Enter Hot-spur solus, reading a Letter.

But for mine own Part, my Lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your House. He could be contented: Why is he not then? In respect of the love he bears our House—He shews in this, he loves his own Barn better than he loves our House. Let me see some more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous. Why that's certain: 'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my Lord Fool, out of this Nettle, Danger; we pluck this Flower, Safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the Friends you have named uncertain, the time it self unsorted, and your whole Plot too light, for the counterpoize of so great an Opposition. Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly Hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this? I protest, our Plot is

as good a Plot as ever was laid; our Friends true and constant: A good Plot, good Friends, and full of Expectation; An excellent Plot, very good Friends. What a Frosty-spirited Rogue is this? Why, my Lord of York commends the Plot, and the general Course of the Action. By this Hand, if I were now by this Rascal, I could brain him with with his Lady's Fan. Is there not my Father, my Uncle, and my self, Lord Edmond Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides, the Dowglass? Have I not all their Letters, to meet me in Arms by the ninth of the next Month? And are there not some of them set forward already? What a Pagan Rascal is this? An Infidel. Ha! you shall see now in very sincerity of Fear and cold Heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our Proceedings. O, I could divide my self, and go to buffets, for moving such a Dish of Skim'd-Milk with so honourable an Action. Hang him, let him tell the King we are prepared. I will set forwards to Night.

Lady.
O my good Lord, why are you thus alone?
For what Offence have I this Fortnight been
A banish'd Woman from my Harry's Bed?
Tell me, sweet Lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy Stomach, Pleasure, and thy golden Sleep?
Why dost thou bend thy Eyes upon the Earth?
And start so often when thou sitt'st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh Blood in thy Cheeks?
And given my Treasures and my Rights of thee,
To thick-ey'd Musing, and curst Melancholly?
In thy faint Slumbers, I by thee have watcht,
And heard thee murmur Tales of Iron Wars:
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding Steed,
Cry Courage to the Field. And thou hast talk'd
Of Sallies, and Retires; Trenches, Tents,
Of Palisadoes, Frontiers, Parapets;
Of Basilisks, of Cannon, Culverin,
Of Prisoners Ransom, and of Soldiers slain,
And all the current of a heady fight.
Thy Spirit within thee hath been so at War,
And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy Sleep,

That Beds of Sweat have stood upon thy Brow,
Like Bubbles in a late disturbed Stream;
And in thy Face strange motions have appear'd,
Such as we see when Men restrain their Breath,
On some great sudden haste. O what Portents are these?
Some heavy Business hath my Lord in Hand,
And I must know it; else he loves me not.

Hot.
What ho; is Gilliams with the Packet gone? Enter Servant.

Serv.
He is, my Lord, an Hour agone,

Hot.
Hath Butler brought those Horses from the Sheriff?

Serv.
One Horse, my Lord, he brought even now.

Hot.
What Horse? A Roan, a Crop-ear, is it not?

Serv.
It is, my Lord.

Hot.

That Roan shall be my Throne. Well, I will back him streight. Esperance, bid Butler lead him forth into the Park.

Lady.

But hear you, my Lord.

Hot.

What say'st thou, my Lady?

Lady.

What is it that carries you away?

Hot.

Why, my Horse, my Love, my Horse.

Lady.

Out you mad-headed Ape, a Weazel hath not such a deal of Spleen, as you are tost with. In sooth I'll know your Business, Harry, that I will. I fear my Brother Mortimer doth stir about his Title, and hath sent for you to line his Enterprise. But if you go—

Hot.

So far afoot, I shall be weary, Love.

Lady.

Come, come, you Paraquito, answer me directly unto this Question, that I shall ask. Indeed I'll break thy little Finger; if thou wilt not tell me true.

Hot.
Away, away, you Trifler: Love! I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate; this is no World
To play with Mammets, and to tilt with Lips.
We must have bloody Noses, and crack'd Crowns,
And pass them currant too—Gods me, my Horse.
What say'st thou, Kate? What would'st thou have with me?

Lady.
Do ye not love me? Do you not indeed?
Well, do not then. For since you love me not,
I will not love my self. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me if thou speakest in Jest or no.

Hot.
Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when I am a Horse-back, I will swear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth question me,
Whither I go; nor reason where about.
Whither I must, I must; and to conclude,
This Evening must I leave thee, gentle Kate.
I know you wise, but yet no further wise
Then Harry Percy's Wife. Constant you are,
But yet a Woman; and for Secresie,
No Lady closer. For I will believe,
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know,
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

Lady.
How so far?

