SCENE II.
Enter Lord Bardolf, and the Porter.
Bard.
Who keeps the Gate, hoa?
Where is the Earl?
Porter.
What shall I say you are?
-- 1209 --
Bard.
Tell thou the Earl,
That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.
Porter.
His Lordship is walk'd forth into the Orchard,
Please it your Honour, knock but at the Gate,
And he himself will answer.
Enter Northumberland.
Bard.
Here comes the Earl.
North.
What news, Lord Bardolph? Ev'ry minute now
Should be the Father of some Stratagem.
The Times are wild: Contention, like a Horse
Full of high Feeding, madly hath broke loose,
And bears down all before him.
Bard.
Noble Earl,
I bring you certain News from Shrewsbury.
North.
Good, and Heav'n will.
Bard.
As good as Heart can wish:
The King is almost wounded to the Death:
And in the Fortune of my Lord your Son,
Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts
Kill'd by the Hand of Dowglass, young Prince John,
And Westmorland, and Stafford, fled the Field.
And Harry Monmouth's Brawn, the Hulk Sir John,
Is Prisoner to your Son. O, such a Day,
So fought, so follow'd, and so fairly won,
Came not, 'till now, to dignifie the Times
Since Cæsar's Fortunes.
North.
How is this deriv'd?
Saw you the Field? Came you from Shrewsbury?
Bard.
I spake with one, my Lord, that came from thence,
A Gentleman well bred, and of good Name,
That freely render'd me this News for true.
North.
Here comes my Servant Travers, whom I sent
On Tuesday last, to listen after News.
Enter Travers.
Bard.
My Lord, I over-rode him on the way.
And he is furnish'd with no Certainties,
More than he, happily, may retail from me.
North.
Now Travers, what good Tidings comes from you?
Tra.
My Lord, John Umfrevil turn'd me back
With joyful Tidings; and being better hors'd
Out-rode me. After him, came spurring hard
-- 1210 --
A Gentleman, almost fore-spent with speed,
That stopp'd by me, to breathe his bloodied Horse.
He ask'd the way to Chester: And of him
I did demand what News from Shrewsbury:
He told me, that Rebellion had ill Luck,
And that young Harry Percy's Spur was cold.
With that he gave his able Horse the Head,
And, bending forward, strook his able Heels
Against the panting Sides of his poor Jade,
Up to the Rowel-head, and starting so,
He seem'd in running to devour the way,
Staying no longer question.
North.
Ha? Again:
Said he young Harry Percy's Spur was cold?
Of Hot-spur, cold Spur, that Rebellion
Had met ill Luck?
Bard.
My Lord, I'll tell you what,
If my young Lord, your Son, have not the Day,
Upon mine Honour, for a silken Point
I'll give my Barony. Never talk of it.
North.
Why should the Gentleman that rode by Travers
Give then such instances of Loss?
Bard.
Who he?
He was some hielding Fellow, that had stol'n
The Horse he rode on; and upon my Life
Spake at adventure. Look, here comes more News.
Enter Morton.
North.
Yea, this Man's Brow, like to a Title-leaf,
Foretels the Nature of a Tragick Volume:
So looks the Strond, when the Imperious Flood
Hath left a witness'd Usurpation.
Say, Morton, did'st thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mort.
I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble Lord,
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest Mask
To fright our Party.
North.
How doth my Son, and Brother?
Thou trembl'st; and the whiteness in thy Cheek
Is apter than thy Tongue, to tell thy Errand.
Even such a Man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in Look, so woe-be-gone,
Drew Priam's Curtain, in the dead of Night,
-- 1211 --
And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd.
But Priam found the Fire, e'er he his Tongue:
And I, my Percy's Death, e'er thou report'st it.
This, thou would'st say: Your Son did thus, and thus;
Your Brother, thus. So fought the noble Dowglass,
Stopping my greedy Ear with their bold Deeds.
But in the end, to stop my Ear indeed,
Thou hast a Sigh, to blow away this Praise,
Ending with Brother, Son, and all are dead.
Mort.
Dowglass is living, and your Brother, yet;
But for my Lord, your Son.
North.
Why, he is dead.
See what a ready Tongue Suspicion hath;
He that but fears the thing, he would not know,
Hath by Instinct, knowledge from others Eyes,
That what he fear'd is chanc'd. Yet speak, Morton,
Tell thou thy Earl, his Divination lies,
And I will take it as a sweet Disgrace,
And make thee rich, for doing me such wrong.
Mort.
You are too great, to be, by me, gainsaid.
Your Spirit is too true, your Fears too certain.
North.
Yet for all this, say not that Percy's dead.
I see a strange Confession in thine Eye:
Thou shak'st thy Head, and hold'st it Fear, or Sin,
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:
The Tongue offends not, that reports his Death:
And he doth Sin that doth belie the dead;
Not he, which says the dead is not alive:
Yet the first Bringer of unwelcome News
Hath but a losing Office: And his Tongue,
Sounds ever after as a sullen Bell
Remembred, knolling a departing Friend.
Bard.
I cannot think, my Lord, your Son is dead.
Mort.
I am sorry I should force you to believe
That, which I would to Heav'n I had not seen.
But these mine Eyes saw him in bloody State,
Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd,
To Henry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the Earth,
From whence, with Life, he never more sprung up.
In few; his Death, whose Spirit lent a Fire
-- 1212 --
Even to the dullest Peasant in his Camp,
Being bruited once, took Fire and Heat away
From the best temper'd Courage in his Troops.
For from his Metal was his Party steel'd;
Which once in him abated, all the rest
Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy Lead:
And as the thing that's heavy in it self,
Upon enforcement, flies with greatest speed;
So did our Men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,
Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear,
That Arrows fled not swifter toward their aim,
Than did our Soldiers, aiming at their safety,
Fly from the Field. Then was that noble Worcester
Too soon ta'en Prisoner: And that furious Scot,
The bloody Dowglass, whose well-labouring Sword
Had three times slain th' Appearance of the King,
'Gan vail his Stomach, and did grace the Shame
Of those that turn'd their back: And in his flight,
Stumbling in Fear, was took. The sum of all,
Is, that the King hath won: And hath sent out
A speedy Power, to encounter you, my Lord,
Under the Conduct of young Lancaster
And Westmorland. This is the News at full.
North.
For this, I shall have time enough to mourn.
In Poison there is Physick: And this News,
Having been well, that would have made me sick,
Being sick, hath in some measure made me well.
And as the Wretch, whose Feaver-weakened Joints,
Like strengthless Hinges, buckle under Life,
Impatient of his Fit, breaks like a Fire
Out of his Keeper's Arms; even so, my Limbs,
Weakned with grief, being now inrag'd with grief,
Are thrice themselves. Hence therefore thou nice Crutch,
A scaly Gauntlet now, with Joints of Steel
Must glove this Hand. And hence thou sickly Quoif,
Thou art a guard too wanton for the Head,
Which Princes flesh'd with Conquest, aim to hit.
Now bind my Brows with Iron, and approach
The ragged'st Hour that Time and Spight dare bring,
To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland.
Let Heav'n kiss Earth: Now let not Nature's Hand
-- 1213 --
Keep the wild Flood confin'd; let Order die,
And let the World no longer be a Stage
To feed Contention in a lingring Act:
But let one Spirit of the first-born Cain,
Reign in all Bosoms, that each Heart being set
On bloody Courses, the rude Scene may end,
And Darkness be the Burier of the Dead.
Bard.
Sweet Earl, divorce not Wisdom from your Honour.
Mort.
The Lives of all your loving Complices
Lean on your Health, the which if you give o'er
To stormy Passion, must perforce decay.
You cast th' Event of War, my noble Lord,
And sum'd the account of Chance, before you said
Let us make Head: It was your Presurmise,
That in the dole of Blows, your Son might drop.
You knew he walk'd o'er Perils, on an Edge
More likely to fall in, then to get o'er:
You were advis'd his Flesh was capable
Of Wounds and Scars; and that his forward Spirit
Would lift him, where most trade of Danger rang'd,
Yet did you say, Go forth: And none of this,
Though strongly apprehended, could restrain
The stiff-born Action: What hath then befall'n?
Or what hath this bold Enterprize brought forth,
More than that Being, which was like to be?
Bard.
We all that are engaged to this Loss,
Knew that we ventur'd on such dangerous Seas,
That if we wrought out Life, was ten to one;
And yet we ventur'd for the Gain propos'd,
Choak'd the Respect of likely Peril fear'd,
And since we are o'er-set, venture again.
Come, we will all put forth, Body and Goods.
Mort.
'Tis more than time; and, my most noble Lord,
I hear for certain, and do speak the Truth:
The gentle Arch-Bishop of York is up
With well appointed Powers: He is a Man
Who with a double Surety binds his Followers.
My Lord, your Son, had only but the Corps,
But Shadows, and the Shews of Men to fight.
For that same Word, Rebellion, did divide
The Action of their Bodies, from their Souls,
-- 1214 --
And they did fight with Queasiness, constrain'd,
As Men drink Potions; that their Weapons only
Seem'd on our Side: But for their Spirits and Souls,
This Word, Rebellion, it had froze them up,
As Fish are in a Pond. But now the Bishop
Turns Insurrection to Religion;
Suppos'd sincere, and holy in his Thoughts,
He's follow'd both with Body, and with Mind:
And doth enlarge his rising, with the Blood
Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret Stones,
Derives from Heav'n his Quarrel, and his Cause:
Tells them, he doth bestride a bleeding Land,
Gasping for Life, under great Bullingbroke,
And more, and less, do flock to follow him.
North.
I knew of this before. But to speak Truth,
This present Grief had wip'd it from my Mind.
Go in with me, and counsel every Man
The aptest Way for Safety, and Revenge:
Get Posts, and Letters, and make Friends with speed,
Never so few, nor never yet more need.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Falstaff, and Page.
Fal.
Sirrah, you Giant, what says the Doctor to my Water?
Page.
He said, Sir, the Water it self was a good healing
Water: But for the Party that own'd it, he might have
more Diseases than he knew for.
Fal.
Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The
Brain of this foolish compounded Clay-man, is not able
to invent any thing that tends to Laughter, more than I
invent, or is invented on me. I am not only witty in
my self, but the Cause that Wit is in other Men. I do here
walk before thee, like a Sow, that hath overwhelm'd all
her Litter, but one. If the Prince put thee into my Service
for any other Reason, than to set me off, why then I
have no Judgment. Thou Horson Mandrake, thou art
fitter to be worn in my Cap, than to wait at my Heels. I
was never mann'd with an Agot 'till now: But I will set
you neither in Gold nor Silver, but in vile Apparel, and
send you back again to your Master, for a Jewel. The
-- 1215 --
Juvenal! the Prince your Master! whose Chin is not yet
fledg'd; I will sooner have a Beard grow in the Palm of my
Hand, then he shall get one on his Cheek: Yet he will not
stick to say, his Face is a Face-Royal. Heav'n may finish
it when he will, it is not a Hair amiss yet: He may keep
it still as a Face-Royal, for a Barber shall never earn Sixpence
out of it; and yet he will be crowing, as if he had
writ Man ever since his Father was a Batchelor. He may
keep his own Grace, but he is almost out of mine, I can
assure him. What said Mr. Dombledon, about the Satten for
my short Cloak, and Slops?
Page.
He said, Sir, you should procure him better assurance
than Bardolph: He would not take his Bond and yours, he
lik'd not the Security.
Fal.
Let him be damn'd like the Glutton, may his Tongue
be hotter, a horson Achitophel, a Rascally-yea-forsooth-knave,
to bear a Gentleman in Hand, and then stand upon
Security? The horson smooth-pates do now wear nothing
but high Shooes, and Bunches of Keys at their Girdles;
and if a Man is through with them in honest taking up, then
they must stand upon Security: I had as lief they would
put Rats-bane in my Mouth, as offer to stop it with Security.
I look'd he should have sent me two and twenty
Yards of Satten, as I am a true Knight, and he sends me
Security. Well, he may sleep in Security, for he hath
the horn of Abundance: And the lightness of his Wise
shines through it, and yet cannot he see, though he have
his own Lanthorn to light him. Where's Bardolph?
Page.
He's gone into Smithfield to buy your Worship a
Horse.
Fal.
I bought him in Pauls, and he'll buy me a Horse
in Smithfield. If I could get me a Wife in the Stews, I
were Mann'd, Hors'd, and Wiv'd.
Enter Chief Justice, and Servant.
Page.
Sir, here comes the Nobleman that committed the
Prince for striking him, about Bardolph.
Fal.
Wait close, I will not see him.
Ch. Just.
What's he that goes there?
Serv.
Falstaff, and't please your Lordship.
Ch. Just.
He that was in question for the Robbery?
-- 1216 --
Serv.
He, my Lord. But he hath since done good Service
at Shrewsbury: And, as I hear, is now going with some
Charge to the Lord John of Lancaster.
Ch. Just.
What, to York? Call him back again.
Serv.
Sir John Falstaff.
Fal.
Boy, tell him I am deaf.
Page.
You must speak lowder, my Master is deaf.
Ch. Just.
I am sure he is, to the hearing of any thing good.
Go pluck him by the Elbow. I must speak with him.
Serv.
Sir John.
Fal.
What! A young Knave and beg! Are there not Wars?
Is there not Employment? Doth not the King lack Subjects?
Do not the Rebels want Soldiers? Though it be a shame
to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg, than to
be on the worst side, were it worse than the Name of Rebellion
can tell how to make it.
Serv.
You mistake me, Sir.
Fal.
Why, Sir, did I say you were an honest Man? Setting
my Knight-hood, and my Soldiership aside. I had lied
in my Throat, if I had said so.
Serv.
I pray you, Sir, then set your Knight-hood and
your Soldier-ship aside, and give me leave to tell you, you
lie in your Throat, if you say I am any other than an honest
Man.
Fal.
I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that
which grows to me! If thou gett'st any leave of me, hang
me; if thou tak'st leave, thou wer't better be hang'd: You
Hunt counter, hence; avaunt.
Serv.
Sir, my Lord would speak with you.
Ch. Just.
Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.
Fal.
My good Lord! give your Lordship good time of
the Day. I am glad to see your Lordship abroad; I heard
say, your Lordship was sick. I hope your Lordship goes
abroad by advice. Your Lordship, though not clean past
your Youth, hath yet some smack of Age in you: Some relish
of the Saltness of time; and I most humbly beseech
your Lordship, to have a reverend care of your Health.
Ch. Just.
Sir John, I sent for you before your Expedition
to Shrewsbury.
Fal.
If it please your Lordship, I hear his Majesty is return'd
with some discomfort from Wales.
-- 1217 --
Ch. Just.
I talk not of his Majesty: You would not come
when I sent for you?
Fal.
And I hear moreover, his Highness is fall'n into this
same whorson Apoplexy.
Ch. Just.
Well, Heav'n mend him. I pray let me speak
with you.
Fal.
This Apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of Lethargy,
a sleeping of the Blood, a whorson Tingling.
Ch. Just.
What tell you me of it? Be it as it is.
Fal.
It hath its original from much Grief; from Study
and Perturbation of the Brain. I have read the Cause of
its Effects in Galen. It is a kind of Deafness.
Ch. Just.
I think you are fal'n into that Disease: For you
hear not what I say to you.
Fal.
Very well, my Lord, very well: Rather, an't please
you, it is the Disease of not Listning, the Malady of not
Marking, that I am troubled withal.
Ch. Just.
To punish you by the Heels, would amend
the attention of your Ears, and I care not if I be your
Physician.
Fal.
I am as poor as Job, my Lord; but not so patient:
Your Lordship may minister the Potion of Imprisonment
to me, in respect of Poverty: But how I should be your
Patient to follow your Prescriptions, the Wise may make
some dram of a scruple, or indeed, a scruple it self.
Ch. Just.
I sent for you, when there were matters against
you for your Life, to speak with me.
Fal.
As I was then advis'd by my learned Counsel, in
the Laws of this Land-service, I did not come.
Ch. Just.
Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great
Infamy.
Fal.
He that buckles him in my Belt, cannot live in less.
Ch. Just.
Your Means is very slender, and your Waste
great.
Fal.
I would it were otherwise: I would my Means were
greater, and my Waste slenderer.
Ch. Just.
You have miss-led the youthful Prince.
Fal.
The young Prince hath miss-led me. I am the Fellow
with the great Belly, and he my Dog.
Ch. Just.
Well, I am loth to gall a new-heal'd Wound;
your Day's Service at Shrewsbury, hath a little gilded over
-- 1218 --
your Night's Exploit on Gads-hill. You may thank the unquiet
time, for your quiet o'er-posting that Action.
Fal.
My Lord?
Ch. Just.
But since all is well, keep it so: Wake not a
sleeping Wolf.
Fal.
To wake a Wolf, is as bad as to smell a Fox.
Ch. Just.
What? You are as a Candle, the better part
burnt out.
Fal.
A Wassel-Candel, my Lord; all Tallow: If I did
say of Wax, my growth would approve the truth.
Ch. Just.
There is not a white Hair on your Face, but
should have his Effect of Gravity.
Fal.
His Effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.
Ch. Just
You follow the young Prince up and down, like
his evil Angel.
Fal.
Not so, my Lord, your ill Angel is light: But I
hope, he that looks upon me, will take me without weighing;
and yet, in some respects I grant, I cannot go; I cannot
tell—Virtue is of so little regard in these Costor-mongers
Days, that true Valour is turn'd Bear-herd. Pregnancy
is made a Tapster, and hath his quick Wit wasted in giving
Recknings; all the other Gifts appertinent to Man, as the
malice of this Age shapes them, are not worth a Goose-berry.
