Falstaff, solus.

Four hundred marks a year, quoth he! It were not an unreasonable competence were not sherris comparatively so dear. But if the female incumbrance on it should turn out a shrew; the Lord have mercy on me, in paying off the sins of my youth. Let me bethink me. Four hundred marks a year! I have, it is true, small hopes from Hal; and shall grow old some time or other. These aches in my limbs forebode it. I cannot hold out for ever; that's certain. Were it not good, therefore, to make a virtue of necessity, and take up while I am in case to reap the credit of reformation? Could I reconcile it to my interest, I believe my inclination would follow.

SCENE VIII. Tavern continued. Re-enter Bardolph.

Bar.

There, Sir John, is the letter.

Fal.

Come on: let us see if we are master of so much Arabick as to find out her meaning. (Reads) Hum— hum—hum—! Why, dame Ursula, thou hast a memory. I could have credited thee for subtlety, on account of that old friend to woman, the serpent: but how thou couldst remember for fifteen years together what money I owed thee—that indeed I cannot account for. I have myself forgot it long since. She tells me here, I have borrow'd five hundred pounds of her at times, as tokens of my love. By the Lord, and as I am a soldier, I will love her still, and she shall command semblable proofs of it. (Reads on) Hum—hum—Repayment of the money or the performance of my engagements! Hoo! Am I then to be married on compulsion? That will go most damnably against the grain. But hold—if I marry, her money will be mine: if not, she may cease to lend when she pleases: and the fortune of that man is always at the turning of the tide that depends on the caprice of a woman.

Bar.

Why marry her, then, Sir John. I dare say she has heard nothing of your disgrace at court; so that she won't stand upon terms.

Fal.

Marry, Bardolph, and I am half resolv'd to do so. Yea, by the Lord, and I will too. She has besides two thousand pounds in money, I will courageously make the attack and mount the breach of matrimony. If I fall into the hands of Philistines; why, good night. It is but going into purgatory a few years before my time. Bardolph, get me pen and ink, in the cupid. Thou shalt be one of love's messengers.—I will write to her in trope and figure: metaphor and hyperbole carry all before them with the women. Let her resist lyes and nonsense if she can.

SCENE IX. An Apartment at Court. Enter King Henry, the Earl of Cambridge, and Lord Scroop.

King. (Entring, to Scroop.)
I thank thee, Scroop; and to thy zeal and care
Commit the business of fair Nell's disposal.
Mean time, my lord, on more important matter
I need your honest counsel.—My good lord Cambridge
Will give me too his thoughts upon the business.

Cam.
My liege, you do me honour.

King.
Not a whit.
You heard what late th' archbishop mov'd, in council,
Respecting the disposal of church benefices.
His grace has laid a paper since before us,
Wherein he stands up stoutly for his temporals.

Scroop.
Doubtless, my liege, if churchmen had their will,
The best of them would never give consent
To strip the church of its o'ergrown possessions,
Tho' half the nation's wealth were in her hands.

King.
But what is thy opinion, honest Scroop?
Is't not injustice to deprive the church
Of those possessions dying men have will'd
By legal testament?

Scroop.
The publick good, I hold, my sov'reign liege,
To be the first great rule of right and wrong:
The rights of individuals hence are sacred
No longer than conducing to the publick.
Is't for your majesty's, or England's, honour
That half our glebe be holden by the church,
To fatten monks, and pamper lazy friars,
That swarm like pestful locusts o'er the land?

King.
What saith my lord of Cambridge?

Cam.
The point, my liege, is truly nice and tender.
So deep the interest of the church is rooted,
While such regard implicitly it claims
From ev'ry true believer, that I doubt
If such a step can with success be taken.
I own, I never profited as yet

From ought that Wickliff, or his tribe, have taught;
Holding it sacrilege to rob the church.

Scroop.
Not more than I, my pious earl of Cambridge;
Nor have I profited by Wickliff's doctrine.
But who will call a den of thieves the church?
Why hold we Edward's memory so dear,
But that thou knowest in his glorious reign
The famous mortmain statute was enacted:
Happy for England that had else, ere now,
A nation been of monasteries and churches,
Paying allegiance to its king the pope.

King.
Ay, Scroop, there lies the sore. The king, our father,
Out of a holy zeal to mother church,
Slacken'd the reins of that prerogative
The Edwards held so tight upon the clergy.
Hence new encroachments, and a bold contempt,
Of our authority, from Rome.

Cam.
As touching this, my liege, the holy see
Has doubtless gone too far, in granting cures
To monks and laymen, and in dispensations
For their non-residence, and other articles
Injurious to the honour of the crown.

Scroop.
Nor less injurious to its interest, Cambridge.
Believe me, Rome consults its profits more
Than that our priests deserve the cure of souls!
Say to what end the clergy should be rich,
But to lay out their wealth where it improves.
I do not mean in heav'n, my gracious liege:
They lay not up in store their treasures there:
But where preferments may be bought—at Rome.
It is to Rome their plate and moneys fly,
To fee ecclesiastick sycophants;
To nurse rebellion; and inflame the minds
Of bigot subjects 'gainst their lawful sovereigns.

Cam.
My liege, the dukes of York and Exeter,
With the young princes, pass along the gallery.

