Bardolph.
Fal.
Bardolph, am I not fal'n away vilely, since this
last Action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why
my Skin hangs about me like an old Lady's loose Gown:
I am withered like an old Apple John. Well I'll repent,
and suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be
-- 1175 --
out of Heart shortly, and then I shall have no Strength to
repent. And I have not forgotten what the inside of a
Church is made of, I am a Pepper Corn, a Brewers Horse;
the inside of a Church! Company, villainous Company
hath been the spoil of me.
Bard.
Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.
Fal.
Why there is it; come sing me a bawdy Song, to make
me merry: I was as virtuously given, as a Genleman need to
be; virtuous enough; swore little, dic'd not above seven
times a Week, went to a Bawdy-house not above once in
a Quarter of an Hour, paid Mony that I borrow'd three or
four times; liv'd well, and in good Compass; and now I
live out of all order, out of Compass.
Bard.
Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must
needs be out of all Compass, out of all reasonable Compass,
Sir John.
Fal.
Do thou amend thy Face, and I'll amend my Life.
Thou art our Admiral, thou bearest the Lanthorn in the
Poop, but 'tis in the Nose of thee; thou art the Knight of
the burning Lamp.
Bard.
Why, Sir John, my Face does you no harm.
Fal.
No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it, as
many a Man doth of a Death's Head, or a Memento Mori.
I never see thy Face, but I think upon Hell Fire, and Dives
that liv'd in Purple; for there he is in his Robes burning.
If thou wert any way given to Virtue, I would swear by
thy Face; my Oath should be, By this Fire: But thou art
altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the Light
in thy Face, the Sun of utter Darkness. When thou
rann'st up Gads-hill in the Night to catch my Horse, if
I did not think thou hadst been an Ignis fatuus, or a Ball
of Wild-fire, there's no Purchase in Mony. O, thou
art a perpetual Triumph, an everlasting Bonfire Light; thou
hast saved me a thousand Marks in Links and Torches,
walking with thee in the Night betwixt Tavern and
Tavern; but the Sack that thou hast drunk me, would
have bought me light as good cheap, at the dearest Chandlers
in Europe. I have maintain'd that Salamander of yours
with Fire, any time this two and thirty Years, Heav'n reward
me for it.
Bard.
I would my Face were in you Belly.
-- 1176 --
Fal.
So should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.
Enter Hostess.
How now, Dame Partlet the Hen, have you enquir'd yet
who pick'd my Pocket?
Host.
Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John?
Do you think I keep Thieves in my House? I have search'd,
I have enquir'd, so has my Husband. Man by Man,
Boy by Boy, Servant by Servant: The tight of a Hair
was never lost in my House before.
Fal.
Ye lie, Hostess; Bardolph was shav'd, and lost many
a Hair; and I'll be sworn my Pocket was pick'd; go to,
you are a Woman, go.
Host.
Who I? I defie thee; I was never call'd so in mine
own House before.
Fal.
Go to, I know you well enough.
Host.
No, Sir John: You do not know me, Sir John;
I know you, Sir John: You owe me Mony, Sir John, and
now you pick a Quarrel to beguile me of it; I bought you
a Dozen of Shirts to your Back.
Fal.
Dowlas, filthy Dowlas: I have given them away to
Bakers Wives, and they have made Boulters of them.
Host.
Now as I am a true Woman, Holland of eight
Shillings an Ell: You owe Mony here besides, Sir John, for
your Diet, and by-Drinkings, and Mony lent you, four
and twenty Pounds.
Fal.
He had his part of it, let him pay.
Host.
He? alas! he is poor, he hath nothing.
Fal.
How? poor? Look upon his Face: What call you
rich? Let him coin his Nose, let him coin his Cheeks, I'll
not pay a Denier. What, will you make a Yonker of
me? Shall I not take mine Ease in mine Inn, but I shall
have my Pocket pick'd? I have lost a Seal-Ring of my
Grand-fathers, worth forty Mark.
Host.
I have heard the Prince tell him; I know not how
oft, that that Ring was Copper.
Fal.
How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-Cup; and if he
were here, I would cudgel him like a Dog, if he would say so.
Enter Prince Henry marching, and Falstaff meets him, playing on his Trunchion like a Fife.
Fal.
How now, Lad? is the Wind in that Door? Must
we all march?
-- 1177 --
Bard.
Yea, two and two, Newgate Fashion.
Host.
My Lord, I pray you hear me.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How does
thy Husband? I love him well, he is an honest Man.
Host.
Good, my Lord, hear me.
Fal.
Prithee let her alone, and list to me.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou, Jack?
Fal.
The other Night I fell asleep here behind the Arras,
and had my Pocket pickt: This House is turn'd Bawdy-house,
they pick Pockets.
P. Henry.
What didst thou loose, Jack?
Fal.
Wilt thou believe me, Hal? Three or four Bonds
of forty Pound a piece, and a Seal-Ring of my Grandfather's.
P. Henry.
A Trifle, some eight-penny Matter.
Host.