You that are old, consider not the Capacities of us
that are young; you measure the heat of our Livers, with
the bitterness of your Galls; and we that are in the vaward
of our youth, I must confess, are Wags too.
Ch. Just.
Do you set down your Name in the Scrowl of
youth, that are written down old, with all the Characters
of Age? Have you not a moist Eye? a dry Hand? a yellow
Cheek? a white Beard? a decreasing Leg? an increasing
Belly? is not your Voice broken? your Wind short? your
Wit single? and every part about you blasted with Antiquity?
and will you call your self young? fie, fie, fie, Sir
John.
Fal.
My Lord, I was born with a white Head, and something
a round Belly. For my Voice, I have lost it with
hollowing and singing of Anthems. To approve my youth
further, I will not. The truth is, I am only old in Judgment
and Understanding; and he that will caper with me
for a thousand Marks, let him lend me the Mony, and have
-- 1219 --
at him. For the Box o'th' Ear that the Prince gave you,
he gave it like a rude Prince, and you took it like a sensible
Lord. I have checkt him for it, and the young Lion repents:
Marry not in Sack-cloth, but in new Silk, and old
Sack.
Ch. Just.
Well, Heav'n send the Prince a better Companion.
Fal.
Heav'n send the Companion a better Prince: I cannot
rid my Hands of him.
Ch. Just.
Well, the King hath sever'd you and Prince
Harry, I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster,
against the Archbishop, and the Earl of Northumberland.
Fal.
Yes, I thank your pretty sweet Wit for it; but look
you pray, all you that kiss my Lady Peace at home, that
our Armies join not in a hot Day: For I take but two Shirts
out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: If
it be a hot Day, if I brandish any thing but my Bottle,
would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous
Action can peep out his Head, but I am thrust upon it.
Well, I cannot last ever.
Ch. Just.
Well, be honest, be honest, and Heav'n bless
your Expedition.
Fal.
Will your Lordship lend me a thousand Pound, to
furnish me forth?
Ch. Just.
Nor a Penny, not a Penny; you are too impatient
to bear Crosses. Fare you well. Commend me to my
Cousin Westmorland.
[Exit.
Fal.
If I do, fillop me with a three-man-Beetle. A Man
can no more separate Age and Covetousness, than he can part
young Limbs and Letchery: But the Gout galls the one,
and the Pox pinches the other; and so both the Degrees
prevent my Curses. Boy.
Page.
Sir.
Fal.
What Mony is in my Purse?
Page.
Seven Groats, and two Pence.
Fal.
I can get no Remedy against this Consumption of the
Purse. Borrowing only lingers, and lingers it out, but the
Disease is incurable. Go bear this Letter to my Lord of
Lancaster, this to the Prince, this to the Earl of Westmorland,
and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly
sworn to marry, since I perceiv'd the first white Hair on
-- 1220 --
my Chin. About it; you know where to find me. A Pox
of this Gout, or a Gout of this Pox; for the one or th'other
plays the Rogue with my great Toe: It is no matter,
if I do halt, I have the Wars for my Colour, and my Pension
shall seem the more reasonable: A good Wit will make
use of any thing; I will turn Diseases to commodity.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Arch-Bishop of York, Hastings, Mowbray, and
Lord Bardolph.
York.
Thus have you heard our Causes, and know our Means:
And my most noble Friends, I pray you all
Speak plainly your Opinions of our Hopes,
And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?
Mow.
I well allow the occasion of our Arms,
But gladly would be better satisfied,
How, in our Means, we should advance our selves,
To look with Forehead bold and big enough,
Upon the Power and Puissance of the King?
Hast.
Our present Musters grow upon the File
To five and twenty thousand Men of choice:
And our Supplies live largely in the hope
Of great Northumberland, whose Bosom burns
With an incensed Fire of Injuries.
Bard.
The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus,
Whether our present five and twenty thousand
May hold up Head without Northumberland?
Hast.
With him we may.
Bard.
Ay marry, there's the point:
But if without him we be thought too feeble,
My Judgment is, we should not step too far
'Till we had his Assistance by the Hand.
For in a Theam so bloody fac'd as this,
Conjecture, Expectation, and Surmise
Of Aids uncertain, should not be admitted.
York.
'Tis true, Lord Bardolph, for indeed
It was young Hot-spur's case at Shrewsbury.
-- 1221 --
Bard.
It was, my Lord, who lin'd himself with hope,
Eating the Air, on promise of Supply,
Flattering himself with Project of a Power,
Much smaller than the smallest of his Thoughts,
And so with great Imagination,
Proper to mad Men, lead his Powers to Death,
And, winking, leap'd into Destruction.
Hast.
But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt,
To lay down likelihoods, and forms of hope.
Bard.
Yes, if this present quality of War,
Indeed the instant Action, a Cause on foot,
Lives so in hope, as in an early Spring
We see th' appearing Buds, which to prove Fruit,
Hope gives not so much warrant, as Despair
That Frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,
We first survey the Plot, then draw the Model,
And when we see the figure of the House,
Then must we rate the Cost of the Erection,
Which if we find out-weighs Ability,
What do we then, but draw a-new the Model
In fewer Offices; or at least, desist
To build at all? Much more, in this great work,
Which is, almost, to pluck a Kingdom down,
And set another up, should we survey
The Plot of Situation, and the Model,
Consent upon a sure Foundation,
Question Surveyors, know our own Estate,
How able such a Work to undergo,
To weigh against his Opposite? or else,
We fortifie in Paper, and in Figures,
Using the Names of Men, instead of Men:
Like one that draws the Model of a House
Beyond his Power to build it; who, half through,
Gives o'er, and leaves his part-created Cost
A naked subject to the weeping Clouds,
And waste, for churlish Winters tyranny.
Hast.
Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,
Should be still-born; and that we now possest
The utmost Man of Expectation:
I think we are a Body strong enough,
Even as we are, to equal with the King.
-- 1222 --
Bard.
What, is the King but five and twenty thousand?
Hast.
To us no more; nay not so much, Lord Bardolph.
For his Divisions, as the Times do brawl,
Are in three Heads; one Power against the French,
And one against Glendower; perforce a third
Must take up us: So is the unfirm King
In three divided; and his Coffers sound
With hollow Poverty, and Emptiness.
York.
That he should draw his several strengths together,
And come against us in full Puissance,
Need not be dreaded.
Hast.
If he should do so,
He leaves his Back unarm'd, the French, and Welsh
Baying him at the Heel; never fear that.
Bard.
Who is it like should lead his Forces hither?
Hast.
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmorland:
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth.
But who is substituted 'gainst the French,
I have no certain notice.
York.
Let us on:
And publish the Occasion of our Arms.
The Commonwealth is sick of their own choice,
Their over-greedy Love hath surfeited,
An Habitation giddy and unsure
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar Heart.
O thou fond Many! with what loud Applause
Did'st thou beat Heav'n with blessing Bullingbroke,
Before he was, what thou would'st have him be?
And being now trim'd up in thine own desires,
Thou, beastly Feeder, art so full of him,
That thou provok'st thy self to cast him up.
So, so, thou common Dog, didst thou disgorge
Thy glutton-bosom of the Royal Richard,
And now thou would'st eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these Times?
They, that when Richard liv'd, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd on his Grave.
Thou that threwst Dust upon his goodly Head,
When through proud London he came sighing on,
After th'admired Heels of Bullingbroke,
-- 1223 --
Cry'st now, O Earth yield us that King again,
And take thou this. O thoughts of Men accurs'd,
Past, and to come, seems best; things present, worst.
Mow.
Shall we go draw our Numbers, and set on?
Hast.
We are Time's Subjects, and Time bids, be gone.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Enter Hostess, with two Officers, Fang, and Snare.
Host.
Mr. Fang, have you entred the Action?
Fang.
It is enter'd.
Host.
Where's your Yeoman? Is it a lusty Yeoman?
Will he stand to it?
Fang.
Sirrah, where's Snare?
Host.
Ay, ay, good Mr. Snare.
Snare.
Here, here.
Fang.
Snare, we must Arrest Sir John Falstaff.
Host.
Ay, good Mr. Snare, I have enter'd him, and all.
Snare.
It may chance cost some of us our Lives: He
will stab.
Host.
Alas-the-day; take heed of him; he stab'd me in
mine own House, and that most beastly; he cares not what
mischief he doth, if his Weapon be out. He will foin like
like any Devil, he will spare neither Man, Woman, nor
Child.
Fang.
If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust.
Host.
No, nor I neither; I'll be at your Elbow.
Fang.
If I but fist him once; if he come but within my
Vice.
Host.
I am undone with his going; I warrant he is an infinitive
thing upon my score. Good Mr. Fang, hold him
sure; good Mr. Snare, let him not scape, he comes continually
to Pie-corner, saving your Manhoods, to buy a Saddle,
and he is invited to dinner to the Lubbars-head in Lombard-street
to Mr. Smooths the Silkman. I pray ye since my Action
is enter'd, and my Case so openly known to the World,
let him be brought into his answer. A hundred Mark is a
long one, for a poor lone Woman to bear; and I have born,
-- 1224 --
and born, and born; and have bin fub'd off, and fub'd off, from
this Day to that Day, that it is a shme to be thought on.
There is no honesty in such dealing, unless a Woman should
be made an Ass and a Beast, to bear every Knaves wrong.
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.
Yonder he comes, and that arrant Malmsey-Nose Bardolph
with him. Do your Offices, do your Offices: Mr.
Fang, and Mr. Snare, do me, do me, do me your Offices.
Fal.
How now? whose Mare's dead? what's the matter?
Fang.
Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress
Quickly.
Fal.
Away Varlets, draw Bardolph: Cut me off the Villain's
Head: Throw the Quean in the Channel.
Host.
Throw me in the Channel? I'll throw thee there.
Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly Rogue. Murder,
murder: O thou Hony-suckle Villain, wilt thou kill God's
Officers and the King's? O thou hony-seed Rogue, thou
art a Hony-seed, a Man-queller, and a Woman-queller.
Fal.
Keep them off, Bardolph.
Fang.
A Rescue, a Rescue.
Host.
Good People bring a Rescue. Thou wilt not? thou
wilt not? do, do thou Rogue: Do thou Hempseed.
Fal.
Away you Scullion, you Rampallian, you Fustilirian:
I'll tuck your Catastrophe.
Enter Chief Justece.
Ch. Just.
What's the matter? Keep the Peace here, hoa.
Host.
Good my Lord, be good to me. I beseech you
stand to me.
Ch. Just.
How now, Sir John? what are you brawling
here? Doth this become your place, your time, and business?
You should have been well on your way to York.
Stand from him Fellow, wherefore hang'st upon him?
Host.
Oh my most worshipful Lord, and't please your
Grace, I am a poor Widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested
at my Suit.
Ch. Just.
For what Sum?
Host.
It is more than for some, my Lord, it is for all; all
I have, he hath eaten me out of House and Home; he hath
put all my Substance into that fat Belly of his; but I will
-- 1225 --
have some of it out again, or I will ride thee o'Nights, like
the Mare.
Fal.
I think I am as like to ride the Mare, if I have any
vantage of Ground to get up.
Ch. Just.
How comes this, Sir John? Fie, what Man
of good temper would endure this tempest of Exclamation?
Are you not asham'd to inforce a poor Widow to so rough
a course to come by her own?
Fal.
What is the gross Sum that I owe thee?
Host.
Marry, if thou wer't an honest Man, thy self, and
the Mony too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt
Goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round Table,
by a Sea-coal Fire, on Wednesday in Whitson-Week, when
the Prince broke thy Head for likening him to a Singing-man
of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was
washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my Lady
thy Wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not Good-wife Keech,
the Butcher's Wife, come in then, and call me Gossip Quickly?
coming in to borrow a Mess of Vinegar; telling us, she
had a good Dish of Prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat
some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green Wound?
And didst not thou, when she was gone down Stairs, desire
me to be no more familiar with such poor People, saying,
that e'er long they should call me Madam? And didst thou
not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty Shillings? I put
thee now to thy Book-oath, deny it if thou canst?
Fal.
My Lord, this is a poor mad Soul; and she says up
and down the Town, that her eldest Son is like you. She
hath been in good case, and the truth is, poverty hath distracted
her; but for these foolish Officers, I beseech you,
I may have redress against them.
Ch. Just.
Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted with
your manner of wrenching the true Cause, the false Way.
It is not a confident Brow, nor the throng of Words, that
come with such, more than impudent, sawciness from you,
can thrust me from a level consideration. I know you ha'
practis'd upon the easie-yielding Spirit of this Woman.
Host.
Yes in troth, my Lord.
Ch. Just.
Prethee, peace; pay her the Debt you owe her,
and unpay the Villany you have done her; the one you may
do with sterling Mony, and the other with currant Repentance.
-- 1226 --
Fal.
My Lord, I will not undergo this sneap without
reply. You call honourable Boldness impudent Sawciness. If
a Man will curt'sie, and say nothing, he is Virtuous: No,
my Lord, your humble duty remembred, I will not be your
Sutor. I say to you, I desire deliv'rance from these Officers,
being upon hasty Employment in the King's Affairs.
Ch. Just.
You speak, as having Power to do wrong: But
answer in the Effect your Reputation, and satisfie the poor
Woman.
Fal.
Come hither, Hostess.
Enter Mr. Gower.
Ch. Just.
Now, Master Gower, what News?
Gower.
The King, my Lord, and Henry Prince of Wales
are near at Hand: The rest the Paper tells.
Fal.
As I am a Gentleman—
Host.
Nay, you said so before.
Fal.
As I am a Gentleman, come, no more words of it.
Host.
By this heavenly Ground I tread on, I must be
fain to pawn both my Plate, and the Tapestry of my Dining
Chambers.
Fal.
Glasses, Glasses, is the only drinking; and for thy
Walls a pretty slight Drollery, or the Story of the Prodigal,
or the German hunting in Water-work, is worth a thousand
of these Bed-hangings, and these Fly-bitten Tapestries. Let
it be ten Pound, if thou canst. Come, if it were not for
thy Humours, there is not a better Wench in England. Go,
wash thy Face, and draw thy Action: Come, thou must
not be in this humour with me, come, I know thou wast
set on to this.
Host.
Prethee, Sir John, let it be but twenty Nobles, I
am loth to pawn my Plate, in good earnest la.
Fal.
Let it alone, I'll make other shift; you'll be a Fool
still.
Host.
Well, you shall have it, although I pawn my
Gown. I hope you'll come to Supper: You'll pay me all
together?
Fal.
Will I live? Go with her, with her; Hook on,
hook on.
Host.
Will you have Doll Tear-sheet meet you at Supper?
-- 1227 --
Fal.
No more words. Let's have her.
Ch. Just.
I have heard bitter News.
Fal.
What's the News, my good Lord?
Ch. Just.
Where lay the King last Night?
Gower.
At Basing-stoke, my Lord.
Fal.
I hope, my Lord, all's well. What is the News,
my Lord?
Ch. Just.
Come all his Forces back?
Gower.
No; fifteen hundred Foot, and five hundred Horse,
are march'd up to my Lord of Lancaster, against Northumberland
and the Arch-Bishop.
[illeg.]
Comes the King back from Wales, my noble Lord?
Ch. Just.
You shall have Letters of me presently.
[illeg.] along with me, good Mr. Gower.
Fal.
my Lord.
Ch. Just.
What's the matter?
Fal.
Master Gower, I shall entreat you with me to dinner.
Gower.
I must wait upon my good Lord here.
I thank you, good Sir John.
Ch. Just.
Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you
are to take Soldiers up in Countreys as you go.
Fal.
Will you Sup with me, Master Gower?
Ch. Just.
What foolish Master taught you these manners,
Sir John?
Fal.
Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a
Fool that taught them me. This is the right Fencing grace,
my Lord, tap for tap, and so part fair.
Ch. Just.
Now the Lord lighten thee, thou art a great
Fool.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Prince Henry and Poins.
P. Henry.
Trust me, I am exceeding weary.
Poins.
Is it come to that? I had thought weariness durst
not have attach'd one of so high Blood.
P. Henry.
It doth me, though it discolours the Complexion
of my Greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not shew
vilely in me, to desire small Beer?
-- 1228 --
Poins.
Why, a Prince should not be so loosly studied, as
to remember so weak a Composition.
P. Henry.
Belike then, my Appetite was not Princely
got; for, in troth, I do now remember the poor Creature,
small Beer. But indeed these humble considerations make
me out of love with my Greatness. What a disgrace is it
to me, to remember thy Name? or to know thy Face to
morrow? or to take notice how many pair of Silk Stockings
thou hast? (viz. these, and those that were the peach-colour'd
ones;) or to bear the Inventory of thy Shirts; as one
for superfluity, and one other for use; but that the Tennis-Court
Keeper knows better than I, for it is a low ebb of
Linnen with thee, when thou keepest not Racket there, as
thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy
Low Countreys have made a Shift to eat up thy Holland.
Poins.
How ill it follows, after you have labour'd so
hard, you should talk so idlely? Tell me how many good
young Princes would do so, their Fathers lying so sick, as
yours is?
P. Henry.
Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?
Poins.
Yes; and let it be an excellent good thing.
P. Henry.
It shall serve among Wits of no higher breeding
than thine.
Poins.
Go to; I stand the push of your one thing, that
you'll tell.
P. Henry.
Why, I tell thee, it is not meet that I should
be sad now my Father is sick; albeit I could tell to thee, as
to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my Friend,
I could be sad, and sad indeed too.