Hot.
Not an Inch further. But hark you Kate,
Whither I go, thither shall you go too:
To Day will I set forth, to morrow you.
Will this content you Kate?

Lady.
It must of force. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. Enter Prince Henry and Poins.

P. Henry.

Ned, prethee come out of that fat room, and lend me thy Hand to laugh a little.

Poins.

Where hast been, Hal?

P. Henry.

With three or four Loggerheads, amongst three or fourscore Hogsheads. I have sounded the very base string of Humility. Sirrah, I am sworn Brother to a Leash of Drawers, and can call them by their Names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their Confidence, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King of Curtesie; telling me flatly, I am not proud like Jack Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a Lad of mettle, a good Boy, and when I am King of England, I shall command all the good Lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dying Scarlet; and when you break in your watring, then they cry Pem, and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am so good a Proficient in one quarter of an Hour, that I can drink with any Tinker in his own Language during my

Life. I tell thee Ned, thou hast lost much Honour, that thou wert not with me in this Action; but sweet Ned, to sweeten which Name of Ned, I give thee this Pennyworth of Sugar, clapt even now into my Hand by an under Skinker, one that never spake other English in his Life, then Eight Shillings and Six Pence, and, You are welcome Sir: With this shrill Addition, Anon Sir, Anon Sir, Score a Pint of Bastard in the Half Moon, or so. But Ned, to drive away time 'till Falstaff come, I prethee do thou stand in some by Room, while I question my puny Drawer, to what end he gave me the Sugar, and do never leave calling Francis, that his Tale to me may be nothing but, Anon: Step aside, and I'll shew thee a President.

Poins.

Francis.

P. Henry.

Thou art perfect.

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon Sir; look down into the Pomgranet, Ralph.

P. Henry.

Come hither, Francis.

Fran.

My Lord.

P. Henry.

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Fran.

Forsooth five Years, and as much as to—

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon Sir.

P. Henry.

Five Years; Berlady, a long Lease for the clinking of Pewter. But Francis, darest thou be so valiant, as to play the Coward with thy Indenture, and shew it a fair pair of Heels, and run from it?

Fran.

O Lord, Sir, I'll be sworn upon all the Books in England, I could find in my Heart—

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon Sir.

P. Henry.

How old art thou, Francis?

Fran.

Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shall be—

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon Sir; pray you stay a little, my Lord.

P. Henry.

Nay, but hark you Francis, for the Sugar thou gavest me, 'twas a Pennyworth, was't not?

Fran.

O Lord, Sir, I would it had been two.

P. Henry.

I will give thee for it a thousand Pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon.

P. Henry.

Anon, Francis? No, Francis, but to morrow Francis; or Francis, on Thursday, or indeed Francis, when thou wilt. But Francis.

Fran.

My Lord.

P. Henry.

Wilt thou rob this leathern Jerkin, Christal Button, Not-pated, Aga-tring, Puke-stocking, Caddice-Garter, Spanish Pouch.

Fran.

O Lord, Sir, who do you mean?

P. Henry.

Why then your brown Bastard is your only Drink; for look you, Francis, your white Canvas Doublet will sully. In Barbary, Sir, it cannot come to so much.

Fran.

What, Sir?

Poins.

Francis.

P. Henry.

Away you Rogue, dost thou hear them call?

Vint.

What stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Look to the Guest within: My Lord, old Sir John with half a Dozen more are at the Door; shall I let them in?

P. Henry.

Let them alone a while, and then open the Door. Poins.

Poins.

Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the Thives are at the Door; shall we be merry?

Poins.

As merry as Crickets my Lad. But hark ye, what cunning Match have you made with this Jest of the Drawer? Come, what's the Issue?

P. Henry.

I am now of all Humours, that have shew'd themselves Humours, since the old Days of Goodman Adam, to the Pupil Age of this present twelve a Clock at Midnight. What's a Clock, Francis?

Fran.

Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry.

That ever this Fellow should have fewer Words than a Parrot, and yet the Son of a Woman. His Industry

is up Stairs and down Stairs; his Eloquence the parcell of a Reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's Mind, the Hot-spur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven Dozen of Scots at a Breakfast, washes his Hands and says to his Wife, Fie upon this quiet Life, I want Work. O my sweet Harry, says she, how many hast thou kill'd to Day? Give my roan Horse a Drench, says he, and answers, some fourteen, an Hour after; a Trifle, a Trifle. I prithee call in Falstaff, I'll play Percy, and that damn'd Brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his Wife. Rivo, says the Drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow.

