Poins.

Come, shelter, shelter; I have removed Falstaff's horse, and he frets like a gumm'd velvet.

P. Henry.

Stand close.

Fal.

Poins, Poins, and be hang'd, Poins!

P. Henry.

Peace ye fat-kidney'd rascal, what a bawling dost thou keep?

Fal.

What, Poins? Hal.

P. Henry.

He is walk'd up to the top of the hill, I'll go seek him.

Fal.

I am accurst to rob in that thief's company: the rascal hath remov'd my horse, and ty'd him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the square further afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I 'scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two and twenty year, and yet I am bewitch'd with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hang'd, it could not be else; I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! a plague upon you both. Bardolph! Peto! I'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as to drink, to turn trueman, and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever

chew'd with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground, is three-score and ten miles afoot with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough. A plague upon't, when thieves cannot be true one to another. [They whistle.] Whew, a plague upon you all. Give me my horse; you rogues, give me my horse, and be hang'd.

P. Henry.

Peace ye fat guts, lye down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

Fal.

Have you any leavers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot again, for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye, to colt me thus?

P. Henry.

Thou liest, thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

Fal.

I pr'ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good King's son.

P. Henry.

Out you rogue, shall I be your ostler?

Fal.

Go hang thy self in thy own heir-apparent garters; if I be ta'en, I'll peach for this; an I have not ballads made on you all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison; when a jest is so forward, and afoot too! I hate it.