Poins.
Very hardly upon such a Subject.
P. Henry.
Thou think'st me as far in the Devil's Book, as
thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and persistency. Let the
end try the Man. But I tell thee, my Heart bleeds inwardly,
that my Father is sick; and keeping such vile Company
as thou art, hath in Reason taken from me, all ostentation
of sorrow.
Poins.
The Reason.
P. Henry.
What would'st thou think of me, if I should
weep?
Poins.
I would think thee a most Princely Hypocrite.
-- 1229 --
P. Henry.
It would be every Man's thought; and thou
art a blessed Fellow, to think as every Man thinks; never a
Man's thought in the World keeps the Road-way better
than thine; every Man would think me an Hypocrite indeed.
And what excites your most worshipful thought to
think so?
Poins.
Why, because you have been so lewd, and so much
ingraffed to Falstaff.
P. Henry.
And to thee.
Poins.
Nay, I am well spoken of, I can hear it with mine
own Ears; the worst that they can say of me is, that I am
a second Brother, and that I am a proper Fellow of my
Hands; and those two things I confess I cannot help. Look,
look, here comes Bardolph.
P. Henry.
And the Boy that I gave Falstaff; he had him
from me Christian, and see if the fat Villain have not
transform'd him Ape.
Enter Bardolph, and Page.
Bard.
Save your Grace.
P. Henry.
And yours, most noble Bardolph.
Poins.
Come, you pernicious Ass, you bashful Fool,
must you be blushing? wherefore blush you now? what a
Maidenly Man at Arms are you become? Is it such a matter
to get a Pottle-pots Maiden-head?
Page.
He call'd me even now, my Lord, through a red
Lattice, and I could discern no part of his Face from the
Window; at last I spy'd his Eyes, and methought he had
made two Holes in the Ale-wives new Petticoat, and peeped
through.
P. Henry.
Hath not the Boy profited?
Bard.
Away, you whorson upright Rabbet, away.
Page.
Away, you rascally Althea's Dream, away.
P. Henry.
Instruct us, Boy, what Dream, Boy?
Page.
Marry, my Lord, Althea dream'd she was deliver'd
of a Firebrand, and therefore I call him her dream.
P. Henry.
A Crowns-worth of good Interpretation; there
it is, Boy,
Poins.
O that this good Blossom could be kept from Cankers:
Well, there is Six-pence to preserve thee.
Bard.
If you do not make him be hang'd among you,
the Gallows shall be wrong'd.
-- 1230 --
P. Henry.
And how doth thy Master, Bardolph?
Bard.
Well, my good Lord; he heard of your Graces
coming to Town. There's a Letter for you.
P. Henry.
Deliver'd with good respect; and how doth the
Martlemas, your Master?
Bard.
In bodily health, Sir.
Poins.
Marry, the immortal part needs a Physician; but
that moves not him; though that be sick, it dies not.
P. Henry.
I do allow this Wen to be as familiar with me
as my Dog. And he holds his place, for look you how he
writes.
Poins. reads.
John Falstaff, Knight—Every Man must
know that, as oft as he hath occasion to Name himself:
Even like those that are Kin to the King, for they never prick
their Finger, but they say there is some of the King's blood
spilt. How comes that? says he that takes upon him not
to conceive: The Answer is as ready as a borrowed Cap; I
am the King's poor Cousin, Sir.
P. Henry.
Nay, they will be Kin to us, but they will fetch
it from Japhet. But to the Letter:—Sir John Falstaff,
Knight, to the Son of the King, nearest his Father, Harry Prince
of Wales, greeting.
Poins.
Why this is a Certificate.
P. Henry.
Peace.
I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.
Poins.
Sure he means brevity in breath; short-winded.
I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be
not too familiar with Poins, for he misuses thy Favours so
much, that he swears thou art to marry his Sister Nell. Repent
at idle times as thou mayst, and so farewel. Thine, by
yea and no: Which is as much as to say, as thou usest him.
Jack Falstaff with my Familiars: John with my Brothers and
Sisters: And Sir John with all Europe.
My Lord, I will steep this Letter in Sack, and make him
eat it.
P. Henry.
That's to make him eat twenty of his Words.
But do you use me thus, Ned? Must I marry your Sister?
Poins.
May the Wench have no worse Fortune. But I
never said so.
-- 1231 --
P. Henry.
Well, thus we play the Fool with the time,
and the Spirits of the Wise sit in the Clouds, and mock us:
Is your Master here in London?
Bard.
Yes, my Lord.
P. Henry.
Where sups he? Doth the old Boor feed in the
old Frank?
Bard.
At the old place, my Lord, in East-cheap.
P. Henry.
What Company?
Page.
Ephesians, my Lord, of the old Church.
P. Henry.
Supany Women with him?
Page.
None, my Lord, but old Mistress Quickly, and
Mrs. Dol Tear-sheet.
P. Henry.
What Pagan may that be?
Page.
A proper Gentlewoman, Sir, and a Kinswoman of
my Master's.
P. Henry.
Even such Kin, as the Parish Heyfars are to
the Town-Bull.
Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at Supper?
Poins.
I am your Shadow, my Lord, I'll follow you.
P. Henry.
Sirrah, you Boy, and Bardolph, no word to
your Master that I am yet in Town.
There's for your Silence.
Bard.
I have no Tongue, Sir.
Page.
And for mine, Sir, I will govern it.
P. Henry.
Fare ye well: Go.
This Dol Tear-sheet should be some Road.
Poins.
I warrant you, as common as the way between St.
Albans and London.
P. Henry.
How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to
Night in his true Colours, and not our selves be seen?
Poins.
Put on two Leather Jerkins, and Aprons, and wait
upon him at his Table, like Drawers.
P. Henry.
From a God to a Bull? A heavy declension:
It was Jove's Case. From a Prince to a Prentice, a low
transformation, that shall be mine: For in every thing, the
Purpose must weigh with the Folly. Follow me, Ned.
[Exeunt.
-- 1232 --
SCENE III.
Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumberland and Lady Percy.
North.
I prethee, loving Wife, and gentle Daughter,
Give an even way unto my rough Affairs.
Put not you on the Visage of the Times,
And be like them to Percy, troublesome.
L. North.
I have given over, I will speak no more;
Do what you will: Your Wisdom be your Guide.
North.
Alas, sweet Wife, my Honour is at Pawn,
And but my going, nothing can redeem it.
L. Percy.
Oh yet, for Heav'n's sake, go not to these Wars,
The time was, Father, when you broke your word,
When you were more endear'd to it, than now,
When your own Percy, when my Heart-dear Harry,
Threw many a Northward look, to see his Father
Bring up his Powers: But he did long in vain.
Who then persuaded you to stay at home?
There were two Honours lost; yours and your Son's.
For yours, may heav'nly Glory brighten it:
For his, it stuck upon him, as the Sun
In the grey Vault of Heav'n: And by his Light
Did all the Chevalry of England move
To do brave Acts. He was, indeed, the Glass
Wherein the noble Youth did dress themselves.
He had no Legs, that practis'd not his Gate:
And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,
Became the Accents of the Valiant,
For those that could speak low, and tardily,
Would turn their own Perfection to Abuse,
To seem like him. So that in Speech, and Gate,
In Diet, in Affections of delight,
In Military Rules, Humors of Blood,
He was the Mark, and Glass, Copy, and Book,
That fashion'd others. And him, O wondrous him!
O Miracle of Men! Him did you leave
Second to none, un-seconded by you,
-- 1233 --
To look upon the hideous God of War,
In disadvantage, to abide the Field,
Where nothing but the sound of Hot-spur's Name
Did seem defensible: So you left him.
Never, O never do his Ghost the wrong,
To hold your Honour more precise and nice
With others, than with him. Let them alone:
The Marshal and the Archbishop are strong.
Had my sweet Harry had but half their Number,
To day might I (hanging on Hot-spur's Neck)
Have talk'd of Monmouth's Grave.
North.
Beshrew your Heart,
Fair Daughter, you do draw my Spirits from me,
With new lamenting ancient Over-sights.
But I must go, and meet with danger there;
Or it will seek me in another place,
And find me worse provided.
L. North.
O fly to Scotland,
'Till that the Nobles, and the armed Commons,
Have of their Puissance made a little taste.
L. Percy.
If they get Ground, and 'vantage of the King,
Then join you with them, like a Rib of Steel,
To make Strength stronger. But, for all our loves,
First let them try themselves. So did your Son,
He was so suffer'd; so came I a Widow:
And never shall have length of Life enough,
To rain upon Remembrance with mine Eyes,
That it may grow and sprout, as high as Heaven,
For Recordation to my Noble Husband.
North.
Come, come, go in with me: 'tis with my Mind
As with the Tyde, swell'd up unto his height,
That makes a still-stand, running neither way.
Fain would I go to meet the Archbishop,
But many a thousand Reasons hold me back:
I will resolve for Scotland; there am I,
'Till Time and Vantage crave my Company.
[Exeunt.
-- 1234 --
SCENE IV.
Enter two Drawers.
1 Draw.
What hast thou brought there? Apple-Johns?
Thou know'st Sir John cannot endure an Apple-John.
2 Draw.
Thou say'st true; the Prince once set a Dish of
Apple-Johns before him, and told him there were five more
Sir Johns; and, putting off his Hat, said, I will now take
my leave of these six dry, round, old wither'd Knights.
It anger'd him to the Heart; but he hath forgot that.
1 Draw.
Why then cover, and set them down; and see if
thou canst find out Sneak's Noise; Mistress Tear-sheet would
fain have some Musick.
2 Draw.
Sirrah, here will be the Prince, and Master Poins
anon; and they will put on two of our Jerkins and Aprons,
and Sir John must not know of it. Bardolph hath brought
word.
1 Draw.
Then here will be old Utis: it will be an excellent
Stratagem.
2 Draw.
I'll see if I can find out Sneak.
[Exeunt.
Enter Hostess and Dol.
Host.
Sweet heart, methinks now you are in an excellent
good temperality; your Pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as
Heart would desire; and your Colour, I warrant you, is as
red as any Rose: But you have drank too much Canary, and
that's a marvellous searching Wine; and it perfumes the Blood
e'er we can say what's this. How do you now?
Dol.
Better than I was: Hem.
Host.
Why, that was well said: A good Heart's worth
Gold. Look, here comes Sir John.
Enter Falstaff.
Fal.
When Arthur first in Court,—empty the Jordan—and
was a worthy King: How now, Mistress Dol?
Host.
Sick of a Calm: yea, good-sooth.
Fal.
So is her Sect, if they be once in a Calm they are
sick.
Dol.
You muddy Rascal, is that all the comfort you
give me?
Fal.
You make fat Rascals, Mistress Dol.
-- 1235 --
Dol.
I make them! Gluttony and Diseases make them, I
make them not.
Fal.
If the Cook make the Gluttony, you help to make
the Diseases, Dol; we catch of you, Dol, we catch of you:
Grant that, my poor Virtue, grant that.
Dol.
Ay marry, our Chains, and our Jewels.
Fal.
Your Brooches, Pearls, and O[illeg.]ches: For to serve
bravely, is to come halting off, you know; to come off the
Breach with his Pike bent bravely, and to Surgery bravely;
to venture upon the charg'd Chambers bravely—
Host.
Why, this is the old fashion; you two never meet
but you fall to some discord: you are both, in good troth,
as Rheumatick as two dry Toasts, you cannot one bear with
anothers Confirmities. What the good-year? One must bear,
and that must be you: you are the weaker Vessel, as they
say, the emptier Vessel.
[To Dol.
Dol.
Can a weak empty Vessel bear such a huge full Hogs-head?
there's a whole Merchants Venture of Bourdeaux stuff
in him; you have not seen a Hulk better stuft in the Hold.
Come, I'll be Friends with thee, Jack: Thou art going to
the Wars, and whether I shall ever see thee again or no, there
is no body cares.
Enter Drawer.
Draw.
Sir, Ancient Pistol is below, and would speak with
you.
Dol.
Hang him, swaggering Rascal, let him not come
hither; it is the foul-mouth'dst Rogue in England.
Host.
If he swagger let him not come here: I must live
amongst my Neighbours, I'll no Swaggerers: I am in
good Name and Fame with the very Best: Shut the Door,
there comes no Swaggerers here: I have not liv'd all this
while to have swaggering now: Shut the Door, I pray you.
Fal.
Do'st thou hear, Hostess—
Host.
'Pray you pacifie your self, Sir John, there comes
no Swaggerers here.
Fal.
Do'st thou hear—it is mine Ancient.
Host.
Tilly-fally, Sir John, never tell me, your ancient
Swaggerer comes not in my Doors. I was before Master
Tisick the Deputy the other day; and as he said to me—it was
no longer ago than Wednesday last; Neighbour Quickly, says
he; Master Domb our Minister was by then: Neighbour
-- 1236 --
Quickly, says he, receive those that are Civil; for, saith he,
you are in an ill Name: Now he said so, I can tell whereupon;
for, says he, you are an honest Woman, and well thought
on, therefore take heed what Guests you receive: Receive,
says he, no swaggering Companions. There come none here.
You would bless you to hear what he said. No, I'll no
Swaggerers.
Fal.
He's no Swaggerer, Hostess; a tame Cheater, he;
you may stroak him as gently as a Puppey-Greyhound; he
will not swagger with a Barbary Hen, if her Feathers turn
back in any shew of resistance. Call him up, Drawer.
Host.
Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest Man
my House, nor no Cheater; but I do not love swaggering;
I am the worse when one says swagger: Feel, Masters,
how I shake; look you, I warrant you.
Dol.
So you do, Hostess.
Host.
Do I? yea, in very Truth do I, if it were an Aspen
Leaf: I cannot abide Swaggerers.
Enter Pistol, Bardolph and Page.
Pist.
'Save you, Sir John.
Fal.
Welcome, ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge
you with a Cup of Sack: Do you discharge upon mine
Hostess.
Pist.
I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two
Bullets.
Fal.
She is Pistol proof, Sir, you shall hardly offend
her.
Host.
Come, I'll drink no Proofs, nor no Bullets: I
will drink no more than will do me good for no Man's pleasure,
I.
Pist.
Then to you, Mistress Dorothy, I will charge
you.
Dol.
Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy Companion! What?
You poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-Linnen-Mate; away,
you mouldy Rogue, away, I am Meat for your
Master.
Pist.
I know you, Mistress Dorothy.
Dol.
Away, you cut-purse Rascal, you filthy Bung away:
By this Wine, I'll thrust my Knife in your mouldy
Chaps if you play the sawcy Cuttle with me. Away
you Bottle-ale Rascal, you Basket-hilt stale Jugler you. Since
-- 1237 --
when, I pray you, Sir? what, with two Points on your
Shoulder? much.
Pist.
I will murther your Ruff for this.
Host.
No, good Captain Pistol: Not here, sweet
Captain.
Dol.
Captain! thou abominable damn'd Cheater, art thou
not asham'd to be call'd Captain? If Captains were of my
mind they would truncheon you out, for taking their Names
upon you, before you have earn'd them. You a Captain!
you slay! for what? for tearing a poor Whore's Ruff in a
Bawdy House? He a Captain! hang him, Rogue, he lives
upon mouldy stew'd Prunes and dry'd Cakes. A Captain!
These Villains will make the word Captain odious: Therefore
Captains had need look to it.
Bard.
Pray thee go down, good Ancient.
Fal.
Hark thee hither, Mistress Dol.
Pist.
Not I: I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could
tear her: I'll be reveng'd on her.
Page.
'Pray thee go down.
Pist.
I'll see her damn'd first: To Pluto's damned Lake, to
the Infernal Deep, where Erebus and Tortures vile also.
Hold Hook and Line, say I: Down! Down Dog, down
Fates: Have we not Hiren here?
Host.
Good Captain Peesel be quiet, it is very late: I beseek
you now, aggravate your Choler.
Pist.
These be good Humours indeed. Shall Pack-Horses,
and hollow pamper'd Jades of Asia, which cannot go but
thirty Miles a day, compare with Cæsar, and with Cannibal,
and Trojan Greeks? Nay, rather damn them with King
Cerberus, and let the Welkin roar: Shall we fall foul for
Toys?
Host.
By my troth, Captain, these are very bitter
Words.
Bard.
Be gone, good Ancient: This will grow to a Brawl
anon.
Pist.
Die Men, like Dogs; give Crowns like Pins: Have
we not Hiren hire?
Host.
On my word, Captain, there's none such here.
What the good-year do you think I would deny her? I
pray be quiet.
-- 1238 --
Pist.
Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis; come, give
me some Sack. Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contento.
Fear we broad-sides? No, let the Fiend give Fire: Give me
some Sack: And Sweet-heart, lye thou there: Come we to
full Points here; and are & cætera's nothing?
Fal.
Pistol, I would be quiet.
Pist.
Sweet Knight, kiss thy Neaffe: What! we have seen
the seven Stars.
Dol.
Thrust him down Stairs, I cannot endure such a Fustian
Rascal.
Pist.
Thrust him down Stairs? know we not Galloway
Nags?
Fal.
Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling:
Nay, if he do nothing but speak nothing, he shall be
nothing here.
Bard.
Come, get you down Stairs.
Pist.
What shall we have Incision? shall we embrew?
then Death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful Days: Why
then let grievous, ghastly, gaping Wounds, untwine the Sisters
three: Come, Atropos, I say.
[Drawing his Sword.
Host.
Here's good stuff toward.
Fal.
Give me my Rapier, Boy.