Poins.

Welcome Jack, where hast thou been?

Fal.

A plague of all Cowards, I say, and a Vengeance too, marry and Amen. Give me a Cup of Sack, Boy. E'er I lead this Life long, I'll sow nether Socks, and mend them too. A plague of all Cowards. Give me a Cup of Sack, Rogue. Is there no Virtue extant?

P. Henry.

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a Dish of Butter, pitiful hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet Tale of the Sun? If thou didst, then behold that Compound.

Fal.

You Rogue, here's Lime in this Sack too; there is nothing but Roguery to be found in villainous Man; yet a Coward is worse than a Cup of Sack with Lime. A villainous Coward—go thy ways old Jack, die when thou wilt, if Manhood, good Manhood be not forgot upon the Face of the Earth, then am I a shotten Herring: There lives not three good Men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, God help the while, a bad World I say. I would I were a Weaver, I could sing all manner of Songs. A plague of all Cowards, I say still.

P. Henry.

How now Woolsack, what mutter you?

Fal.

A King's Son? If I do not beat thee out of thy Kingdom with a Dagger of Lath, and drive all thy Subjects afore thee like a Flock of wild Geese, I'll never wear Hair on my Face more. You Prince of Wales?

P. Henry.

Why you horson round Man! What's the Matter?

Fal.

Are you not a Coward? Answer me to that, and Poins there?

P. Henry.

Ye fat Paunch, and ye call me Coward, I'll stab thee.

Fal.

I call thee Coward! I'll see thee damn'd e'er I call thee Coward; but I would give a thousand Pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are streight enough in the Shoulders, you care not who sees your Back: Call you that backing of your Friends? a plague upon such backing; give me them that will face me. Give me a Cup of Sack, I am a Rogue if I drunk to Day.

P. Henry.

O Villain, thy Lips are scarce wip'd since thou drunk'st last.

Fal.
All's one for that. [He drinks.
A plague on all Cowards, still, say I.

P. Henry.

What's the Matter?

Fal.

What's the Matter! here be four of us, have ta'en a thousand Pound this Morning.

P. Henry.

Where is it Jack? Where is it?

Fal.

Where is it? taken from us, it is; a hundred upon poor four of us.

P. Henry.

What, a hundred, Man?

Fal.

I am a Rogue, if I were not at half Sword with a Dozen of them two Hours together. I have escap'd by Miracle. I am eight times thrust through the Doublet, four through the Hose, my Buckler cut through and through, my Sword hack'd like a Hand-saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a Man; all would not do. A Plague on all Cowards—let them speak; if they speak more or less than Truth, they are Villains and the Sons of Darkness.

P. Henry.

Speak Sirs, how was it?

Gads.

We four set upon some Dozen.

Fal.

Sixteen, at least, my Lord.

Gads.

And bound them.

Peto.

No, no, they were not bound.

Fal.

You Rogue they were bound, every Man of them, or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

Gads.

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh Men set upon us.

Fal.

And unbound the rest, and then came in the other.

P. Henry.

What, fought ye with them all?

Fal.

All? I know not what ye call All; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a Bunch of Radish; if there

were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legg'd Creature.

Poins.

Pray Heav'n, you have not murthered some of them.

Fal.

Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two I am sure I have pay'd, two Rogues in Buckram Suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a Lie, spit in my Face, call me Horse; thou know'st my old Word; here I lay, and thus I bore my Point; four Rogues in Buckram let drive at me.

P. Henry.

What, four? thou saidst but two, even now.

Fal.

Four Hal, I told thee four.

Poins.

Ay, Ay, he said four.

Fal.

These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me; I made no more ado, but took all their seven Points in my Target, thus.

P. Henry.

Seven? why there were but four, even now.

Fal.

In Buckram.

Poins.

Ay, four, in Buckram Suits.

Fal.

Seven, by these Hilts, or I am a Villain else.

P. Henry.

Prithee let him alone, we shall have more anon.

Fal.

Dost thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry.

Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal.

Do so, for it is worth the listning too: These nine in Buckram, that I told thee of—

P. Henry.

So, two more already.

Fal.

Their Points being broken—

Poins.

Down fell his Hose.

Fal.

Began to give me Ground; but I follow'd me close, came in Foot and Hand; and with a Thought seven of the eleven I pay'd.

P. Henry.

O monstrous! Eleven Buckram Men grown out of two!

Fal.

But as the Devil would have it, three mis-begotten Knaves, in Kendal Green, came at my Back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy Hand.

P. Henry.

These Lies are like the Father that begets them, gross as a Mountain, open, palpable. Why thou Claybrain'd Guts, thou Knotty-pated Fool, thou Horson obscene greasie Tallow Catch.

Fal.

What, art thou mad? Art thou mad? Is not the Truth, the Truth?

P. Henry.

Why, how could'st thou know these Men in Kendal Green, when it was so dark, thou could'st not see thy Hand? Come tell us your Reason: What say'st thou to this?

Poins.

Come, your Reason, Jack, your Reason.

Fal.

What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the Strappado, or all the Racks in the World, I would not tell you on Compulsion. Give you a Reason on compulsion! If Reasons were as plenty as Black-Berries, I would give no Man a Reason upon Compulsion, I.

P. Henry.

I'll be no longer guilty of this Sin. This sanguine Coward, this Bed-presser, this Horseback-breaker, this huge Hill of Flesh.

Fal.

Away you Starveling, you Elf-skin, you dry'd Neats-Tongue, Bull's-pissel, you Stock-fish: O for Breath to utter. What is like thee? You Tailor's Yard, you Sheath, you Bow-Case, you vile standing Tuck.

P. Henry.

Well, breath a while, and then to't again; and when thou hast tyr'd thy self in base Comparisons, hear me speak but thus.

Poins.

Mark Jack.

P. Henry.

We two, saw you four set on four and bound them, and were Masters of their Wealth: Mark now, how a plain Tale shall put you down. Then did we two, set on you four, and with a Word, outfac'd you from your Prize, and have it, yea, and can shew it you in the House. And Falstaff, you carry'd your Guts away as nimbly, with as quick Dexterity, and roar'd for Mercy, and still ran and roar'd, as ever I heard Bull-Calf. What a Slave art thou, to hack thy Sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight. What Trick? What Device? What starting Hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent Shame?

Poins.

Come, let's hear Jack: What Trick hast thou now?

Fal.

I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why hear ye my Masters, was it for me to kill the Heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true Prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware Instinct, the Lion will not touch the true Prince: Instinct is a great Matter.

I was a Coward on Instinct: I shall think the better of my self, and thee, during my Life; I, for a valiant Lion, and thou for a true Prince. But Lads, I am glad you have the Mony. Hostess, clap to the Doors; watch to Night, pray to Morrow. Gallants, Lads, Boys, Hearts of Gold, all the good Titles of Fellowship come to you. What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a Play extempore?

P. Henry.

Content, and the Argument shall be, thy running away.

Fal.

Ah! no more of that, Hal, if thou lovest me.

Host.

My Lord the Prince!

P. Henry.

How now, my Lady the Hostess, what say'st thou to me?

Host.

Marry, my Lord, there is a Nobleman of the Court at Door would speak with you; he says he comes from your Father.

P. Henry.

Give him as much as will make him a royal Man, and send him back again to my Mother.

Fal.

What manner of Man is he?

Host.

An old Man.

Fal.

What doth Gravity out of his Bed at Midnight? Shall I give him his Answer?

P. Henry.

Prithee do, Jack.

Fal.

Faith and I'll send him packing.

P. Henry.

Now Sirs, you fought fair; so did you Peto, so did you Bardolph; you are Lions too, you ran away upon Instinct; you will not touch the true Prince, no, fie.

Bard.

'Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

P. Henry.

Tell me now in earnest; how came Falstaff's Sword so hackt?

Peto.

Why, he hackt it with his Dagger, and said, he would swear Truth out of all England; but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like.

Bard.

Yea, and tickle our Noses with Spear-grass, to make them bleed, and then beslubber our Garments with it, and swear it was the Blood of true Men. I did that I did not these seven Years before, I blush'd to hear his monstrous Devices.

P. Henry.

O Villain, thou stollest a Cup of Sack eighteen Years ago, and wert taken with the Manner, and ever since thou hast blush'd extempore, thou hadst Fire and Sword on thy Side, and yet thou rannest away: What Instinct hadst thou for it?

Bard.

My Lord, do you see these Meteors? Do you behold these Exhalations?

P. Henry.

I do.

Bard.

What think you they portend?

P. Henry.

Hot Livers, and cold Purses.

Bard.

Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken.

P. Henry.

No, if rightly taken, Halter.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes Bare-bone. How now my sweet Creature of Bombast, how long is't ago, Jack, since thou saw'st thine own Knee?

Fal.

My own Knee? When I was about thy Years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's Talon in the Waste, I could have crept into any Alderman's Thumb-Ring: A plague of Sighing and Grief, it blows a Man up like a Bladder. There's villainous News abroad: Here was Sir John Braby from your Father; you must go to the Court in the Morning. The same mad Fellow of the North, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the Bastinado, and made Lucifer Cuckold, and swore the Devil his true Liege-Man upon the Cross of a Welsh-hook: What a plague call you him?

Poins.

O, Glendower.

Fal.

Owen, Owen; the same, and his Son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and the sprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglass, that runs a Horseback up a Hill perpendicular.

P. Henry.

He that rides at high speed, and with a Pistol kills a Sparrow flying.

Fal.

You have hit it.

P. Henry.

So did he never the Sparrow.

Fal.

Well, that Rascal hath good Metal in him, he will not run.

P. Henry.

Why, what a Rascal art thou then, to praise him so for running?

Fal.

A Horseback, ye Cuckow, but afoot he will not budge afoot.

P. Henry.

Yes, Jack, upon Instinct.

Fal.

I grant ye, upon Instinct: Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blew-Caps more. Worcester is stoll'n away by Night: Thy Father's Beard is turn'd white with the News: You may buy Land now as cheap as stinking Mackerel.

P. Henry.

Then 'tis like, if there come a hot Sun, and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy Maidenheads as they buy Hob-nails, by the Hundreds.

Fal.

By the Mass, Lad, thou say'st true, it is like we shall have good trading that Way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horribly afeard? thou being Heir apparent, could the World pick thee out three such Enemies again as that Fiend Dowglass, that Spirit Percy, and that Devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy Blood thrill at it?

P. Henry.

Not a whit: I lack some of thy Instinct.

Fal.

Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to morrow, when thou com'st to thy Father: If thou do love me, practise an Answer.

P. Henry.

Do thou stand for my Father, and examine me upon the Particulars of my Life.

Fal.

Shall I? content: This Chair shall be my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my Crown.

P. Henry.

Thy State is taken for a joint-Stool, thy golden Scepter for a leaden Dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald Crown.

Fal.

Well, and the Fire of Grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a Cup of Sack to make mine Eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept, for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses Vein.

P. Henry.

Well, here is my Leg.

Fal.

And here is my Speech; stand aside Nobility.

Host.

This is excellent Sport, i'faith.

Fal.

Weep not, sweet Queen, for trickling Tears are vain.

Host.

O the Father, how he holds his Countenance?

Fal.

For God's sake, Lords, convey my tristful Queen, for Tears do stop the Flood-gates of her Eyes.

Host.

O rare, he doth it as like one of these harlotry Players, as ever I see.

Fal.

Peace good Pint-pot, peace good Tickle-brain. Harry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: For though the Camomil, the more it is trodden, the faster it grows; yet Youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. Thou art my Son; I have partly thy Mother's Word, partly my Opinion; but chiefly, a villainous Trick of thine Eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether Lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be Son to me, here lyeth the Point; why, being Son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed Son of Heav'n prove a Micher, and eat Black-berries? a Question not to be ask'd. Shall the Son of England prove a Thief, and take Purses? a Question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our Land, by the Name of Pitch: This Pitch, as ancient Writers do report, doth defile; so doth the Company thou keepest; for Harry, now I do not speak to thee in Drink, but in Tears; not in Pleasure, but in Passion; not in Words only, but in Woes also; and yet there is a virtuous Man, whom I have often noted in thy Company, but I know not his Name.

P. Henry.

What manner of Man, and it like your Majesty?

Fal.

A goodly portly Man i'faith, and corpulent, of a chearful Look, a pleasing Eye, and a most noble Carriage, and as I think, his Age some fifty, or, by'rlady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his Name is Falstaff: If that Man should be lewdly given, he deceives me; for Harry, I see Virtue in his Looks. If then the Tree may be known by the Fruit, as the Fruit by the Tree, then peremptorily I speak it, there is Virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty Varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this Month?

P. Henry.

Dost thou speak like a King? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my Father.

Fal.

Depose me! if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in Word and Matter, hang me up by the Heels for a Rabbet-sucker, or a Poulterers Hare.

P. Henry.

Well, here I am set.

Fal.

And here I stand; judge, my Masters.

P. Henry.

Now Harry, whence come you?

Fal.

My noble Lord, from East-cheap.

P. Henry.

The Complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

Fal.

I'faith, my Lord, they are false. Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young Prince.

P. Henry.

Swearest thou, ungracious Boy? Henceforth ne'er look on me; thou art violently carry'd away from Grace; there's a Devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old Man; a Tun of Man is thy Companion: Why dost thou converse with that Trunk of Humours, that Boulting-Hutch of Beastliness, that swoln Parcel of Dropsies, that huge Bombard of Sack, that stuft Cloak-bag of Guts, that rosted Manning-Tree Ox with the Puddings in his Belly, that reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that Father Ruffian, that Vanity in Years; wherein is he good, but to taste Sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a Capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in Craft? Wherein crafty but in Villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

Fal.

I would your Grace would take me with you: What means your Grace?

P. Henry.

That villainous abominable Mis-leader of Youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Sathan.

Fal.

My Lord, the Man I know.

P. Henry.

I know thou dost.

Fal.

But to say, I know more harm in him than in my self, were to say more than I know. That he is old the more's the pity, his white Hairs do witness it; But that he is, saving your Reverence, a Whore-master, that I utterly deny. If Sack and Sugar be a Fault, Heav'n help the Wicked: If to be old and merry, be a Sin, then many a Host that I know is damn'd: If to be fat, be to be hated, then Pharoah's lean Kine are to be lov'd. No, my good Lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's Company, banish not him thy Harry's Company; banish plump Jack, and banish all the World.

P. Henry.

I do, I will.

Bard.

O, my Lord, my Lord, the Sheriff with a most monstrous Watch, is at the Door.

Fal.

Out you Rogue, play out the Play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

Host.

O, my Lord, my Lord.

Fal.

Heigh, heigh, the Devil rides upon a Fiddle-stick: What's the Matter?

Host.

The Sheriff and all the Watch are at the Door: they are come to search the House, shall I let them in?

Fal.

Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true Piece of Gold a Counterfeit: Thou art essentially mad, without seeming so.

P. Henry.

And thou a natural Coward, without Instinct.

Fal.

I deny your Major; if you will deny the Sheriff, so; if not, let him enter. If I become not a Cart as well as another Man, a plague on my bringing up; I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a Halter, as another.

P. Henry.

Go hide thee behind the Arras, the rest walk above. Now my Masters, for a true Face and good Conscience.

Fal.

Both which I have had; but their Date is out, and therefore I'll hide me.

P. Henry.

Call in the Sheriff.

P. Henry.

Now Master Sheriff, what is your Will with me?

Sher.

First, pardon me, my Lord. A Hue and Cry hath follow'd certain Men unto this House.

P. Henry.

What Men?

Sher.

One of them is well known, my gracious Lord, a gross fat Man.

Car.

As fat as Butter.

P. Henry.
The Man, I do assure you is not here,
For I my self at this time have imploy'd him;
And, Sheriff, I will engage my Word to thee,
That I will, by to Morrow Dinner time,
Send him to answer thee, or any Man,

For any thing he shall be charg'd withal:
And so let me intreat you leave the House.

Sher.
I will, my Lord; there are two Gentlemen
Have in this Robbery lost three hundred Marks.

P. Henry.
It may be so; if he have robb'd these Men,
He shall be answerable; and so farewel.

Sher.
Good Night, my noble Lord.

P. Henry.
I think it is good Morrow, is it not?

Sher.
Indeed, my Lord, I think it be two a Clock. [Exit.

P. Henry.

This oily Rascal is known as well as Pauls; go call him forth.

Peto.

Falstaff? Fast asleep behind the Arras, and snorting like a Horse.

P. Henry.

Hark, how hard he fetches his Breath; search his Pockets.

P. Henry.
What hast thou found?

Peto.
Nothing but Papers, my Lord.

P. Henry.
Let's see, what be they? read them.

Peto.
Item, a Capon, 2 s. 2 d.
Item, Sawce, 4 d.
Item, Sack, two Gallons, 5 s. 4 d.
Item, Anchoves and Sack after Supper, 2 s. 6 d.
Item, Bread, ob.

P. Henry.

O monstrous, but one half Penny-worth of Bread to this intolerable deal of Sack? What there is else, keep close, we'll read it at more advantage; there let him sleep 'till Day. I'll to the Court in the Morning: We must all to the Wars, and thy Place shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat Rogue a Charge of Foot, and I know his Death will be a March of Twelvescore. The Mony shall be paid back again with Advantage. Be with me betimes in the Morning; and so good morrow, Peto.

Peto.
Good morrow, good my Lord. [Exeunt.

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