Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombast, how long is't ago, Jack, since thou saw'st thy own knee?

Fal.

My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's talon in the waste; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief, it blows a man up like a bladder. There's villainous news abroad: here was Sir John Braby from your Father; you must go to the Court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy,—and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his true Liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh-hook: what a plague call you him—

Poins.

O, Glendower.

Fal.

Owen, Owen; the same; and his son-in-law

Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglas, that runs a horseback up a hill perpendicular—

P. Henry.

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

Fal.

You have hit it.

P. Henry.

So did he never the Sparrow.

Fal.

Well; that rascal had good mettle in him, he will not run.

P. Henry.

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

Fal.

A horseback, ye cuckow,—but afoot, he will not budge a foot.

P. Henry.

Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

Fal.

I grant ye, upon instinct: well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester is stoln away by night: thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.

P. Henry.

Then 'tis like, if there come a hot June, and this civil buffetting hold, we shall buy maiden-heads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundred.

Fal.

By the mass, lad, thou say'st true; it is like, we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horribly afeard? thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Dowglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it?

P. Henry.

Not a whit, i'faith; I lack some of thy instinct.

Fal.

Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to morrow, when thou com'st to thy father: if thou do love me, practise an answer.

P. Henry.

Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life.

Fal.

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

P. Henry.

Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald crown.

Fal.

Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved—Give me a cup of Sack to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in ^{6 note}King Cambyses' vein.

P. Henry.

Well, here is my leg.

Fal.

And here is my speech—Stand aside, Nobility—

Host.

This is excellent sport, i'faith.

Fal.
Weep not, sweet Queen, for trickling tears are vain.

Host.
O the father! how he holds his countenance? Fal.
For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen,
For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Host.

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

Fal.

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain— &plquo;^{7 note}Harry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows: yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. Thou art my son; I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lyeth the point; why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed Sun of heav'n prove ^{8 note}a micher, and eat blackberries?

a question not to be ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses? a question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our Land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keep'st; for, Harry, now do I not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also; and yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.&prquo;

P. Henry.

What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?

&plquo;Fal.

&plquo;A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a chearful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r-lady, inclining to threescore; and now, I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceives me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. (a) ^note If then the fruit may be known by the tree, as the tree by the fruit, then peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?&prquo;

P. Henry.

Dost thou speak like a King? do thou stand for Me, and I'll play my father.

Fal.

Depose me?—If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbet-sucker, ^{9 note}or a poulterer's hare.

P. Henry.

Well, here I am set.

Fal.

And here I stand; judge, my masters.

P. Henry.

Now, Harry, whence come you?

Fal.

My noble lord, from East-cheap.

P. Henry.

The Complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

Fal.

'Sblood, my lord, they are false.—Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young Prince.

&plquo;P. Henry.

&plquo;Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me; thou art violently carried away from grace; there's a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man: a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that boulting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stufft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree Ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?&prquo;

Fal.

I would, your Grace would take me with you: whom means your Grace?

P. Henry.

That villainous abominable mis-leader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Sathan.

Fal.

My lord, the man I know.

P. Henry.

I know, thou dost.

&plquo;Fal.

&plquo;But to say, I know more harm in him than in my self, were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more is the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but that he is, (saving your reverence,) a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! if to be old and merry, be a sin, then many an old Host, that I know, is damn'd: if to be fat, be to be hated, then

Pharoah's lean kine are to be lov'd. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is, old Jack Falstaff; banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.&prquo;

P. Henry.

I do, I will.

Bard.

O, my lord, my lord, the Sheriff with a most monstrous Watch, is at the door.

Fal.

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

Host.

O, my lord, my lord!

Fal.

Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick: what's the matter?

Host.

The Sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they are come to search the house: shall I let them in?

Fal.

Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad, without seeming so.

P. Henry.

And thou a natural coward, without instinct.

Fal.

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

P. Henry.

Go, hide thee behind the arras, the rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

Fal.

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

P. Henry.

Call in the Sheriff.—