Dol.
I prethee, Jack, I prethee do not draw.
Fal.
Get you down Stairs.
[Drawing, and driving Pistol out.
Host.
Here's a goodly Tumult; I'll forswear keeping
House, before I'll be in these tirrits and frights, So; Murther,
I warrant now. Alas, put up your naked Weapons, put
up your naked Weapons.
Dol.
I prethee, Jack, be quiet, the Rascal is gone: Ah
you whorson, little valiant Villain, you.
Host.
Are you not hurt i'th' Groin? Methought he
made a shrewd thrust at your Belly.
Fal.
Have you turn'd him out of Doors?
Bard.
Yes, Sir, the Rascal's drunk: You have hurt him,
Sir, in the Shoulder.
Fal.
A Rascal to brave me!
Dol.
Ah, you sweet little Rogue you: Alas, poor Ape,
how thou sweat'st? come, let me wipe thy Face—Come on,
you whorson Chops—Ah Rogue, I love thee—Thou art as
valorous as Hector of Troy worth fifty of Agamemnon; and
ten times better than the nine Worthies: Ah Villain.
-- 1239 --
Fal.
A rascally Slave, I will toss the Rogue in a Blanket.
Dol.
Do, if thou dar'st for thy Heart: If thou do'st I'll
canvass thee between a pair of Sheets.
Enter Musick.
Page.
The Musick is come, Sir.
Fal.
Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol.
A Rascal, bragging Slave: The Rogue fled from me like
Quick-silver.
Dol.
And thou followd'st him like a Church: Thou whorson
little tydie Bartholomew Boor-pig, when wilt thou leave
fighting on Days, and foyning on Nights, and begin to patch
up thine old Body for Heaven?
Enter Prince Henry and Poins disguis'd.
Fal.
Peace, good Dol, do not speak like a Deaths-head:
Do not bid me remember mine end.
Dol.
Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of?
Fal.
A good shallow young Fellow: He would have made
a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd Bread well.
Dol.
They say Poins hath a good Wit.
Fal.
He a good Wit? hang him, Baboon, his Wit is as thick
as Tewksbury Mustard: There is no more conceit in him, than
is in a Mallet.
Dol.
Why doth the Prince love him so then?
Fal.
Because their Legs are both of a bigness: And he
plays at Quoits well, and eats Conger and Fennel, and drinks
off Candles ends for Flap-dragons, and rides the wild Mare
with the Boys, and jumps upon joint Stools, and swears with
a good Grace, and wears his Boot very smooth, like unto the
Sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet
Stories; and such other Gambol faculties he hath that shew
a weak Mind and an able Body, for the which the Prince
admits him: For the Prince himself is such another: The
weight of an Hair will turn the Scales between their Haberde-Pois.
P. Henry.
Would not this Nave of a Wheel have his Ears
cut off?
Poins.
Let us beat him before his Whore.
P. Henry.
Look, if the wither'd Elder hath not his Poll
claw'd like a Parrot.
Poin.
Is it not strange that Desire should so many years
out-live Performance?
-- 1240 --
Fal.
Kiss me, Dol.
P. Henry.
Saturn and Venus this year in Conjunction!
What says the Almanack to that?
Poins.
And look, whether the fiery Trigon his Man be not
lisping to his Master's old Tables, his Note-Book, his Counsel-keeper?
Fal.
Thou dost give me flatt'ring Busses.
Dol.
Nay, truly, I kiss thee with a most constant Heart.
Fal.
I am old, I am old.
Dol.
I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young
Boy of them all.
Fal.
What Stuff wilt thou have a Kirtle of? I shall receive
Mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a Cap to morrow.
A merry Song, come: It grows late, we will to Bed.
Thou wilt forget me when I am gone.
Dol.
Thou wilt set me a weeping if thou say'st so: Prove
that ever I dress my self handsom 'till thy return—Well,
hearken the end.
Fal.
Some Sack, Francis.
P. Henry. Poins.
Anon, anon, Sir.
Fal.
Ha! a Bastard Son of the King's! And art not thou
Poins his Brother?
P. Henry.
Why, thou Globe of sinful Continents, what a
Life dost thou lead?
Fal.
A better than thou: I am a Gentleman, thou art a
Drawer.
P. Henry.
Very true, Sir: And I come to draw you out
by the Ears.
Host.
Oh, the Lord preserve thy good Grace: Welcome
to London. Now Heaven bless that sweet Face of thine:
What, are you come from Wales?
Fal.
Thou whorson, mad compound of Majesty, by this
light Flesh and corrupt Blood thou art welcome.
[Leaning his Hand upon Dol.
Dol.
How! you fat Fool, I scorn you.
Poins.
My Lord, he will drive you out of your revenge,
and turn all to merriment, if you take not the heat.
P. Henry.
You whorson Candle-myne you, how vilely did
you speak of me even now, before this honest, vertuous, civil
Gentlewoman?
Host.
'Blessing on your good Heart, and so she is by my
truth.
-- 1241 --
Fal.
Didst thou hear me?
P. Henry.
Yes; and you knew me, as you did when you
ran away by Gads-hill; you knew I was at your back, and
spoke it on purpose, to try my patience.
Fal.
No, no, no; not so: I did not think thou wast
within hearing.
P. Henry.
I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse,
and then I know how to handle you.
Fal.
No abuse, Hal, on my Honour, no abuse.
P. Henry.
Not to dispraise me, and call me Pantler, and
Bread-chopper, and I know not what?
Fal.
No abuse, Hal.
Poins.
No abuse!
Fal.
No abuse, Ned, in the World; honest Ned, none.
I disprais'd him before the Wicked, that the Wicked might
not fall in love with him: In which doing, I have done the
part of a careful Friend, and true Subject, and thy Father
is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal, none, Ned,
none; no Boys, none.
P. Henry.
See now whether pure Fear, and entire Cowardise,
doth not make thee wrong this virtuous Gentlewoman,
to close with us? Is she of the Wicked? Is thine
Hostess here of the Wicked? Or is the Boy of the Wicked?
Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the
Wicked?
Poins.
Answer, thou dead Elm, answer.
Fal.
The Fiend hath Prickt down Bardolph irrecoverable,
and his face is Lucifer's Privy-Kitchin, where he doth nothing
but roast Mault-Worms: for the Boy, there is a good
Angel about him, but the Devil out-bids him too.
P. Henry.
For the Women?
Fal.
For one of them, she is in Hell already, and burns
poor Souls: for the other, I owe her Money; and whether
she be damn'd for that, I know not.
Host.
No, I warrant you.
Fal.
No, I think thou art not: I think thou art quit
for that. Marry, there is another Indictment upon thee,
for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the
Law, for the which I think thou wilt howl.
Host.
All Victuallers do so: What is a Joynt of Mutton
or two in a whole Lent?
P. Henry.
You, Gentlewoman.
-- 1242 --
Dol.
What says your Grace?
Fal.
His Grace says that, which his flesh rebels against.
Host.
Who knocks so loud at the door? Look to the door
there, Francis?
Enter Peto.
P. Henry.
Peto, how now? what News?
Peto.
The King, your Father, is at Westminster,
And there are twenty weak and wearied Posts,
Come from the North; and as I came along,
I met, and over-took a dozen Captains,
Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the Taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.
P. Henry.
By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,
So idly to prophane the precious time:
When Tempest of Commotion, like the South
Born with black Vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmed Heads.
Give me my Sword, and Cloak:
Falstaff, good night.
[Exit.
Fal.
Now comes in the sweetest Morsel of the night, and
we must hence, and leave it unpickt. More knocking at the
door? How now? what's the matter?
Bard.
You must away to the Court, Sir, presently,
A dozen Captains stay at the door for you.
Fal.
Pay the Musicians, Sirrah: farewel Hostess, farewel
Dol. You see, my good Wenches, how men of Merit are
sought after; the Undeserver may sleep, when the man of
Action is call'd on. Farewel, good Wenches; if I be not
sent away post, I will see you again, e're I go.
Dol.
I cannot speak; if my heart be not ready to burst—
Well, sweet Jack, have a care of thy self.
Fal.
Farewel, farewel.
[Exit.
Host.
Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these
twenty nine years, come Pescod-time; but an honester, and
truer-hearted Man. Well, fare thee well.
Bard.
Mistress Tear-sheet.
Host.
What's the matter?
Bard.
Bid Mistress Tear-sheet come to my Master.
Host.
O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol.
[Exeunt.
-- 1243 --
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Enter King Henry with a Page.
K. Henry.
Go, call the Earls of Surrey, and Warwick:
But e'er they come, bid them o'er-read these Letters,
And well consider of them: make good speed.
[Exit Page.
How many thousands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O Sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's soft Nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And steep my Senses in Forgetfulness?
Why rather, Sleep, lyest thou in smoaky Cribs,
Upon uneasie Pallads stretching thee,
And husht with buzzing Night, fly'st to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of costly State,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathsom Beds, and leav'st the Kingly Couch
A watch-case, or a common Larum-Bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Mast,
Seal up the Ship-boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the visitation of the Winds,
Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning Clamours in the slip'ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it self awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repose
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour so rude?
And in the calmest, and most stillest Night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King? Then happy Low, lye down,
Uneasie lyes the Head, that wears a Crown.
Enter Warwick and Surrey.
War.
Many good-morrows to your Majesty.
K. Henry.
Is it good-morrow, Lords?
War.
'Tis one a Clock, and past.
-- 1244 --
K. Henry.
Why then good-morrow to you all, my Lords:
Have you read o'er the Letters that I sent you?
War.
We have, my Liege.
K. Henry.
Then you perceive the Body of our Kingdom,
How foul it is; what rank Diseases grow,
And with what danger, near the heart of it.
War.
It is but as a Body, yet distemper'd,
Which to the former strength may be restor'd,
With good Advice, and little Medicine;
My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd.
K. Henry.
Oh Heav'n, that one might read the Book of Fate,
And see the Revolution of the Times
Make Mountains level, and the Continent,
Weary of solid firmness, melt it self
Into the Sea; and other Times, to see
The beachy Girdle of the Ocean
Too wide for Neptune's Hips; how Chances mock
And Changes fill the Cup of Alteration
With divers Liquors. 'Tis not ten years gone,
Since Richard and Northumberland, great Friends,
Did feast together; and in two years after,
Were they at Wars. It is but eight years since,
This Percy was the man nearest my Soul;
Who like a Brother, toil'd in my Affairs,
And laid his Love and Life under my foot:
Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard
Gave him defiance. But which of you was by?
You Cousin Nevil, as I may remember,
[to Warwick.
When Richard, with his Eye, brim-full of Tears,
Then check'd and rated by Northumberland,
Did speak these words, now prov'd a Prophecy.
Northumberland, thou Ladder, by the which
My Cousin Bullinbroke ascends my Throne:
(Though then, Heaven knows, I had no such intent,
But that necessity so bow'd the State,
That I and Greatness were compell'd to kiss)
The time shall come, thus did he follow it,
The time will come, that foul Sin gathering head
Shall break into Corruption: So went on,
Fore-telling this same Time's Condition,
And the division of our Amity.
-- 1245 --
War.
There is a History in all Mens Lives,
Figuring the nature of the Times deceas'd;
The which observ'd, a Man may prophesie,
With a near aim, of the main Chance of things
As yet not come to Life, which in their Seeds
And weak beginnings lie entreasured.
Such things become the Hatch and Brood of Time;
And by the necessary form of this,
King Richard might create a perfect guess,
That great Northumberland, then false to him,
Would of that Seed grow to a greater falseness,
Which should not find a Ground to root upon,
Unless on you.
K. Henry.
Are these things then Necessities?
Then let us meet them like Necessities;
And that same word, even now cries out on us:
They say the Bishop and Northumberland
Are fifty thousand strong.
War.
It cannot be, my Lord:
Rumour doth double, like the Voice of Eccho,
The number of the Feared. Please it your Grace
To go to bed, upon my Life, my Lord,
The Pow'rs that you already have sent forth,
Shall bring this Prize in very easily.
To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd
A certain instance that Glendower is dead.
Your Majesty hath been this Fort-night ill,
And these unseason'd Hours perforce must add
Unto your Sickness.
K. Henry.
I will take your Counsel:
And were these inward Wars once out of Hand,
We would, dear Lords, unto the Holy-Land.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Shallow and Silence, with Mouldy, Shadow, Wart,
Feeble, and Bull-calf.
Shal.
Come on, come on, come on; give me your Hand,
Sir, give me your Hand, Sir; an early stirrer, by the Rood.
And how doth my good Cousin Silence?
-- 1246 --
Sil.
Good Morrow, good Cousin Shallow.
Shal.
And how doth my Cousin, your Bed-fellow?
and your fairest Daughter, and mine, my God-Daughter
Ellin?
Sil.
Alas, a black Ouzel, Cousin Shallow.
Shal.
By yea and nay, Sir, I dare say my Cousin William
is become a good Scholar? He is at Oxford still, is he not?
Sil.
Indeed, Sir, to my Cost.
Shal.
He must then to the Inns of Court shortly: I was
once of Clement's-Inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad
Shallow yet.
Sil.
You were call'd Lusty Shallow then, Cousin.
Shal.
I was call'd any thing, and I would have done any
thing indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little
John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis
Pickbone, and Will. Squele a Cot-sal-man; you had not four
such Swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again: And I
may say to you, we knew where the Bona-Roba's were, and
had the best of them all at Commandment. Then was Jack
Falstaff, now Sir John, a Boy, and a Page to Thomas Mowbray,
Duke of Norfolk.
Sil.
This Sir John, Cousin, that comes hither anon about
Soldiers?
Shal.
The same Sir John, the very same: I saw him
break Schoggan's Head at the Court-Gate, when he was a
Crack, not thus high; and the very same day did I fight
with one Sampson Stock fish, a Fruiterer, behind Grays-Inn.
Oh the Mad Days that I have spent? and to see how many
of mine Old Acquaintance are Dead?
Sil.
We shall all follow, Cousin.
Shal.
Certain, 'tis certain, very sure, very sure: Death
is certain to all, all shall Die. How a good Yoke of Bullocks
at Stamford Fair?
Sil.
Truly, Cousin, I was not there.
Shal.
Death is certain. Is Old Double of your Town
living yet?
Sil.
Dead, Sir.
Shal.
Dead! See, see, he drew a good Bow: And
Dead? He shot a fine Shoot. John of Gaunt loved him
well, and betted much Mony on his Head. Dead? He
would have clapt in the Clowt at Twelve Score, and carried
-- 2247 --
you a fore-hand Shaft at fourteen, and fourteen and a
half, that it would have done a Man's Heart good to see.
How a Score of Ewes now?
Sil.
Thereafter as they be: a Score of good Ewes may
be worth ten Pounds.
Shal.
And is Old Double Dead?
Enter Bardolph and Page.
Sil.
Here come two of Sir John Falstaff's Men, as I
think.
Shal.
Good Morrow, Honest Gentlemen.
Bard.
I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow?
Shal.
I am Robert Shallow, Sir, a poor Esquire of this
County, one of the King's Justices of the Peace:
What is your good Pleasure with me?
Bard.
My Captain, Sir, Commends him to you: My
Captain, Sir John Falstaff; a tall Gentleman, and a most
gallant Leader.
Shal.
He greets me well: Sir, I knew him a good Back-Sword
Man. How doth the good Knight? May I ask, how
my Lady his Wife doth?
Bard.
Sir, Pardon, a Soldier is better Accommodated,
than with a Wife.
Shal.
It is well said, Sir; and it is well said indeed, too:
Better accommodated—It is good, yea indeed is it; good
Phrases are surely and every where very commendable. Accommodated
—it comes of Accommodo; very good, a good
Phrase.
Bard.
Pardon, Sir, I have heard the word. Phrase,
call you it? By this Day, I know not the Phrase: But
I will maintain the word with my Sword, to be a Soldier-like
Word, and a Word of exceeding good Command.
Accommodated, that is, when a Man is, as they say, Accommodated;
or, when a Man is, being whereby he thought
to be Accommodated, which is an excellent thing.
Enter Falstaff.
Shal.
It is very just: Look, here comes good Sir John.
Give me your Hand, give me your Worship's good Hand:
Trust me, you look well, and bear your years very well.
Welcome, good Sir John.
Fal.
I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert
Shallow: Master Sure-card, as I think?
-- 1248 --
Shal.
No, Sir John, it is my Cousin Silence; in Commission
with me.
Fal.
Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be
of the Peace.
Sil.
Your good Worship is welcome.
Fal.
Fie, this is hot weather, Gentlemen, have you provided
me here half a dozen of sufficient Men?
Shal.
Marry have we, Sir: Will you sit?
Fal.
Let me see them, I beseech you.
Shal.
Where's the Roll? Where's the Roll? Where's
the Roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see: So, so, so,
so: Yea marry, Sir, to Ralph Mouldy: Let them appear as I
call: Let them do so, let them do so. Let me see, Where
is Mouldy?
Moul.
Here, if it please you.
Shal.
What think you, Sir John, a good limb'd Fellow:
Young, Strong, and of good Friends.
Fal.
Is thy Name Mouldy?
Mould.
Yea, if it please you.
Fal.
'Tis the more time thou wert us'd.
Shal.
Ha, ha, ha, most excellent. Things that are mouldy,
lack use: very singular good. Well said, Sir John,
very well said.
Fal,
Prick him.
Moul.
I was prickt well enough before, if you could
have let me alone: My old Dame will be undone now,
for one to do her Husbandry, and her Drudgery; you
need not to have prickt me, there are other Men fitter to go
out than I.
Fal.
Go to: Peace Mouldy, you shall go Mouldy, it is
time you were spent.
Moul.
Spent?
Shal.
Peace, Fellow, Peace; stand aside: Know you
where you are? For the other, Sir John. Let me see: Simon
Shadow.
Fal.
Ay marry, let me have him to sit under: He's like to
be a cold Soldier.
Shal.
Where's Shadow?
Shad.
Here, Sir,
Fal.
Shadow, whose Son art thou?
Shad.
My Mother's Son, Sir.
-- 1249 --
Fal.
Thy Mother's Son! like enough; and thy Father's
Shadow: So the Son of the Female is the Shadow of the
Male: It is often so indeed, but not of the Father's Substance.
Shal.
Do you like him, Sir John?
Fal.
Shadow will serve for Summer, prick him; for we
have a number of shadows to fill up the Muster-Book.
Shal.
Thomas Wart.
Fal.
Where's he?
Wart.
Here, Sir.
Fal.
Is thy name Wart?
Wart.
Yea, Sir.
Fal.
Thou art a very ragged Wart.
Shal.
Shall I prick him down,
Sir John?
Fal.
It were superfluous; for his Apparel is built upon
his Back, and the whole Frame stands upon Pins: Prick him
no more.
Shal.
Ha, ha, ha, you can do it, Sir; you can do it: I commend
you well.
Francis Feeble.
Feeble.
Here, Sir.
Shal.
What Trade art thou, Feeble?
Feeble.
A Woman's Tailor, Sir.
Shal.
Shall I prick him, Sir?
Fal.
You may:
But if he had been a Man's Tailor he would have prick'd you.
Wilt thou make as many holes in an Enemies Battel, as thou
hast done in a Woman's Petticoat?
Feeble.
I will do my good will, Sir; you can have no more.
Fal.
Well said, good Woman's Tailor; Well said, couragious
Feeble: Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful Dove, or
most magnanimous Mouse. Prick the Woman's Taylor well,
Master Shallow, deep, Master Shallow.
Feeble.
I would Wart might have gone, Sir.
Fal.
I would thou wert a Man's Tailor, that thou
might'st mend him, and make him fit to go. I cannot put
him to be a private Soldier, that is the Leader of so many
thousands. Let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.
Feeble.
It shall suffice.
Fal.
I am round to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is the
next?
-- 1250 --
Shal.
Peter Bulcalf of the Green.
Fal.
Yea marry, let us see Bulcalf.
Bul.
Here, Sir.
Fal.
Trust me, a likely Fellow. Come prick me Bulcalf,
'till he roar again.
Bul.
Oh, good my Lord Captain.
Fal.
What, dost thou roar before th'art prickt?
Bul.
Oh, Sir, I am a diseased Man.
Fal.
What Disease hast thou?
Bul.
A whorson cold, Sir; a Cough, Sir, which I caught
with Ringing in the King's Affairs, upon his Coronation
day, Sir.
Fal.
Come, thou shalt go to the Wars in a Gown: We
will have away thy Cold, and I will take such order that thy
Friends shall ring for thee. Is here all?
Shal.
There is two more called than your number, you
must have but four here, Sir, and so, I pray you, go in with
me to Dinner.
Fal.
Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot
tarry Dinner. I am glad to see you, in good troth, Master
Shallow.
Shal.
O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all Night
in the Wind-mill in Saint George's Fields?
Fal.
No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of
that.
Shal.
Ha! it was a merry Night. And is Jane Night-work
alive?
Fal.
She lives, Master Shallow.
Shal.
She never could away with me.
Fal.
Never, never: She would always say she could not
abide Master Shallow.
Shal.
I could anger her to the Heart: She was then a
Bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well?
Fal.
Old, old, Master Shallow.
Shal.
Nay, she must be old, she cannot chuse but be old;
certain she's old, and had Robin Night-work by old Night-work,
before I came to Clement's Inn.
Sil.
That's fifty five years ago.
Shal.
Hah, Cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that,
that this Knight and I have seen: Hah, Sir John, said I
well?
-- 1251 --
Fal.
We have heard the Chimes at midnight, Master
Shallow.
Shal.
That we have, that we have, in faith, Sir John, we
have: Our watch word was Hem-Boys. Come, let's to dinner;
come, let's to dinner: Oh the days that we have seen!
Come, come.
Bul.
Good Master Corporate Bardolph stand my Friend,
and here is four Harry ten Shillings in French Crowns for
you: In very truth, Sir, I had as lief be hang'd, Sir, as
go; and yet for mine own part, Sir, I do not care, but rather
because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a
desire to stay with my Friends, else, Sir, I did not care for
mine own part so much.
Bard.
Go too; stand aside.
Moul.
And good Master Corporal Captain, for my old
Dame's sake stand my Friend: She hath no body to do any
thing about her when I am gone, and she is old and cannot
help her self: You shall have forty, Sir.
Bard.
Go too; stand aside.
Feeble.
I care not, a Man can die but once; we owe a
death. I will never bear a base Mind: If it be my destiny,
so; if it be not, so. No Man is too good to serve his Prince;
and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit
for the next.
Bard.
Well said, thou art a good Fellow.
Feeble.
Nay, I will bear no base Mind.
Fal.
Come, Sir, which Men shall I have?
Shal.
Four of which you please.
Bard.
Sir, a word with you: I have three pound to free
Mouldy and Bulcalf.
Fal.
Go too: Well.
Shal.
Come, Sir John, which four will you have?
Fal.
Do you chuse for me.
Shal.
Marry then, Mouldy, Bulcalf, Feeble and Shadow.
Fal.
Mouldy and Bulcalf: For you, Mouldy, stay at home
'till you are past Service: And for your part, Bulcalf, grow
'till you come unto it: I will none of you.
Shal.
Sir John, Sir John, do not your self wrong, they
are your likeliest Men, and I would have you serv'd with
the best.
-- 1252 --
Fal.
Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to chuse a
Man? Care I for the Limb, the Thewes, the Stature, Bulk
and big assemblance of a Man? Give me the Spirit, Master
Shallow. Where's Wart? You see what a ragged appearance
it is: He shall charge you and discharge you with the motion
of a Pewterer's Hammer; come off and on, swifter than
he that gibbets on the Brewers Bucket. And this same half-fac'd
Fellow Shadow, give me this Man, he presents no mark
to the Enemy, the fo-man may with as great aim level at
the edge of a Pen-knife: And, for a Retreat, how swiftly
will this Feeble, the Woman's Tailor, run off. O give me
the spare Men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a Calyver
into Wart's Hand, Bardolph.
Bard.
Hold, Wart, Traverse; thus, thus, thus.
Fal.
Come, manage me your Calyver: So, very well, go
to, very good, exceeding good. O give me always a little,
lean, old, chopt, bald Shot. Well said, Wart, thou art a good
Scab: Hold, there's a Tester for thee.
Shal.
He is not his Craft-master, he doth not do it right.
I remember at Mile-End-Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn,
I was then Sir Dagenet in Arthur's Show, there was a little
quiver Fellow, and he would manage you his Piece thus;
and he would about, and about, and come you in, and come
you in: Rah, tah, tah, would he say; Bownce, would he say,
and away again would he go, and again would he come: I
shall never see such a Fellow.
Fal.
These Fellows will do well, Master Shallow. Farewel,
Master Silence, I will not use many Words with you:
Fare you well, Gentlemen both, I thank you, I must a dozen
miles to Night. Bardolph, give the Soldiers Coats.
Shal.
Sir John, Heaven bless you, and prosper your Affairs,
and send us Peace. As you return, visit my House. Let
our old Acquaintance be renewed: Peradventure I will with
you to the Court.
Fal.
I would you would, Master Shallow.
Shal.
Go to: I have spoke at a word. Fare you well.
[Exit.
Fal.
Fare you well, Gentlemen. On, Bardolph, lead
the Men away. As I return I will fetch off these Justices:
I do see the bottom of Justice Shallow. How subject
we old Men are to this Vice of Lying? This same starv'd
Justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildeness
-- 1253 --
of his Youth, and the Feats he hath done about Turnbalstreet,
and every third word a Lie, duer paid to the hearer
than the Turks Tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn,
like a Man made after Supper of a Cheese-paring. When he was
naked, he was, for all the World, like a forked Radish, with a
Head fantastically carv'd upon it with a Knife. He was so forlorn,
that his Dimensions, to any thick sight, were invisible.
He was the very Genius of Famine; he came ever in the rearward
of the fashion: And now is this Vice's Dagger become
a Squire, and talks as familiarly of John of Gaunt as if he
had been sworn Brother to him: And I'll be sworn he never
saw him but once in the Tilt-yard, and then he burst his
Head, for crouding among the Marshals Men. I saw it, and
told John of Gaunt he beat his own Name, for you might
have truss'd him and all his Apparel into an Eel-skin: The
Case of a Treble Hoboy was a Mansion for him; a Court;
and now hath he Land and Beeves. Well, I will be acquainted
with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I will
make him a Philosopher's two Stones to me. If the young Dace
be a Bait for the old Pike, I see no reason, in the Law of Nature,
but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there's an end.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hastings, and Colevile.
York.
What is the Forest call'd?
Hast.
'Tis Gualtree Forest, and't please your Grace.
York.
Stand here, my Lords, and send discoveries forth,
To know the number of our Enemies.
Hast.
We have sent already.
York.
'Tis well done.
My Friends and Brethren, in these great Affairs,
I must acquaint you, that I have receiv'd
New-dated Letters from Northumberland:
Their cold intent, tenure and substance thus.
How doth he wish his Person, with such Powers
As might hold sortance with his Quality,
-- 1254 --
The which he could not levy; whereupon
He is retir'd, to ripe his growing Fortunes,
To Scotland: And concludes in hearty Prayers,
That your Attempts may over live the hazard,
And fearful meeting of their Opposite.
Mow.
Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground,
And dash themselves to pieces.
Enter a Messenger.
Hast.
Now, what News?
Mess.
West of this Forest, scarcely off a mile,
In goodly form comes on the Enemy:
And by the ground they hide, I judge their number
Upon, or near, the rate of thirty thousand.
Mow.
The just proportion that we gave them out.
Let us sway on, and face them in the Field.
Enter Westmorland.
York.
What well appointed Leader fronts us here?
Mow.
I think it is my Lord of Westmorland.
West.
Health and fair Greeting from our General,
The Prince, Lord John, and Duke of Lancaster.
York.
Say on, my Lord of Westmorland, in peace:
What doth concern your coming?
West.
Then, my Lord,
Unto your Grace do I in chief address
The substance of my Speech. If that Rebellion
Came like it self, in base and abject Routs,
Led on by bloody Youth, guarded with Rage,
And countenanc'd by Boys and Beggary:
I say, if damn'd Commotion so appear
In his true, native, and most proper shape,
You, Reverend Father, and these Noble Lords,
Had not been here to dress the ugly Form
Of base and bloody Insurrection,
With your fair Honours. You, Lord Archbishop,
Whose See is by a Civil Peace maintain'd,
Whose Beard the Silver Hand of Peace hath touch'd,
Whose Learning and good Letters Peace hath tutor'd,
Whose white Investments figure Innocence,
The Dove, and very blessed Spirit of Peace;
Wherefore do you so ill translate your self,
Out of the speech of Peace, that bears such Grace,
-- 1255 --
Into the harsh and boist'rous Tongue of War?
Turning your Books to Graves, your Ink to Blood,
Your Pens to Launces, and your Tongue divine
To a lowd Trumpet, and a Point of War?
York.
Wherefore do I this? So the Question stands.
Briefly to this end: We are all diseas'd,
And, with our surfeiting and wanton hours,
Have brought our selves into a burning Feaver,
And we must bleed for it: Of which Disease
Our late King Richard, being infected, dy'd.
But, my most Noble Lord of Westmorland,
I take not on me here as a Physician,
Nor do I, as an Enemy to Peace,
Troop in the throngs of military Men:
But rather shew a while like fearful War,
To diet rank Minds, sick of Happiness,
And purge th' obstructions which begin to stop
Our very Veins of Life. Hear me more plainly.
I have in equal Ballance justly weigh'd,
What Wrongs our Arms may do, what Wrongs we suffer,
And find our Griefs heavier than our Offences.
We see which way the Stream of Time doth run,
And are inforc'd from our most quiet there,
By the rough Torrent of Occasion,
And have the summary of all our Griefs,
When time shall serve, to shew in Articles,
Which long e'er this we offer'd to the King,
And might by no Suit gain our Audience:
When we are wrong'd and would unfold our Griefs,
We are deny'd access unto his Person,
Even by those Men that most have done us wrong.
The dangers of the Day's but newly gone,
Whose Memory is written on the Earth
With yet appearing Blood; and the Examples
Of every minutes instance, present now,
Hath put us in these ill-beseeming Arms:
Not to break Peace, or any Branch of it,
But to establish here a Peace indeed,
Concurring both in Name and Quality.
West.
When ever yet was your Appeal deny'd?
Wherein have you been galled by the King?
-- 1256 --
What Peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you,
That you should seal this lawless bloody Book
Of forg'd Rebellion with a Seal divine?
York.
My Brother General, the Commonwealth
I make my Quarrel in particular.
West.
There is no need of any such Redress;
Or if there were, it not belongs to you.
Mow.
Why not to him in part, and to us all,
That feel the bruises of the Days before,
And suffer the Condition of these Times
To lay an heavy and unequal Hand upon our Honours?
West.
O my good Lord Mowbray,
Construe the Times to their Necessities,
And you shall say, indeed, it is the Time,
And not the King, that doth you Injuries.
Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
Either from the King, or in the present Time,
That you should have an inch of any Ground
To build a Grief on: Were you not restor'd
To all the Duke of Norfolk's Seignories,
Your noble and right well remembred Father's?
Mow.
What thing, in Honour, had my Father lost
That need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me?
The King that lov'd him, as the State stood then,
Was forc'd, perforce compell'd to banish him:
And when, that Henry Bullingbroke and he
Being mounted, and both rowsed in their Seats,
Their neighing Coursers daring of the Spur,
Their armed Staves in charge, their Beavers down,
Their Eyes of Fire, sparkling through sights of Steel,
And the loud Trumpet blowing them together:
Then, then, when there was nothing could have staid
My Father from the Breast of Bullingbroke;
O, when the King did throw his Warder down,
His own Life hung upon the Staff he threw,
Then threw he down himself and all their Lives,
That by Indictment, and by dint of Sword,
Have since miscarried under Bullingbroke.
West.
You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.
The Earl of Hereford was reputed then
In England the most valiant Gentleman.
-- 1257 --
Who knows, on whom Fortune would then have smil'd?
But if your Father had been Victor there,
He ne'er had born it out of Coventry.
For all the Country, in a general Voice,
Cry'd hate upon him; and all their Prayers, and Love,
Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on,
And bless'd, and grac'd, more than the King himself.
But this is meer digression from my Purpose.
Here come I from our Princely General,
To know your Griefs; to tell you from his Grace,
That he will give you Audience; and wherein
It shall appear, that your Demands are just,
You shall enjoy them, every thing set off
That might so much as think you Enemies.
Mow.
But he hath forc'd us to compel this Offer,
And it proceeds from Policy, not Love.
West.
Mowbray, you over-ween to take it so:
This Offer comes from Mercy, not from Fear.
For lo, within a Ken our Army lyes;
Upon mine Honour, all too confident
To give admittance to a thought of Fear.
Our Battel is more full of Names than yours,
Our Men more perfect in the use of Arms,
Our Armour all as strong, our Cause the best;
Then Reason will, our Hearts should be as good.
Say you not then our Offer is compell'd.
Mow.
Well, by my Will we shall admit no Parley.
West.
That argues but the shame of your Offence:
A rotten Case abides no handling.
Hast.
Hath the Prince John a full Commission,
In very ample Virtue of his Father,
To hear, and absolutely to determine
Of what Conditions we shall stand upon?
West.
That is intended in the General's Name:
I muse you make so slight a Question.
York.
Then take, my Lord of Westmorland, this Schedule,
For this contains our general Grievances:
Each several Article herein redress'd,
All Members of our Cause, both here, and hence,
That are insinewed to this Action,
Acquitted by a true substantial Form,
-- 1258 --
And present Executions of our Wills,
To us, and to our Purposes confin'd,
We come within our awful Banks again,
And knit our Powers to the Arm of Peace.
West.
This will I shew the General. Please you, Lords,
In sight of both our Battels, we may meet
At either end in Peace; which Heav'n so frame,
Or to the place of difference call the Swords,
Which must needs decide it.
York.
My Lord, we will do so.
[Exit. West.
Mow.
There is a thing within my Bosom tells me,
That no Condition of our Peace can stand.
Host.
Fear you not that, if we can make our Peace
Upon such large Terms, and so absolute,
As our Conditions shall insist upon,
Our Peace shall stand as firm as Rocky Mountains.
Mow.
Ay, but our Valuation shall be such,
That every slight, and false-derived Cause,
Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton Reason,
Shall to the King taste of this Action;
That were our Royal Faiths, Martyrs in Love,
We shall be winnowed with so rough a Wind,
That even our Corn shall seem as light as Chaff,
And good from bad find no partition.
York.
No, no, my Lord, note this; the King is weary
Of dainty, and such picking Grievances:
For he hath found, to end one doubt by Death,
Revives two greater in the Heirs of Life.
