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 Liege-man 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 the 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 hath 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 ^{e note}June, and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads 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 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;Harry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: for though the camomil, 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 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 Son of heav'n prove a † ^notemicher, and eat black-berries? 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'rlady, inclining to three-score; 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. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, 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, 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 carry'd 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 stuft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manning-tree 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's 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 Pharaoh'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 the behalf of that Falstaff.

Host.

O, my lord, my lord!

Fal.

Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddle-stick: 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 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.