Face he turn'd an Eye of death,
Trembling even at the Name of Mortimer.

Wor.
I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim'd
By Richard that dead is, the next of Blood?

Nor.
He was: I heard the Proclamation,
And then it was, when the unhappy King
(Whose wrongs in us God pardon) did set forth
Upon his Irish Expedition:
From whence, he intercepted, did return
To be depos'd, and shortly murthered.

Wor.
And for whose Death, we in the Worlds wide mouth
Live so scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of.

Hot.
But soft, I pray you; did King Richard then
Proclaim my Brother Mortimer,
Heir to the Crown?

Nor.
He did, my self did hear it.

Hot.
Nay then I cannot blame his Cousin King,
That wish'd him on the barren Mountains starv'd.
But shall it be, that you that set the Crown
Upon the Head of this forgetful Man,
And for his sake wore the detested Blot
Of murtherous Subornations? shall it be,
That you a world of Curses undergo,
Being the Agents, or base second Means,
The Cords, the Ladder, or the Hangman rather?
O pardon, if that I descend so low,
To shew the Line, and the Predicament
Wherein you range under this subtle King.
Shall it for shame, be spoken in these Days,

Or fill up Chronicles in time to come,
That Men of your Nobility and Power,
Did gage them both in an unjust behalf
(As both of you, God pardon it, have done)
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely Rose,
And plant this Thorn, this Cancker Bullingbrook?
And shall it in more shame be further spoken,
That you are fool'd, discarded and shook off
By him, for whom these Shames ye underwent?
No: yet time serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish'd Honours, and restore your selves
Into the good Thoughts of the World again.
Revenge the jeering and disdain'd Contempt
Of this proud King, who studies day and night
To answer all the Debt he owes unto you,
Even with the bloody Payments of your Deaths:
Therefore I say.—

Wor.
Peace, Cousin, say no more.
And now I will unclasp a secret Book,
And to your quick conveying Discontents,
I'le read your Matter, deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and adventurous Spirit,
As to o're-walk a Current, roaring loud,
On the unstedfast footing of a Spear.

Hot.
If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim:
Send danger from the East unto the West,
So Honour cross in from the North to South,
And let them grapple: The Blood more stirs
To rowze a Lyon, than to start a Hare.

Nor.
Imagination of some great Exploit,
Drives him beyond the bounds of Patience.

Hot.
By Heaven, methinks it were an easie leap,
To pluck bright Honour from the pale-fac'd Moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where Fadom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drown'd Honour by the Locks:
So he that doth redeem her thence, might wear
Without Co-rival, all her Dignities:
But out upon this half-fac'd Fellowship.

Wor.
He apprehends a world of Figures here,
But not the Form of what he should attend:
Good Cousin give me audience for a while,
And list to me.

Hot.
I cry you mercy.

Wor.
Those same Noble Scots
That are your Prisoners.

Hot.
I'll keep them all.
By Heaven, he shall not have a Scot of them:
No, if a Scot would save his Soul, he shall not.
I'll keep them, by this Hand.

Wor.
You start away,
And lend no ear unto my Purposes.
Those Prisoners you shall keep.

Hot.
Nay, I will; that's flat:
He said he would not Ransom Mortimer
Forbad my Tongue to speak of Mortimer.
But I will find him when he lies a sleep,
And in his Ear Ill holla, Mortimer.
Nay, I'll have a Starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor.
Hear you, Cousin: A word.

Hot.
All Studies here I solemnly defie,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bullingbrook,
And that same Sword and Buckler Prince of Wales.
But that I think his Father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some Mischance,
I would have poyson'd him with a pot of Ale.

Wor.
Farewell, Kinsman: I'll talk to you
When you are temperd to attend.

Nor.
Why what a wasp-tongu'd and impatient Fool
Art thou, to break into this Womans mood,
Tying thine Ear to no Tongue but thine own?

Hot.
Why look you, I am whipt and scourg'd with rods?
Netled and stung with Pismires, when I hear
Of this vile Politician Bullingbrook.
In Richard's time: What de'ye call the place?
A plague upon't, it is in Glocester-shire:
'Twas where the madcap Duke his Uncle kept,
His Uncle York, where I first bow'd my Knee
Unto the King of Smiles, this Bullingbrook:
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

Nor.
At Berkley Castle.

Hot.
You say true:
Why what a gaudy deal of Curtesie
This fawning Gray-hound then did proffer me.
Look when his infant Fortune came to age,
And gentle Harry Percy, and kind Cousin:
O, the Devil take such Cozeners, God forgive me:
Good Uncle tell your tale, for I have done.

Wor.
Nay, if you have not, to't again,
We'll stay your leisure.

Hot.
I have done, insooth.

Wor.
Then once more to your Scottish Prisoners.
Deliver them up without their Ransom streight,
And make the Dowglas Son your only mean
For Powers in Scotland: Which for divers Reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assur'd
Will easily be granted to you, my Lord.
Your Son in Scotland being thus employ'd,
Shall secretly in the bosom creep
Of that same noble Prelate, well belov'd,
The Arch-Bishop.

Hot.
Of York, is't not?

Wor.
True, who bears hard
His Brothers death at Bristow, the Lord Scroop.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,
And only stays but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

Hot.
I smell it:
Upon my Life, it will do wondrous well.

Nor.
Before the game's a foot, thou still lett'st slip.

Hot.
Why it cannot choose but be a noble Plot,
And then the Power of Scotland, and of York
To joyn with Mortimer, Ha.

Wor.
And so they shall.

Hot.
In faith it is exceeding well aim'd.

Wor.
And 'tis no little Reason bids us speed,
To save our Heads, by raising of a Head:
For, bear our selves as even as we can,
The King will always think him in our debt,
And think we think our selves unsatisfied,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home.
And see already, how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.

Hot.
He does, he does, we'll be reveng'd on him.

Wor.
Cousin, farewel. No further go in this,
Than I by Letters shall direct your course;
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly.
I'll steal to Glendower, and lo, Mortimer,
Where you, and Dowglas, and our Powers at once,
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,
To bear our Fortunes in our own strong Arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

Nor.
Farewell, good Brother, we shall thrive, I trust.

Hot.
Uncle, adieu: O let Hours be short,
Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport. [Exit.

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