And therefore will he wipe his Tables clean,
And keep no Tell-tale to his Memory,
That may repeat, and History his Loss,
To new Remembrance. For full well he knows,
He cannot so precisely weed this Land,
As his misdoubts present occasion:
His Foes are so enrooted with his Friends,
That plucking to unfix an Enemy,
He doth unfasten so, and shake a Friend.
So that this Land, like an offensive Wife,
That hath enrag'd him on, to offer strokes,
As he is striking, holds his Infant up,
-- 1259 --
And hangs resolv'd Correction in the Arm,
That was uprear'd to Execution.
Hast.
Besides, the King hath wasted all his Rods
On late Offenders, that he now doth lack
The very Instruments of Chastisement:
So that his Power, like to a Fangless Lion
May offer, but not hold.
York.
'Tis very true:
And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal,
If we do now make our Atonement well,
Our Peace will, like a broken Limb united,
Grow stronger, for the breaking.
Mow.
Be it so.
Here is return'd my Lord of Westmorland.
Enter Westmorland.
West.
The Prince is here at hand: Pleaseth your Lordship
To meet his Grace, just distance 'tween our Armies?
Mow.
Your Grace of York, in Heav'n's Name then forward.
York.
Before, and greet his Grace, my Lord, we come.
Enter Prince John of Lancaster.
Lan.
You are well encountred here, my Cousin Mowbray;
Good Day to you, gentle Lord Arch-Bishop,
And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.
My Lord of York, it better shew'd with you,
When that your Flock, assembled by the Bell,
Encircled you, to hear with reverence
Your Exposition on the holy Text,
Than now to see you here an Iron Man,
Cheering a rout of Rebels with your Drum,
Turning the Word to Sword, and Life to Death.
That Man that sits within a Monarch's Heart,
And ripens in the Sun-shine of his Favour,
Would he abuse the Countenance of the King,
Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach,
In shadow of such greatness? With you, Lord Bishop,
It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken,
How deep you were within the Books of Heav'n?
To us, the Speaker in his Parliament;
To us, the imagine Voice of Heav'n it self;
The very Opener, and Intelligencer
-- 1260 --
Between the Grace, the Sanctities of Heav'n,
And our dull workings. O, who shall believe,
But you misuse the reverence of your Place,
Employ the Countenance and Grace of Heav'n,
As a false Favourite doth his Prince's Name,
In Deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,
Under the counterfeited Zeal of Heav'n,
The Subjects of Heav'n's Substitute, my Father,
And both against the Peace of Heav'n, and him,
Have here up-swarmed them.
York.
Good my Lord of Lancaster,
I am not here against your Father's Peace:
But, as I told my Lord of Westmorland,
The time, mis-order'd, doth in common Sense
Crowd us, and crush us, to this monstrous Form,
To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace
The Parcels and Particulars of our Grief,
The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the Court:
Whereon this Hydra-Son of War is born,
Whose dangerous Eyes may well be charm'd asleep,
With grant of our most just and right desire;
And true Obedience, of this Madness cur'd,
Stoop tamely to the foot of Majesty.
Mow.
If not, we ready are to try our Fortunes
To the last Man.
Hast.
And though we here fall down,
We have Supplies to second our Attempt:
If they miscarry, theirs shall second them.
And so, success of mischief shall be born,
And Heir from Heir shall hold this Quarrel up,
Whiles England shall have Generation.
Lan.
You are too shallow, Hastings,
Much too shallow,
To sound the bottom of the after-times.
West.
Pleaseth your Grace, to answer them directly,
How far-forth you do like their Articles?
Lan.
I like them all, and do allow them well:
And swear here, by the Honour of my Blood,
My Father's purposes have been mistook,
And some, about him, have too lavishly
Wrested his Meaning and Authority.
-- 2261 --
My Lord, these Griefs shall be with speed redrest;
Upon my Life, they shall. If this may please you,
Discharge your Powers unto their several Counties,
As we will ours; and here between the Armies,
Let's drink together friendly, and embrace,
That all their Eyes may bear those Tokens home,
Of our restored Love and Amity.
York.
I take your Princely word, for these redresses.
Lan.
I give it you, and will maintain my word;
And thereupon I drink unto your Grace.
Hast.
Go Captain, and deliver to the Army
This News of Peace; let them have Pay, and part:
I know it will well please them.
Hie thee, Captain.
[Exit Colevile.
York.
To you, my noble Lord of Westmorland.
West.
I pledge your Grace:
And if you knew what pains I have bestow'd,
To breed this present Peace,
You would drink freely; but my Love to ye
Shall shew it self more openly hereafter.
York.
I do not doubt you.
West.
I am glad of it.
Health to my Lord, and gentle Cousin Mowbray.
Mow.
You wish me Health in very happy Season,
For I am on the sudden something ill.
York.
Against ill Chances Men are ever merry,
But Heaviness fore-runs the good Event.
West.
Therefore be merry, Coz, since sudden Sorrow
Serves to say thus; some good thing comes to morrow.
York.
Believe me, I am passing light in Spirit.
Mow.
So much the worse, if your own Rule be true.
Lan.
The word of Peace is render'd; hark how they
shout.
Mow.
This had been chearful after Victory.
York.
A peace is of the Nature of a Conquest;
For then both Parties nobly are subdu'd,
And neither Party loser.
Lan.
Go, my Lord,
And let our Army be discharged too.
[Exit. West.
And, good my Lord, so please you, let our Trains
-- 1262 --
March by us, that we may Peruse the Men,
We should have cop'd withal.
Bish.
Go, good Lord Hastings:
And e'er they be dismiss'd, let them march by.
[Exit Host.
Lan.
I trust, Lords, we shall to night lye together.
Enter Westmorland.
Now Cousin, wherefore stands our Army still?
West.
The Leaders, having Charge from you to stand,
Will not go off until they hear you speak.
Lan.
They know their Duties.
Enter Hastings.
Hast.
Our Army is dispers'd:
Like Youthful Steers unyoak'd, they took their Course
East, West, North, South: Or like a School broke up,
Each hurries towards his Home, and sporting Place.
West.
Good Tidings, my Lord Hastings, for the which
I do arrest thee, Traitor, of High Treason:
And you Lord Arch-bishop, and you Lord Mowbray,
Of Capital Treason, I attach you both.
Mow.
Is this Proceeding just and honourable?
West.
Is your Assembly so?
York.
Will you thus break your Faith?
Lan.
I pawn'd you none:
I promis'd you Redress of these same Grievances
Whereof you did complain; which by mine Honour,
I will perform, with a most Christian Care.
But for you, Rebels, look to taste the Due
Meet for Rebellion, and such Acts as yours.
Most shallowly did you these Arms commence,
Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.
Strike up our Drums, pursue the scatter'd stray,
Heaven, and not we, have safely fought to Day.
Some guard these Traitors to the Block of Death,
Treasons true Bed, and yielder up of Breath.
[Exeunt.
Enter Falstaffe and Colevile.
Fal.
What's your Name, Sir? Of what Consideration are
you? And of what place, I pray?
Col.
I am a Knight, Sir:
And my Name is Colevile of the Dale.
Fal.
Well then, Colevile is your Name, a Knight is your
Degree, and your Place, the Dale. Colevile shall still be
-- 1263 --
your Name, a Traitor your Degree, and the Dungeon your
Place, a place deep enough: So shall you still be Colevile of
the Dale.
Cole.
Are not you Sir John Falstaff?
Fal.
As good a Man as he, Sir, who e'er I am: Do ye
yield, Sir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are
the drops of thy Lovers, and they weep for thy Death,
therefore rowze up Fear and Trembling, and do observance
to my Mercy.
Cole.
I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought
yield me.
Fal.
I have a whole School of Tongues in this Belly of
mine, and not a Tongue of them all speaks any other word
but my Name: And I had but a Belly of any indifferency,
I were simply the most active Fellow in Europe: My
Womb, my Womb, my Womb undoes me. Here comes our
General.
Enter Prince John of Lancaster and Westmorland.
Lan.
The Heat is past, follow no farther now,
Call in the Powers, good Cousin Westmorland.
[Exit West.
Now Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When every thing is ended, then you come.
These tardy Tricks of yours will, on my Life,
One time or other, break some Gallow's Back.
Fal.
I would be sorry, my Lord, but it should be thus:
I never knew yet, but rebuke and check was the reward of
Valour. Do you think me a Swallow, an Arrow, or a Bullet?
Have I, in my poor and old Motion, the expedition of
Thought? I speeded hither with the very extremest Inch
of Possibility. I have foundred ninescore and odd Posts:
And here, Travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and
immaculate Valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the Dale, a
most furious Knight, and valorous Enemy: But what of
that? He saw me, and yielded; that I may justly, say with
the hook-nos'd Fellow of Rome, I came, saw, and overcame.
Lan.
It was more of his Courtesie, than your Deserving.
Fal.
I know not; here he is, and here I yield him; and
I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this
days deeds; or, I swear, I will have it in a particular,
Ballad, with mine own Picture on the top of it, Colevile
-- 1264 --
kissing my foot: To the which course, if I be enforc'd, if
you do not all shew like gilt two-pences to me; and I, in
the clear Sky of Fame, o'er-shine you as much as the full
Moon doth the Cynders of the Element, which shew like
Pins Heads to her, believe not the word of the Noble; therefore
let me have right, and let Desert mount.
Lan.
Thine's too heavy too mount.
Fal.
Let it shine then.
Lan.
Thine's too thick to shine.
Fal.
Let it do something, my good Lord, that may do
me good, and call it what you will.
Lan.
Is thy Name Colevile?
Cole.
It is, my Lord.
Lan.
A famous Rebel art thou, Colevile.
Fal.
And a famous true Subject took him.
Cole.
I am, my Lord, but as my Betters are,
That led me hither; had they been rul'd by me,
You should have won them dearer than you have.
Fal.
I know not how they sold themselves; but thou,
like a kind Fellow, gav'st thy self away; and I thank thee,
for thee.
Enter Westmorland.
Lan.
Have you left pursuit?
West.
Retreat is made, and Execution stay'd.
Lan.
Send Colevile, with his Confederates,
To York, to present Execution.
Blunt, lead him hence, and see you guard him sure.
[Exit Colevile.
And now dispatch we toward the Court, my Lords;
I hear the King, my Father, is sore sick;
Our News shall go before us to his Majesty,
Which, Cousin, you shall bear, to comfort him:
And we with sober speed will follow you.
Fal.
My Lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through
Glocestershire; and when you come to Court, stand my good
Lord, 'pray, in your good report.
Lan.
Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition,
Shall better speak of you, than you deserve.
[Exit.
Fal.
I would you had but the Wit; 'twere better than
your Dukedome. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded
Boy doth not love me, nor a Man cannot make
-- 1265 --
him laugh; but that's no marvel, he drinks no Wine. There's
never any of these demure Boys come to any proof; for thin
drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many Fish-Meals,
that they fall into a kind of Male Green-sickness; and
then, when they marry, they get Wenches. They are generally
Fools, and Cowards; which some of us should be
too, but for inflammation. A good Sherris-Sack hath a two-fold
Operation in it; it ascends me into the Brain, dries me
there all the foolish, and dull, and crudy Vapours, which
environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of
nimble, fiery, and delectable Shapes; which deliver'd o'er
to the Voyce, the Tongue, which is the Birth, becomes
excellent Wit. The second property of your excellent Sherris,
is, the warming of the Blood; which before, cold and
settled, left the Liver white and pale; which is the Badge
of Pusillanimity, and Cowardice; but the Sherris warms it,
and makes it course from the inwards, to the Parts extreme;
it illuminateth the Face, which, as a Beacon, gives warning
to all the rest of this little Kingdom, Man, to arm; and
then the Vital Commoners, and inland petty Spirits, muster
me all to their Captain, the Heart; who great, and puft up
with his Retinue, doth any deed of Courage; and this Valour
comes of Sherris. So that Skill in the Weapon is nothing,
without Sack, for that sets it a work; and Learning a
meer Hoard of Gold, kept by a Devil, till Sack commences
it, and sets it in Act, and use. Hereof comes it, that Prince
Harry is valiant; for the cold Blood he did naturally inherit
of his Father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare Land, manured,
husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavour of
drinking good and good store of fertil Sherris, that he is
become very hot, and valiant. If I had a thousand Sons,
the first Principle I would teach them, should be to forswear
thin Potations, and to addict themselves to Sack.
Enter Bardolph.
How now, Bardolph?
Bard.
The Army is discharged all, and gone.
Fal.
Let them go; I'll through Glocestershire, and there will
I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire: I have him already
tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly
will I seal with him. Come away.
[Exeunt.
-- 1266 --
SCENE II.
Enter King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, and Gloucester.
K. Henry.
Now Lords, if Heav'n doth give successful end
To this Debate that bleedeth at our doors,
We will our Youth lead on to higher Fields,
And draw no Swords, but what are sanctifi'd.
Our Navy is address'd, our Power collected,
Our Substitutes, in absence, well invested,
And every thing lyes level to our wish;
Only we want a little personal strength:
And pawse us, till these Rebels, now a-foot,
Come underneath the Yoak of Government.
War.
Both which we doubt not, but your Majesty
Shall soon enjoy.
K. Henry.
Humphry, my Son of Gloucester, where is the
Prince your Brother?
Glo.
I think he's gone to hunt, my Lord, at Windsor.
K. Henry.
And how accompanied?
Glo.
I do not know, my Lord.
K. Henry.
Is not his Brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?
Glo.
No, my good Lord, he is in presence here.
Clar.
What would my Lord and Father?
K. Henry.
Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence,
How chance thou art not with the Prince, thy Brother?
He loves thee, and thou do'st neglect him, Thomas;
Thou hast a better place in his Affection
Than all thy Brothers: Cherish it, my Boy,
And Noble Offices thou may'st effect
Of Mediation, after I am dead,
Between his Greatness, and thy other Brethren.
Therefore omit him not; blunt not his Love,
Nor lose the good advantage of his Grace,
By seeming cold or careless of his will.
For he is gracious if he be observ'd:
He hath a Tear for Pity, and a Hand
Open as Day, for melting Charity:
Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's Flint,
As humorous as Winter, and as sudden
As Flaws congealed in the Spring of day.
-- 1267 --
His Temper therefore must be well observ'd:
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth:
But being moody, give him line and scope,
Till that his passions, like a Whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,
And thou shalt prove a Shelter to thy Friends.
A Hoop of Gold to bind thy Brothers in:
That the united Vessel of their Blood,
Mingled with Venom of Suggestion,
As force, perforce, the Age will pour it in,
Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
As Aconitum, or rash Gun-powder.
Clar.
I shall observe him with all care and love.
K. Henry.
Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?
Clar.
He is not there to day; he dines in London.
K. Henry.
And how accompanied? Can'st thou tell that?
Clar.
With Poins, and other his continual Followers.
K. Henry.
Most subject is the fattest Soil to Weeds:
And He, the Noble Image of my Youth,
Is over-spread with them; therefore my grief
Stretches it self beyond the hour of Death.
The blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape,
In forms imaginary, th' unguided Days,
And rotten Times, that you shall look upon,
When I am sleeping with my Ancestors.
For when his head-strong Riot hath no Curb,
When Rage and hot Blood are his Counsellors,
When Means and lavish Manners meet together,
Oh, with what Wings shall his Affections fly
Tow'rds fronting Peril, and oppos'd decay?
War.
My gracious Lord, you look beyond him quite:
The Prince but studies his Companions,
Like a strange Tongue; wherein, to gain the Language,
'Tis needful, that the most immodest word
Be look'd upon, and learn'd; which once attain'd,
Your Highness knows, comes to no farther use,
But to be known, and hated. So, like gross terms,
The Prince will, in the perfectness of time,
Cast off his Followers; and their Memory
Shall as a Pattern, or a Measure live,
-- 1268 --
By which his Grace must mete the lives of others,
Turning past Evils to advantages.
K. Henry.
'Tis seldom, when the Bee doth leave her Comb
In the dead Carrion.
Enter Westmorland.
Who's here? Westmorland?
West.
Health to my Soveraign, and new happiness
Added to that, that I am to deliver.
Prince John, your Son, doth kiss your Grace's hand:
Mowbray, the Bishop, Scroop, Hastings, and all,
Are brought to the Correction of your Law;
There is not now a Rebel's Sword unsheath'd,
But Peace puts forth her Olive every where:
The manner how this Action hath been born,
Here, at more leisure, may your Highness read,
With every course, in his particular.
K. Henry.
O Westmorland, thou art a Summer Bird,
Which ever, in the haunch of Winter, sings
The lifting up of day.
Enter Harecourt.
Look, here's more News.
Hare.
From Enemies Heav'n keep your Majesty;
And when they stand against you, may they fall,
As those that I am come to tell you of.
The Earl of Northumberland, and the Lord Bardolf,
With a great Power of English, and of Scots,
Are by the Sheriff of York-shire overthrown:
The manner, and true order of the fight,
This Packet, please it you, contains at large.
K. Henry.
And wherefore should these good News
Make me sick?
Will Fortune never come with both hands full,
But write her fair words still in foulest Letters?
She either gives a Stomach, and no Food,
Such are the Poor, in health; or else a Feast,
And takes away the Stomach; such are the Rich,
That have abundance, and enjoy it not.
I should rejoice now at this happy News,
And now my Sight fails, and my Brain is giddy.
O me, come near me, now I am much ill.
Glo.
Comfort your Majesty.
-- 1269 --
Cla.
Oh, my Royal Father.
West.
My Soveraign Lord, chear up your self, look up.
War.
Be patient, Princes; you do know, these Fits
Are with his Highness very ordinary.
Stand from him, give him Air:
He'll straight be well.
