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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?