Fran.

Anon, anon Sir; look down into the pomgranet, Ralph.

P. Henry.

Come hither, Francis.

Fran.

My lord.

P. Henry.

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Fran.

Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry.

Five years; by'rlady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But Francis, darest thou be so valiant, as to play the coward with thy indenture, and shew it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?

Fran.

O lord, Sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart—

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry.

How old art thou, Francis?

Fran.

Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shall be—

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon Sir; pray you stay a little, my lord.

P. Henry.

Nay, but hark you Francis, for the sugar thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not?

Fran.

O lord, I would it had been two.

P. Henry.

I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

Poins.

Francis.

Fran.

Anon, anon.

P. Henry.

Anon, Francis? no, Francis, but to-morrow Francis; or Francis, on Thursday; or indeed Francis, when thou wilt. But Francis.

Fran.

My lord.

P. Henry.

Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, christal-button, ^{c note}knot-pated, agat-ring, puke-stocking, caddice-garter, smooth tongue, Spanish-pouch.

Fran.

O lord, Sir, who do you mean?

P. Henry.

Why then your brown bastard is your only drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully. In Barbary, Sir, it cannot come to so much.

Fran.

What, Sir?

Poins.

Francis?

P. Henry.

Away you rogue, dost thou not hear them call?

Vint.

What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling?

Look to the guests within. My lord, old Sir John with half a dozen more are at the door; shall I let them in?

P. Henry.

Let them alone a while, and then open the door. Poins.

Poins.

Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door; shall we be merry?

Poins.

As merry as Crickets, my lad. But hark ye, what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? come, what's the issue?

P. Henry.

I am now of all humours, that have shew'd themselves humours, since the old days of goodman Adam, to the pupil age of this present twelve a clock at midnight. What's a clock, Francis?

Fran.

Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry.

That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a Parrot, and yet the son of a Woman. His industry is up stairs and down stairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the hot-spur of the north; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands and says to his wife, fie upon this quiet life, I want work. O my sweet Harry, says she, how many hast thou kill'd to-day? Give my roan horse a drench, says he, and answers, some fourteen, an hour after; a trifle, a trifle. I pr'ythee call in Falstaff, I'll play Percy, and that damn'd brawn shall play dame Mortimer his wife. Rivo, says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.