Cla.
No no, he cannot long hold out; these Pangs,
Th' incessant care, and labour of his Mind,
Hath wrought the Mure, that should confine it in,
So thin, that Life looks through, and will break out.
Glo.
The People fear me; for they do observe
Unfather'd Heirs, and loathly Births of Nature:
The Seasons change their manners, as the Year
Had found some Months asleep, and leap'd them over.
Cla.
The River hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between;
And the old folk, Time's doating Chronicles,
Say it did so, a little time before
That our Grand-sire Edward sick'd, and dy'd.
War.
Speak lower, Princes, for the King recovers.
Glo.
This Apoplexy will, certain, be his end.
K. Henry.
I pray you take me up, and bear me hence
Into some other Chamber: softly, 'pray.
Let there be no noise made, my gentle Friends,
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper Musick to my weary Spirit.
War.
Call for the Musick in the other Room.
K. Henry.
Set me the Crown upon my Pillow here.
Cla.
His Eye is hollow, and he changes much.
War.
Less noise, less noise.
Enter Prince Henry.
P. Henry.
Who saw the Duke of Clarence?
Cla.
I am here, Brother, full of heaviness.
P. Henry.
How now? Rain within doors, and none abroad?
How doth the King?
Glo.
Exceeding ill.
P. Henry.
Heard he the good News yet?
Tell it him.
Glo.
He alter'd much, upon the hearing it.
P. Henry.
If he be sick with Joy,
He'll recover without Physick.
-- 1270 --
War.
Not so much noise, my Lords,
Sweet Prince, speak low.
The King, your Father, is dispos'd to sleep.
Cla.
Let us withdraw into the other Room.
War.
Wil't please your Grace to go along with us?
P. Henry.
No; I will sit, and watch here by the King.
Why doth the Crown lye there, upon his Pillow,
[Exeunt all but P. Henry.
Being so troublesome a Bed-fellow?
O polish'd Perturbation! Golden Care!
That keep'st the Ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful Night: Sleep with it now,
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he whose Brow, with homely Biggen bound,
Snores out the Watch of Night. O Majesty!
When thou do'st pinch thy Bearer, thou do'st sit
Like a rich Armor, worn in heat of day,
That scald'st with safety; by his Gates of breath,
There lyes a downy Feather, which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless Down
Perforce must move. My gracious Lord! my Father!
This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep,
That from this Golden Rigol hath divorc'd
So many English Kings. Thy due from me,
Is Tears, and heavy Sorrows of the Blood,
Which Nature, Love, and filial Tenderness
Shall, O dear Father, pay thee plenteously.
My due, from thee, is this Imperial Crown,
Which, as immediate from thy place, and blood,
Derives it self to me. Lo, here it sits,
Which Heav'n shall guard:
And put the World's whole strength
Into one Gyant Arm, it shall not force
This Lineal Honour from me. This, from thee,
Will I to mine leave, As 'tis left to me.
[Exit.
Enter Warwick, Gloucester, and Clarence.
K. Henry.
Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!
Cla.
Doth the King call?
War.
What would your Majesty? how fares your Grace?
K. Henry.
Why did you leave me here alone, my Lords?
Cla.
We left the Prince, my Brother, here, my Liege;
Who undertook to sit and watch by you.
-- 1271 --
K. Henry.
The Prince of Wales! where is he? let me see him.
War.
The door is open, he is gone this way.
Glo.
He came not through the Chamber where we staid.
K. Henoy.
Where is the Crown? who took it from my
Pillow?
War.
When we with-drew, my Liege, we left it here.
K. Henry.
The Prince hath ta'en it hence:
Go seek him out.
Is he so hasty, that he doth suppose
My sleep, my death? Find him, my Lord of Warwick,
Chide him hither; this part of his conjoins
With my disease, and helps to end me.
See, Sons, what things you are:
How quickly Nature falls into revolt,
When Gold becomes her Object?
For this, the foolish over-careful Fathers
Have broke their sleeps with thought,
Their brains with care, their bones with industry.
For this, they have engrossed and pil'd up
The canker'd heaps of strange-atchiev'd Gold:
For this, they have been thoughtful to invest
Their Sons with Art, and Martial Exercises:
When, like the Bee, culling from every Flower
The virtuous Sweets, our Thighs packt with Wax,
Our Mouths with Honey, we bring it to the Hive;
And like the Bees, are murthered for our pains.
This bitter taste yield his Engrossments
To the ending Father.
Enter Warwick.
Now where is he, that will not stay so long,
Till his friend's sickness hath determin'd me?
War.
My Lord, I found the Prince in the next Room,
Washing with kindly Tears his gentle Cheeks,
With such a deep demeanour, in great sorrow,
That Tyranny, which never quafft but blood,
Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his Knife
With gentle Eye-drops. He is coming hither.
K. Henry.
But wherefore did he take away the Crown?
Enter Prince Henry.
Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry,
Depart the Chamber, leave us here alone.
[Exit.
-- 1272 --
P. Henry.
I never thought to hear you speak again.
K. Henry.
Thy wish was Father, Harry, to that thought:
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
Do'st thou so hunger for my empty Chair,
That thou wilt needs invest thee with my Honours,
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
Thou seek'st the Greatness, that will over-whelm thee:
Stay but a little; for my Cloud of Dignity
Is held from falling, with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop; my Day is dim.
Thou hast stoln that, which after some few hours
Were thine, without offence; and at my death
Thou hast seal'd up my Expectation.
Thy life did manifest, thou lov'dst me not,
And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand Daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,
To stab at half an hour of my frail life.
What! can'st thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone, and dig my Grave thy self,
And bid the merry Bells ring to thy ear,
That thou art Crowned, not that I am dead;
Let all the Tears, that should bedew my Herse,
Be drops of Balm, to sanctifie thy Head:
Only compound me with forgotten dust;
Give that, which gave thee life, unto the Worms:
Pluck down my Officers, break my Decrees;
For now a time is come, to mock at Form.
Henry the Fifth is Crown'd: Up Vanity,
Down Royal State: All you sage Cousellors hence:
And to the English Court, assemble now
From ev'ry Region, Apes of idleness.
Now Neighbour-Confines, purge you of your Scum:
Have you a Ruffian that will swear? drink? dance?
Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit
The oldest sins, the newest kinds of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England shall double gild his trebble guilt.
England shall give him Office, Honour, Might:
For the Fifth Harry, from curb'd Licence plucks
The muzzle of Restraint, and the wild Dog
-- 1273 --
Shall flesh his Tooth in every Innocent.
O my poor Kingdom, sick with civil Blows,
When that my Care could not with-hold thy Riots,
What wilt thou do, when Riot is thy Care?
O, thou wilt be a Wilderness again,
Peopled with Wolves, thy old Inhabitants.
P. Henry.
O pardon me, my Liege,
[Kneeling.
But for my Tears,
The most Impediments unto my Speech,
I had fore-stall'd this dear and deep rebuke,
E'er you, with Grief, had spoke, and I had heard
The course of it so far. There is your Crown,
And he that wears the Crown immortally,
Long guard it yours; if I affect it more,
Than as your Honour, and as your Renown,
Let me no more from this Obedience rise,
Which my most true and inward dutious Spirit
Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending.
Heav'n witness with me, when I here came in,
And found no course of breath within your Majesty,
How cold it struck my Heart. If I do feign,
O let me, in my present wildness, die,
And never live, to shew th'incredulous World,
The noble change that I have purposed.
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
(And dead almost, my Liege, to think you were)
I spake unto the Crown, as having sense,
And thus upbraided it. The care on thee depending,
Hath fed upon the Body of my Father,
Therefore, thou best of Gold art worst of Gold.
Other, less fine in Carrat, is more precious,
Preserving life, in Med'cine potable:
But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd,
Hast eat the Bearer up.
Thus, my Royal Liege,
Accusing it, I put it on my Head,
To try with it, as with an Enemy,
That had before my Face murder'd my Father,
The Quarrel of a true Inheritor:
But if it did infect my Blood with Joy,
Or swell my Thoughts to any strain of Pride,
-- 1274 --
If any Rebel, or vain Spirit of mine,
Did, with the least Affection of a Welcome,
Give entertainment to the might of it,
Let Heav'n for ever keep it from my Head,
And make me as the poorest Vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it.
K. Henry.
O my Son!
Heav'n put it in thy mind to take it hence,
That thou might'st join the more, thy Father's love,
Pleading so wisely, in excuse of it.
Come hither Harry, sit thou by my Bed,
And hear, I think, the very latest Counsel
That ever I shall breath. Heav'n knows, my Son,
By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd-ways
I met this Crown; and I my self know well
How troublesome it sate upon my Head.
To thee, it shall descend with better Quiet,
Better Opinion, better Confirmation:
For all the Soil of the Atchievment goes
With me, into the Earth. It seem'd in me,
But as an Honour snatch'd with boist'rous Hand,
And I had many living, to upbraid
My gain of it, by their Assistances,
Which daily grew to Quarrel, and to Blood-shed,
Wounding supposed Peace. All these bold Fears,
Thou seest, with peril, I have answered:
For all my Reign hath been but as a Scene
Acting that Argument. And now my Death
Changes the Mode: For what in me was purchas'd,
Falls upon thee, in a more fairer sort.
So thou the Garland wear'st successively;
Yet, though thou stand'st more sure, than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green:
And all thy Friends, which thou must make thy Friends,
Have but their Stings, and Teeth, newly taken out;
By whose fell working, I was first advanc'd,
And by whose Power, I well might lodge a Fear
To be again displac'd. Which to avoid,
I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the Holy Land;
-- 1275 --
Lest rest, and lying still, might make them look
Too near unto my State. Therefore, my Marry,
Be it thy Course to busie giddy Minds
With Foreign Quarrels; that Action, hence born out,
May waste the Memory of the former Days.
More would I, but my Lungs are wasted so,
That strength of Speech is utterly deny'd me.
How I came by the Crown, O Heaven forgive:
And grant it may, with thee, in true peace live.
P. Henry.
My gracious Liege:
You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
Then plain and right must my possession be;
Which I, with more, than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the World, will rightfully maintain.
Enter Lord John of Lancaster and Warwick.
K. Henry.
Look, look,
Here comes my John of Lancaster:
Lan.
Health, Peace and Happiness
To my Royal Father:
K. Henry.
Thou bring'st me Happiness, Son John,
But Health, alack, with youthful Wings is flown
From this bare, wither'd Trunk. Upon thy sight
My worldly Business makes a Period.
Where is my Lord of Warwick?
P. Henry.
My Lord of Warwick.
K. Henry.
Doth any Name particular belong
Unto the Lodging, where I first did swoon?
War.
'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble Lord.
K. Henry.
Laud be to Heav'n:
Even there my Life must end.
It hath been prophesy'd to me many Years,
I should not die but in Jerusalem:
Which, vainly, I suppos'd the Holy-Land.
But bear me to that Chamber, there I'll lye:
In that Jerusalem, shall Harry die.
[Exeunt.
-- 1276 --
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Enter Shallow, Silence, Falstaff, Bardolph, Page, and Davy.
Shal.
By Cock and Pye you shall not away to Night.
What, Davy, I say.
Fal.
You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow.
Shal.
I will not excuse you: You shall not be excused. Excuses
shall not be admitted: There is no excuse shall serve:
You shall not be excus'd.
Why Davy.
Davy.
Here, Sir.
Shal.
Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy, let me see;
William, Cook, bid him come hither—Sir John, you shall not
be excus'd.
Davy.
Marry, Sir, thus: Those Precepts cannot be serv'd;
and again, Sir, shall we sow the head-land with Wheat?
Shal.
With red Wheat, Davy. But, for William, Cook; are
there no young Pidgeons?
Davy.
Yea, Sir.
Here is now the Smith's Note for Shooing,
And Plough-Irons.
Shal.
Let it be cast, and paid—Sir John, you shall not
be excus'd.
Davy.
Sir, a new link to the Bucket must needs be had.
And, Sir, do you mean to stop any of William's Wages about
the Sack he lost the other day at Hinckley Fair?
Shal.
He shall answer it.
Some Pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legg'd Hens; a joint
of Mutton, and any pretty little tiny Kickshaws, tell William
Cook.
Davy.
Doth the Man of War stay all Night, Sir?
Shal.
Yes, Davy.
I will use him well. A Friend i'th' Court is better than a
Penny in Purse. Use his Men well, Davy, for they are arrant
Knaves, and will back-bite.
Davy.
No worse than they are bitten, Sir; for they have
marvellous foul Linnen.
Shal.
Well conceited, Davy. About thy business, Davy.
-- 1277 --
Davy.
I beseech you, Sir,
To countenance William Visor of Woncot, against Clement Perkes
of the Hill.
Shal.
There are many Complaints, Davy, against that Visor,
that Visor is an arrant Knave, on my knowledge.
Davy.
I grant your Worship that he is a Knave, Sir; but
yet, Heaven forbid, Sir, but a Knave should have some countenance
at his Friends request. An honest Man, Sir, is able
to speak for himself, when a Knave is not. I have serv'd your
Worship truly, Sir, these eight years; and if I cannot once
or twice in a Quarter bear out a Knave against an honest Man,
I have but a very little credit with your Worship. The
Knave is mine honest Friend, Sir, therefore, I beseech your
Worship, let him be countenanc'd.
Shal.
Go too,
I say he shall have no Wrong: Look about, Davy.
Where are you, Sir John? Come, off with your Boots.
Give me your Hand, Master Bardolph.
Bard.
I am glad to see your Worship.
Shal.
I thank thee, with all my Heart, kind Master Bardolph,
and welcome, my tall Fellow:
[To the Page.
Come, Sir John.
Fal.
I'll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow. Bardolph,
look to our Horses. If I were saw'd into Quantities,
I should make four dozen of such bearded Hermites Staves,
as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see the semblable
Coherence of his Mens Spirits and his: They, by observing
of him, do bear themselves like foolish Justices: He,
by conversing with them, is turn'd into a Justice-like Servingman.
Their Spirits are so married in Conjunction with the
Participation of Society, that they flock together in consent
like so many Wild-Geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow,
I would humour his Men with the imputation of being
near their Master. If to his Men, I would curry with Master
Shallow, that no Man could better Command his Servants.
It is certain, that either wise bearing or ignorant Carriage
is caught, as Men take Diseases, one of another: Therefore
let Men take heed of their Company. I will devise
Matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Henry in
continual Laughter, the wearing out of six Fashions, which
is four Terms, or two Actions, and he shall laugh with Intervallums.
-- 1278 --
O, it is much that a Lie with a slight Oath,
and a Jest with a sad Brow, will do with a Fellow that never
had the Ache in his Shoulders. O you shall see him
laugh, 'till his Face be like a wet Cloak ill laid up.
Shal.
Sir John.
Fal.
I come, Master Shallow; I come, Master Shallow.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter the Earl of Warwick and the Lord Chief Justice.
War.
How now, my Lord Chief Justice, whither away?
Ch. Just.
How doth the King?
War.
Exceeding well: His Cares
Are now all ended.
Ch. Just.
I hope not dead.
War.
He's walk'd the way of Nature,
And, to our Purposes, he lives no more.
Ch. Just.
I would his Majesty had call'd me with him.
The Service that I truly did his Life
Hath left me open to all Injuries.
War.
Indeed I think the young King loves you not.
Ch. Just.
I know he doth not, and do arm my self
To welcome the condition of the Time,
Which cannot look more hideously upon me,
Than I have drawn it in my fantasie.
Enter Lord John of Lancester, Gloucester and Clarence.
War.
Here comes the heavy issue of dead Harry:
O, that the living Harry had the temper
Of him, the worst of these three Gentlemen:
How many Nobles then should hold their Places,
That must strike sail to Spirits of vile sort?
Ch. Just.
Alas, I fear all will be over-turn'd.
Lan.
Good morrow, Cousin Warwick, good morrow.
Glo. Clar.
Good morrow, Cousin.
Lan.
We meet like Men that had forgot to speak.
War.
We do remember; but our Argument
Is all too heavy to admit much talk.
Lan.
Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy.
Ch. Just.
Peace be with us, lest we be heavier.
-- 1279 --
Glo.
O, good my Lord, you have lost a Friend indeed:
And, I dare swear, you borrow not that Face
Of seeming Sorrow, it is sure your own.
Lan.
Tho' no Man be assur'd what Grace to find,
You stand in coldest Expectation.
I am the sorrier, would 'twere otherwise.
Cla.
Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair,
Which swims against your stream of Quality.
Ch. Just.
Sweet Princes, what I did, I did in honour,
Led by th' Imperial Conduct of my Soul,
And never shall you see that I will beg
A ragged and forestall'd Remission.
If Troth and upright Innocency fail me,
I'll to the King, my Master, that is dead,
And tell him who hath sent me after him.
War.
Here comes the Prince.
Enter Prince Henry.
Ch. Just.
Good morrow, and Heav'n save your Majesty.
P. Henry.
This new and gorgeous Garment, Majesty,
Sits not so easie on me as you think.
Brothers, you mix your Sadness with some Fear:
This is the English, not the Turkish Court:
Not Amurah an Amurah succeeds,
But Harry, Harry. Yet be sad, good Brothers,
For, to speak truth, it very well becomes you:
Sorrow so Royally in you appears,
That I will deeply put the fashion on,
And wear it in my Heart. Why then be sad,
But entertain no more of it, good Brothers,
Than a joint-burthen laid upon us all.
For me, by Heav'n, I bid you be assur'd,
I'll be your Father and your Brother too:
Let me but bear your Love, I'll bear your Cares;
But weep that Harry's dead, and so will I.
