Bar.

O, Sir John, I'm glad I have found ye. I was in the fearfullest quandary for you in the world. I hope your honour has got no hurt.

Fal.

Not its death's wound, I hope; though Hal, indeed, look'd somewhat cold upon me.

Bar.

Cold, Sir John! I am a-fear'd we shall be in limbo shortly: for my Lord-chief-justice—

Fal.

Hold thy ill-omen'd croaking. If faithful services are thus requited, I will turn cordw'ner; yea, cobler, and heel-piece old shoes, ere I have to do with blood-royal again. Ingratitude! I hate it.

Bar.

To be sure, Sir John, what you say is right; for, as the song says, ingratitude is worse than the sin of witchcraft. But I hop'd your honour got no personable harm

in the mob: you was carried off the terras, for all the world, like a dunghil from Mill-bank by a spring-tide.

Fal.

Bardolph, thou hast the most filthy way of making comparisons; the most villainous similes. Let me have no more of them.

Bar.

Why, they say, indeed, comparisons are odorous Sir John.

Fal.

Thine, however, are unsavoury enough. But I am ill at ease, and more dispos'd to spleen than merriment. I prythee, look out, and see if there be a bawdy-house at hand.

Bar.

What here, so near the court, Sir John?

Fal.

Where better? 'Sblood, dost think there are no whores at Court? Are there no dames of honour? Dost think Hal hath banish'd them too? Look out, look out.

Bar.

I will, Sir John.