Hot.
Well said, my Noble Scot, if speaking truth
In this fine Age were not thought Flattery,

Such attribution should the Dowglas have,
As not a Souldier of this Seasons stamp,
Should go so general currant through the World.
By Heaven I cannot flatter: I defie
The Tongues of Soothers. But a braver Place
In my Heart's love, hath no Man than your Self.
Nay, task me to my word: approve me, Lord.

Dow.
Thou art the King of Honour:
No Man so potent breathes upon the Ground,
But I will Beard him. Enter a Messenger.

Hot.

Do so, and 'tis well. What Letters hast thou there? I can but thank you.

Mes.
These Letters come from your Father.

Hot.
Letters from him? Why comes he not himself?

Mess.
He cannot come, my Lord, He is griveous sick.

Hot.
How? has he the leisure to be sick now,
In such a justling time? who leads his Power?
Under whose Government come they along?

Mess.
His Letters bear his mind, not I his mind.

Wor.
I prethee tell me, doth he keep his Bed?

Mess.
He did, my Lord, four days e're I set forth:
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear'd by his Physician.

Wor.
I would the state of time had first been whole,
E're he by Sickness had been visited;
His Health was never better worth than now.

Hotsp.
Sick now? droop now? this sickness doth infect
The very Life-blood of our Enterprise,
'Tis catching hither, even to our Camp.
He writes me here, that inward Sickness,
And that his Friends by deputation
Could not so soon be drawn: nor did he think it meet
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
On a Soul remov'd, but on his own.
Yet doth he give us bold Advertisement,
That with our small Conjunction we should on,
To see how Fortune is dispos'd to us,
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the King is certainly possest
Of all our Purposes. What say you to it?

Wor.
Your Father's sickness is a maim to us.

Hotsp.
A perillous Gash, a very Limb loft off:
And yet, in faith, 'tis not his present want
Seems more than we shall find it,
Were it good, to set the exact Wealth of all our States
All at one Cast? to set so rich a Mine
On the nice hazard of one doubtful Hour,

It were not good: for therein should we read
The very bottom, and the Soul of hope,
The very List, the very utmost bound
Of all our Fortunes.

Dowg.
Faith, and so we should,
A comfort of Retirement lives in this.

Hotsp.
A Rendezvous at Home to flie unto,
If that the Devil and Mischance look big
Upon the Maidenhead of our Affair.

Wor.
But yet I would your Father had been here:
The Quality and Heir of our Attempt
Brooks no Division: It will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That Wisdom, Loyalty, and meer Dislike
Of our Proceedings, kept the Earl from hence.
And think, how such an Apprehension
May turn the Tide of fearful Faction,
And breed a kind of Question in our Cause:
This absence of your Father draws a Curtain,
That shews the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of.

Hotsp.
You strain too far.
I rather of his Absence make this use:
It lends a Lustre, and more great Opinion,
A larger Dare to your great Enterprize,
Than if the Earl were here: for men must think,
If we without his help, can make a Head
To push against the Kingdom: with his help,
We shall o'return it topsie-turvy down.
Yet all goes well, yet all our joynts art whole.

Dowg.
As heart can think:
There is not such a word spoke of in Scotland,
As this Dream of Fear. Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

Hotsp.
My Cousin Vernon, welcome by my Soul.

Vern.
Pray God my News be worth a welcome, Lord.
The Earl of Westmerland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hither-wards with Prince John.

Hotsp.
No harm: what more?

Vern.
And further, I have learn'd,
The King himself in Person hath set forth,
Or hither-words intended speedily,
With strong and mighty Preparation.

Hotsp.
He shall be welcome too,
Where is his Son,
The nimble-footed Mad-cap, Prince of Wales,
And his Comrades, that daft the World aside,

And bid it pass?

Vern.
All furnisht, all in Arms,
All plum'd like Estridges, that with the Wind
Baited like Eagles, having lately bath'd,
Glittering in Golden Coats, like Images,
As full of Spirit as the Month of May,
And gorgeous as the Sun at Mid-summer,
Wanton as youthful Goats, wild as young Bulls.
I saw young Harry with his Beaver on,
His Cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his Seat,
As if an Angel dropt down from the Clouds
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witcht the world with noble Horsemanship.

Hotsp.
No more, no more;
Worse than the Sun in March,
This Praise doth nourish Agues: let them come.
They come like Sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd Maid of smoaky War,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars shall on his Altar sit
Up to the ears in Blood. I am on fire,
To here this rich Reprizal is so nigh,
And yet not ours. Come, let me take my Horse,
Who is to bear me like a Thunder-bolt,
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales.
Harry to Harry, shall not Horse to Horse
Meet, and ne're part, till one drop down a Coarse?
Oh, that Glendower were come.

Ver.
There is more News:
I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his Power this fourteen days.

Dowg.
That's the worst Tidings that I hear of, yet.

Wor.
I, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.

Hotsp.
What may the Kings whole Battel reach unto?

Ver
To thirty thousand.

Hot.
Forty let it be,
My Father and Glendower being both away,
The Power of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a Muster speedily:
Dooms-day is near; die all, die merrily.

Dowg.
Talk not of dying, I am out of fear
Of death, or deaths hand, for this one half year. [Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Falst.

Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry, fill me a Bottle of Sack, our Souldiers shall march through: we'll to Sutton-cop-hill to Night.

Bard.

Will you give me Money, Captain?

Falst.

Lay out, lay out.

Bard.

This Bottle makes an Angel.

Falst.

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 Towns end.

Bard.

I will Captain: farewell.

Falst.

If I be not asham'd of my Souldiers, I am a sowc't Gurnet: I have mis-us'd the Kings Press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty Souldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good House-holders, 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 Caliver, worse than a struck-Fool, or a hurt Wild-Duck. I prest me none but such Tostes and Butter, with hearts in their Bellies no bigger than Pins heads, and they have bought out their 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 Gluttons Dogs licked his Sores; and such as indeed were never Souldiers, but dis-carded unjust Servingmen, younger Sons to younger Brothers: Revolted Tapsters and Ostlers, Trade-faln, the Cankers of a calm World, and long Peace, ten times more dishonourable, 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, that 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 Skar-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 not a Shirt and a half in all my Company: and the half Shirt is two Napkins tack'd together, and thrown over the Shoulders like a Heralds Coat, without sleeves: And the Shirt, to say the truth, stoln from my Host of S. Albans; or the Red-Nose Inn-keeper of Dayntry. But that's all one, they'l find Linnen enough on every Hedge.

Prince.

How now, blown Jack? how now, Quilt?

Falst.

What, Hal? How now, mad Wag, what a Devil do'st thou in Warwick-shire? My good Lord of Westmerland, 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.

Falst.

Tut, never fear me, I am as vigilant as a Cat, to steal Cream.

Prince.

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?

Falst.

Mine, Hal, mine.

Prince.

I did never see such pitiful Rascals.

Falst.

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.

Westm.

I, 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.

Prin.

No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the Ribs, bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy is already in the Field.

Falst.

What, is the King encamp'd?

West.

He is, John, I fear we shall stay too long.

Falst.

Well, to the latter end of a Fray, and the beginning of a Feast, fits a dull Fighter, and a keen Guest.