King.
Go, bid them in. [Exit Cambridge.
Scroop, let this subject of the clergy rest;
I will resume it at a proper season,

And hold thee farther question on the matter. SCENE X. Apartment continued. Enter Cambridge, with the Dukes of Gloucester, Bedford, Clarence, York, and Exeter.

King.
Well, my good lords, what is the news o' th' day?
Hear we yet nothing from our brother Charles,
Concerning those same dukedoms we've requir'd,
O'er which he lords it in our realm of France?

York.
As yet, my liege, we've naught but vague reports.
These say, indeed, the haughty French affect
To treat your highness' claim with proud disdain:
That Charles refer'd your envoys to the dauphin;
Whose messengers, already on the way,
May hourly be expected.

King.
To the dauphin! I sent them to the king.

York.
Most true my liege,
But going hence before your coronation,
'Tis said, weak Charles has taken thence occasion
To cast affront upon your royalty.

King.
'Tis well. The dauphin's answer shall suffice.
Would it were come: I long, methinks, to hear
The message Charles himself disdain'd to send.
I would not, for his sake, it should give cause
To make him blush for his young heir's discretion.
Our cousin's wit, we're told, is passing shrewd,
Tho' oft ill-tim'd; and hurtful to his friends.
Let him beware—mine was no idle errand:
And well deserv'd a king's most serious answer.

Exeter.
The son's discretion yet may match the sire's;
Who, with such unadvised affectation,
Presumes to treat your majesty so lightly.

Scroop.
Affect contempt! a skipping, meagre tribe!
And shall the ape unpunish'd mock the lion?
By heav'n, my liege, I would so well chastise them—

King.
My lords, our judgment hold we in suspense
Until these French ambassadors arrive.
For heav'n defend we should, in pride or wantonness,
Awake the fury of grim-visag'd war,

To wave her bloody banner o'er a kingdom,
And reap, with th' sword, the harvest of destruction.
Yet, to say truth, I cannot flatter me
So fierce and formidable a pow'r as France,
At once, will yield to part with her possessions,
In pure regard to justice and our right,
Restoring quietly, upon demand,
Those fertile dukedoms, seignories, and towns,
That add the greatest lustre to the crown,
And constitute the strength of half the kingdom.

York.
On that most politick and just suspicion,
Wisely your highness doth augment your forces;
Levying new pow'rs, to keep in awe the Scots,
And in your absence curb domestick broils;
While, taking meet advantage of the time,
You may by force acquire what force detains.

King.
Uncle, this is most needful—see we, therefore,
Our warlike preparations do not flag.
Be we prepar'd, that, as occasion serve,
We may transport our powers across the main,
And on the spot our rightful cause maintain. [Exeunt. SCENE II. An Apartment. Dame Ursula, and Bridget attending.

Urs.

And do you think, Bridget, Sir John will at last be as good as his word, then? How sits my ruff to day? I would thou hadst bought me one of those new-fashioned farthingales.

Brid.

O, madam, you are mighty fine, as it is, truly: and, I am sure, Sir John can do nothing less than admire you.

Urs.

Thinkest thou so, Bridget? why, to be certain, a peach-colour'd sattin does become my complexion hugely. But I think the roses are faded in my cheeks. Well, no matter: he might have gather'd them twenty years ago, had not he been a rover. I hope, however, he has sown all his wild oats before now, and that I shall yet have the satisfaction to be call'd my lady Falstaff.

Brid.

To be sure, madam; and tho' Sir John is but a knight at present, he will very assuredly, now the young

king is crown'd, be made a great lord, and may be a duke. Indeed, madam, I cannot think of less.

Urs.

And then shall I be a dutchess, Bridget. Dame Ursula a dutchess!

Brid.

Ay, madam, that will be a day to see; if I am so happy as to be in your grace's favour.

Urs.

For certain, Bridget, thou shalt. Well, I must confess, in spite of my blushes, I do love Sir John Falstaff. How like a scholar and a gentleman he writes.

“To my soul's idol, the mirror of love and constancy.” Constancy! he might well say constancy: for who among the gill-flirts of these days has reserv'd, like myself, the same affection for the same man for twenty years together? It is true, indeed, I have not had any other offer, in the mean time: but that doubtless has been owing to my supposed engagements with Sir John; that frighten'd away all other young cavaliers. Well, this love is a strange thing! there is Sir John has deceiv'd me a thousand times, and yet, I know not how, he always persuaded me he was sincere.

Brid.

A sure sign you lov'd him, madam.

Urs.

And yet, to be sure, before I receiv'd this letter, I thought I never should hear from him again, and had almost come to a resolution to cast him entirely off.

Brid.

In good sooth, madam, and that is very prudent; to cast off a lover when we find he will leave us.

Urs.

I think so, and not a little imprudent to do it before, for one of my years at least.

Brid.

Why, madam, you are not so old.

Urs.

Indeed, but I am—old enough to know I ought not to part with one lover 'till I am sure of another.

Brid.

To be sure, madam, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; but the sport of hampering the rogues, who are at liberty, is so vastly pretty.

Urs.

Ay, if we were sure of catching them at last: but, Bridget, Bridget, how often do they escape through our fingers and give us the slip! Besides it is for younger lasses than I to go bird-catching.—I cannot throw salt on the tail of a sparrow now.

Brid.

O, madam, we shall see that. Sir John will be here presently.

Urs.

Bless us, Bridget, here he comes. Introduce him and leave us.