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.

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