So I told him, my Lord; and I said, I heard
your Grace say so: And, my Lord, he speaks most vilely
of you, like a soul-mouth'd Man as he is, and said he would
cudgel you.
P. Henry.
What, he did not?
Host.
There's neither Faith, Truth, nor Woman-Hood
in me else.
Fal.
There's no more Faith in thee than in a stew'd
Prune; nor no more Truth in thee than in a drawn Fox;
and for Woman-hood, Maid-Marian may be the Deputies
Wise of the Ward to thee. Go you nothing, go.
Host.
Say, what thing? What thing?
Fal.
What thing? Why a thing to thank Heav'n or.
Host.
I am nothing to thank Heav'n on, I would thou
shouldst know it: I am an honest Man's Wife; and setting
thy Knighthood aside, thou art a Knave to call me so.
Fal.
Setting thy Womanhood aside, thou art a Beast to
say otherwise.
Host.
Say, what Beast, thou Knave thou?
Fal.
What Beast? Why an Otter.
P. Henry.
An Otter, Sir John, why an Otter?
Fal.
Why? she's neither Fish nor Flesh; a Man knows
not where to have her.
Host.
Thou art an unjust Man in saying so; thou, or
any Man knows where to have me, thou Knave thou.
-- 1178 --
P. Henry.
Thou say'st true, Hostess, and he slanders thee
most grosly.
Host.
So he doth you, my Lord, and said this other
Day, you ow'd him a thousand Pound.
P. Henry.
Sirrah do I owe you a thousand Pound?
Fal.
A thousand Pound, Hal? A Million; thy Love is
worth a Million: Thou ow'st me thy Love.
Host.
Nay, my Lord, he call'd you Jack, and said he
would cudgel you.
Fal.
Did I, Bardolph.
Bard.
Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
Fal.
Yea, if he said my Ring was Copper.
P. Henry.
I say 'tis Copper. Dar'st thou be as good as
thy Word now?
Fal.
Why, Hal, thou know'st, as thou art but a Man I
dare, but as thou art a Prince, I fear thee, as I fear the
roaring of the Lion's Whelp.
P. Henry.
And why not as the Lion?
Fal.
The King himself is to be fear'd as the Lion; do'st
thou think I'll fear thee, as I fear thy Father? Nay if I do,
let my Girdle break.
P. Henry.
O, if it should, how would thy Guts fall about
thy Knees. But, Sirrah, there's no room for Faith, Truth,
nor Honesty, in this Bosom of thine; it is all fill'd up with
Guts and Midriff. Charge an honest Woman with picking
thy Pocket! Why thou Horson impudent, imbost Rascal,
if there were any thing in thy Pocket but Tavern
Reckonings, Memorandums of Bawdy-Houses, and one
poor penny-worth of Sugar-Candy to make thee long-winded;
if thy Pocket were enrich'd with any other Injuries
but these, I am a Villain; and yet you will stand to it,
you will not Pocket up Wrongs. Art thou not asham'd?
Fal.
Dost thou hear, Hal, Thou know'st in the State
of Innocency, Adam fell; and what would poor Jack
Falstaff do, in the Days of Villainy: Thou seest, I have
more Flesh than another Man, and therefore more Frailty.
You confess then you pickt my Pocket!
P. Henry.
It appears so by the Story.
Fal.
Hostess, I forgive thee:
Go make ready Breakfast; love thy Husband,
Look to thy Servants, and cherish thy Guests;
-- 1179 --
Thou shalt find me tractable to any honest Reason:
Thou seest, I am pacify'd still.
Nay, I prithee be gone.
[Exit Hostess.
Now, Hal, to the News at Court for the Robbery, Lad?
How is that answer'd?
P. Henry.
O my sweet Beef,
I must still be good Angel to thee.
The Mony is paid back again.
Fal.
O, I do not like that paying back: 'tis a double
Labour.
P. Henry.
I am good Friends with my Father, and may
do any thing.
Fal.
Rob me the Exchequer the first thing thou do'st,
and do it with un-wash'd Hands too.
Bard.
Do, my Lord.
P. Henry.
I have procured thee, Jack, a Charge of Foot.
Fal.
I would it had been of Horse. Where shall I find
one that can steal well? O, for a fine Thief, of two and
twenty, or thereabout; I am heinously unprovided. Well,
God be thanked for these Rebels, they offend none but the
virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.
P. Henry.
Bardolph.
Bard.
My Lord.
P. Henry.
Go bear this Letter to Lord John of Lancaster,
To my Brother John. This to my Lord of Westmorland:
Go Peto, to Horse; for thou, and I,
Have thirty Miles to ride yet e'er Dinner time.
Jack, meet me to Morrow in the Temple-Hall
At two a Clock in the Afternoon,
There shalt thou know thy Charge, and there receive
Mony, and Order for their Furniture.
The Land is burning, Percy stands on high,
And either they, or we, must lower lye.
Fal.
Rare Words; brave World,
Hostess, my Breakfast, come:
Oh, I could wish this Tavern were my Drum.
[Exeunt.
-- 1180 --
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