But Harry lives, that shall convert those Tears
By number, into hours of Happiness.
Lan. &c.
We hope no other from your Majesty.
P. Henry.
You all look strangely on me; and you most.
You are, I think, assur'd I love you not.
[To the Ch. Just.
Ch. Just.
I am assur'd, if I be measur'd rightly,
Your Majesty hath no just cause to hate me.
-- 1280 --
P. Henry.
No! How might a Prince of my great Hopes forget
So great Indignities you laid upon me?
What! Rate! Rebuke! and roughly send to Prison
Th' immediate Heir of England! Was this easie?
May this be wash'd in Lethe, and forgotten?
Ch. Just.
I then did use the Person of your Father;
The Image of his Power lay then in me,
And, in th' Administration of his Law,
Whiles I was busie for the Common-wealth,
Your Highness pleased to forget my Place,
The Majesty and Power of Law and Justice,
The Image of the King, whom I presented,
And struck me in my very Seat of Judgment:
Whereon, as an Offender to your Father,
I gave bold way to my Authority,
And did commit you. If the Deed were ill,
Be you contented, wearing now the Garland,
To have a Son, set your Decrees at naught?
To pluck down Justice from your awful Bench?
To trip the course of Law, and blunt the Sword
That guards the peace and safety of your Person?
Nay, more, to spurn at your most Royal Image,
And mock your workings in a second Body?
Question your Royal Thoughts, make the case yours;
Be now the Father, and propose a Son:
Hear your own Dignity so much prophan'd,
See your most dreadful Laws so loosely slighted;
Behold your self so by a Son disdain'd:
And then imagine me taking your part,
And in your Power soft-silencing your Son:
After this cold considerance, sentence me;
And, as you are a King, speak in your State,
What I have done that misbecame my Place,
My Person, or my Liege's Sovereignty.
P. Henry.
You are right Justice, and you weigh this well;
Therefore still bear the Ballance, and the Sword:
And I do wish your Honours may increase,
'Till you do live to see a Son of mine
Offend you, and obey you, as I did:
So shall I live to speak my Father's words.
Happy am I, that have a Man so bold,
-- 1281 --
That dares do Justice on my proper Son;
And no less happy having such a Son,
That would deliver up his greatness so
Into the hands of Justice. You did commit me;
For which I do commit into your Hand
Th' unstained Sword that you have us'd to bear,
With this Remembrance, that you use the same
With the like bold, just and impartial Spirit
As you have done 'gainst me. There is my Hand,
You shall be as a Father to my Youth.
My Voice shall sound as you do prompt mine Ear,
And I will stoop and humble my Intents
To your well practis'd wise Directions.
And Princes all, believe me, I beseech you;
My Father is gone wild into his Grave,
(For in his Tomb lye my Affections)
And, with his Spirit, sadly I survive,
To mock the Expectations of the World:
To frustrate Prophesies, and to race out
Rotten Opinion, who hath writ me down
After my seeming. The tide of Blood in me
Hath proudly flow'd in Vanity 'till now.
Now doth it turn and ebb back to the Sea;
Where it shall mingle with the state of Floods,
And flow henceforth in formal Majesty.
Now call we our High Court of Parliament,
And let us chuse such Limbs of noble Counsel
That the great Body of our State may go
In equal rank with the best govern'd Nation;
That War or Peace, or both at once, may be
As things acquainted and familiar to us,
In which you, Father, shall have formost Hand.
[To Lord Chief Justice.
Our Coronation done, we will accite
(As I before remembred) all our State,
And (Heaven consigning to my good Intents)
No Prince, nor Peer, shall have just cause to say,
Heaven shorten Harry's happy life one day.
[Exeunt.
-- 1282 --
SCENE III.
Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Bardolph, Page, and Davy.
Shal.
Nay, you shall see mine Orchard, where in an Arbor
we will eat a last Years Pippin of my own graffing, with
a Dish of Carraways, and so forth: Come, Cousin Silence;
and then to Bed.
Fal.
You have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich.
Shal.
Barren, barren, barren: Beggars all, beggars all, Sir
John: Marry, good Air. Spread Davy, spread Davy: Well
said, Davy.
Fal.
This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your Servingman,
and your Husbandman.
Shal.
A good Varlet, a good Varlet, a very good Varlet,
Sir John: I have drank too much Sack at Supper. A good
Varlet. Now sit down, now sit down: Come, Cousin.
Sil.
Ah, Sirrah, quoth-a,
We shall do nothing but eat, and make good Chear,
[Singing.
And praise Heaven for the merry Year;
When Flesh is cheap and Females dear,
And lusty Lads roam here and there;
So merrily, and ever among so merrily,—&c.
Fal.
There's a merry Heart, good Master Silence. I'll
drink your health for that anon.
Shal.
Good Master Bardolph: Some wine, Davy.
Davy.
Sweet Sir, sit; I'll be with you anon; most sweet
Sir, sit. Master Page, sit: Good Master Page, sit: Proface.
What you want in Meat we'll have in Drink; but you bear,
the Heart's all.
Shal.
Be merry, Master Bardolph, and my little Soldier
there, be merry.
Sil. [Singing.]
Be merry, be merry, my Wife has all,
For Women are Shrews, both short and tall;
'Tis merry in Hall, when Beards wag all;
And welcome, merry Shrovetide.
Be merry, be merry.
Fal.
I did not think Master Silence had been a Man of this
Mettle.
Sil.
Who I? I have been merry twice and once e'er now.
Dav.
There is a dish of Leather-coats for you.
Shal.
Davy.
-- 1283 --
Dav.
Your Worship—I'll be with you streight. A Cup
of Wine, Sir.
Sil. [Singing.]
A Cup of Wine,
That's brisk and fine,
And drink unto the Leman mine;
And a merry Heart lives long-a.
Fal.
Well said, Master Silence.
Sil.
If we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet of the
Night.
Fal.
Health and long Life to you, Master Silence.
Sil.
Fill the Cup, and let it come. I'll pledge you, were't
a mile to the bottom.
Shal.
Honest Bardolph, welcome; if thou want'st any
thing and wilt not call, beshrew thy Heart. Welcome my
little tyny thief, and welcome indeed too: I'll drink to Master
Bardolph, and to all the Cavileroes about London.
Dav.
I hope to see London, once e'er I dye.
Bard.
If I might see you there, Davy.
Shal.
You'll crack a Quart together? Ha, will you not,
Master Bardolph?
Bard.
Yes, Sir, in a pottle Pot.
Shal.
I thank thee; the Knave will stick by thee, I can
assure thee that. He will not out, he is true bred.
Bard.
And I'll stick by him, Sir.
Shal.
Why, there spoke a King: Lack nothing, be merry.
Look, who's at Door there, ho: Who knocks?
Fal.
Why now you have done me right.
Sil. [Singing.]
Do me right, and dub me Knight, Samingo.
Is't not so?
Fal.
'Tis so.
Sil.
Is't? Why then say an old Man can do somewhat.
Dav.
If it please your Worship there's one Pistol come
from the Court with News.
Fal.
From the Court? Let him come.
Enter Pistol.
How now, Pistol?
Pist.
Sir John, save you, Sir.
Fal.
What Wind blew you hither, Pistol?
Pist.
Not the ill Wind which blows none to good, sweet
Knight: Thou art now one of the greatest Men in the
Realm.
-- 1284 --
Sil.
Indeed, I think he be, but Goodman Puff of Barson.
Pist.
Puff? puff in thy teeth, most recreant Coward base,
Sir John, I am thy Pistol, and thy Friend; helter skelter
have I rode to thee, and tydings do I bring, and lucky joys,
and golden Times, and happy News of price.
Fal.
I prithee now deliver them, like a Man of this World.
Pist.
A footra for the World, and Worldings base,
I speak of Africa, and Golden Joys.
Fal.
O base Assyrian Knight, what is thy News?
Let King Covitha know the truth thereof.
Sil.
And Robin-hood, Scarlet, and John.
Pist.
Shall dunghil Curs confront the Helicon?
And shall good News be baffl'd?
Then Pistol lay thy head in Fury's lap.
Shal.
Honest Gentleman,
I know not your breeding.
Pist.
Why then lament therefore.
Shal.
Give me pardon, Sir.
If, Sir, you come with News from the Court, I take it,
there is but two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal
them. I am Sir, under the King, in some Authority.
Pist.
Under which King?
Bezonian, speak, or dye.
Shal.
Under King Harry,
Pist.
Harry the Fourth? or Fifth?
Shal.
Harry the Fourth.
Pist.
A footra for thine Office.
Sir John, thy tender Lamb-kin now is King,
Harry the Fifth's the Man, I speak the truth.
When Pistol lies, do this, and fig-me, like
The bragging Spaniard.
Fal.
What, is the old King dead?
Pist.
As nail in door,
The things I speak are just.
Fal.
Away Bardolf, saddle my Horse,
Master Robert Shallow, chuse what Office thou wilt
In the Land, 'tis thine. Pistol, I will double charge thee
With Dignities.
Bard.
O joyful day!
I would not take a Knighthood for my Fortune.
-- 1285 --
Pist.
What? I do bring good News.
Fal.
Carry Master Silence to Bed: Master Shallow, my
Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am Fortune's Steward.
Get on thy Boots, we'll ride all Night. Oh, sweet Pistol;
away Bardolph: Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal,
devise something to do thy self good. Boot, boot, Master
Shallow, I know the young King issick for me. Let us take
any Man's Horses: The Laws of England are at my Commandment.
Happy are they which have been my Friends;
and wo unto my Lord Chief Justice.
Pist.
Let Vultures vile seize on his Lungs also:
Where is the Life that late I led, say they?
Why here it is, welcome those pleasant Days.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Hostess Quickly, Doll Tear-sheet and Beadles.
Hostess.
No, thou arrant Knave, I would I might die, that
I might have thee hang'd; thou hast drawn my Shoulder out
of joynt.
Bead.
The Constables have deliver'd her over to me; and
she shall have whipping Cheer enough, I warrant her. There
hath been a Man or two, lately, kill'd about her.
Dol.
Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie: Come on, I'll tell thee
what, thou damn'd Tripe-visag'd Rascal, if the Child I now
go with do miscarry, thou hadst better thou hadst strook
thy Mother, thou Paper-fac'd Villain.
Host.
O that Sir John were come, he would make this a
bloody day to some body. But I would the Fruit of her
Womb might miscarry.
Bead.
If it do, you shall have a dozen of Cushions again,
you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both
go with me, for the Man is dead that you and Pistol beat among
you.
Dol.
I'll tell thee what, thou thin Man in a Censor; I
will have you as soundly swing'd for this, you blue-bottl'd
Rogue; you filthy famish'd Correctioner, if you be not
swing'd I'll forswear half Kirtles.
Bead.
Come, come, you she-Knight-arrant, come.
-- 1286 --
Host.
O, that right should thus o'ercome might. Well,
of sufferance comes case.
Dol.
Come, you Rogue, come;
Bring me to a Justice.
Host.
Yes, come, you starv'd Blood-hound.
Dol.
Goodman Death, Goodman Bones.
Host.
Thou Anatomy, thou.
Dol.
Come, you thin Thing:
Come, you Rascal.
Bead.
Very well.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter two Grooms.
1 Groom.
More Rushes, more Rushes.
2 Groom.
The Trumpets have sounded twice.
1 Groom.
It will be two of the Clock e'er they come from
the Coronation.
[Exeunt Grooms.
Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph and Page.
Fal.
Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow, I will
make the King do you Grace: I will lear upon him as he
comes by, and do but mark the Countenance that he will
give me.
Pistol.
Bless thy Lungs, good Knight.
Fal.
Come here, Pistol, stand behind me. O, if I had
had time to have made new Liveries, I would have bestow'd
the thousand pound I borrow'd of you. But it is no matter,
this poor shew doth better; this doth infer the zeal I had to
see him.
Shal.
It doth so.
Fal.
It shews my earnestness in Affection.
Pist.
It doth so.
Fal.
My Devotion.
Pist.
It doth, it doth, it doth.
Fal.
As it were to ride day and night,
And not to deliberate, not to remember,
Not to have patience to shift me.
Shal.
It is most certain.
-- 1287 --
Fal.
But to stand stained with Travel and Sweating with
desire to see him, thinking of nothing else, putting all Affairs
in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done but
to see him.
Pist.
'Tis semper idem; for absque hoc nihil est. 'Tis all
in every part.
Shal.
'Tis so indeed.
Pist.
My Knight, I will enflame thy Noble Liver, and
make thee rage. Thy Dol, and Helen of thy noble Thoughts
is in base Durance and contagious Prison; hall'd thither by
most mechanical and dirty Hands. Rowze up Revenge from
Ebon Den, with fell Alecto's Snake, for Dol's in. Pistol speaks
nought but troth.
Fal.
I will deliver her.
Pist.
There roar'd the Sea; and Trumpet Clangour
sounds.
The Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry the Fifth, his Brothers,
and the Lord Chief Justice.
Fal.
Save thy Grace, King Hal, my Royal Hal.
Pist.
The Heavens thee guard and keep, most Royal Imp
of Fame.
Fal.
Save thee, my sweet Boy.
King.
My Lord Chief Justice speak to that vain Man.
Ch. Just.
Have you your Wits?
Know you what 'tis you speak?
Fal.
My King, my Jove, I speak to thee, my Heart.
King.
I know thee not, old Man: Fall to thy Prayers:
How ill white Hairs become a Fool and Jester!
I have long dream'd of such a kind of Man,
So surfeit-swell'd, so old, and so prophane;
But, being awake, I do despise my Dream.
Make less thy Body, hence, and more thy Grace,
Leave gormandizing. Know, the Grave doth gape
For thee, thrice wider than for other Men.
Reply not to me with a Fool-born Jest;
Presume not that I am the thing I was,
For Heaven doth know, so shall the World perceive,
That I have turn'd away my former self,
So will I those that kept me Company.
When thou dost hear I am as I have been,
-- 1288 --
Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,
The tutor and the feeder of my Riots;
'Till then I banish thee, on pain of Death,
As I have done the rest of my Miss-leaders,
Not to come near our Person by ten mile.
For competence of Life I will allow you,
That lack of Means enforce you not to Evil:
And, as we hear you do redeem your selves,
We will, according to our Strength and Qualities,
Give you Advancement. Be it your Charge, my Lord,
To see perform'd the tenure of our Word. Set on.
[Exit King.
Fal.
Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound.
Shal.
Ay marry, Sir John, which I beseech you to let me
have home with me.
Fal.
That can hardly be, Mr. Shallow. Do not you grieve
at this; I shall be sent for in private to him: Look you, he
must seem thus to the World. Fear not your Advancement,
I will be the Man yet that shall make you Great.
Shal.
I cannot well perceive how, unless you would give
me your Doublet and stuff me out with Straw. I beseech
you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my
thousand.
Fal.
Sir, I will be as good as my word. This, that you
heard, was but a colour.
Shal.
A colour, I fear, that you will die in, Sir John.
Fal.
Fear no Colours, go with me to Dinner:
Come Lieutenant Pistol, come Bardolph,
I shall be sent for soon at Night.
Ch. Just.
Go carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet,
Take all his Company along with him.
Fal.
My Lord, my Lord.
Ch. Just.
I cannot now speak, I will hear you soon.
Take them away.
Pist.
Si fortuna me tormento, spera me contento.
[Exeunt.
Manet Lancaster, and Chief Justice.
Lan.
I like this fair proceeding of the King's,
He hath intent his wonted Followers
Shall be very well provided for;
But are banish'd, 'till their Conversations
-- 1289 --
Appear more wise and modest in the World.
Ch. Just.
And so they are.
Lan.
The King hath call'd his Parliament,
My Lord.
Ch. Just.
He hath.
Lan.
I will lay odds, that e'er this year expire,
We bear our Civil Swords and Native Fire
As far as France. I heard a Bird so sing,
Whose Musick, to my thinking, pleas'd the King.
Come, will you hence?
[Exeunt.
-- 1290 --
EPILOGUE.
First, my Fear; then, my Courtesie; last, my Speech. My
Fear is your Displeasure; my Courtesie, my Duty; and my
Speech, to beg your Pardons. If you look for a good Speech now,
you undo me; for what I have to say is of mine own making,
and what, indeed, I should say, will, I doubt, prove mine own
Marring. But, to the Purpose, and so to the Venture. Be it
known to you, as it is very well, I was lately here in the end
of a displeasing Play, to pray your Patience for it, and to promise
you a better; I did mean, indeed, to pay you with this,
which if, like an ill Venture, it come unluckily home, I break;
and you, my gentle Creditors, lose. Here I promised you I would
be, and here I commit my Body to your Mercies: Bate me some,
and I will pay you some, and, as most Debtors do, promise
you infinitely.
If my Tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will you command
me to use my Legs? And yet that were but light Payment,
to Dance out of your Debt: But a good Conscience will make
any possible Satisfaction, and so will I. All the Gentlewomen
here have forgotten me; if the Gentlewomen will not, then the
Gentlemen do not agree with the Gentlewomen, which was never
seen before in such an Assembly.
One word more, I beseech you; if you be not too much cloid
with fat Meat, our humble Author will continue the Story,
with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katherine
of France; where, for any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of
a Sweat, unless already he be kill'd with your hard Opinions:
For Oldcastle died a Martyr, and this is not the Man. My
Tongue is weary, when my Legs are too; I will bid you good
Night, and so kneel down before you; but indeed to pray for
the Queen.
