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 overtook 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 profane the precious time;
When tempest of commotion, like the South
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt
And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.
Give me my sword, and cloak: Falstaff, good night. [Exeunt Prince and Poins.

Fal.

Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpick't. More knocking at the door? how how? what's the matter?

Bard.

You must away to Court, Sir, presently: a dozen captains stay at 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, ere 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.

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.

Mrs. Tear-sheet,—

Host.

What's the matter?

Bard.

Bid Mistress Tear-sheet come to my master.

Host.

O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol.