Fal.

Peace, good Dol, do not speak like a death's-head: do not bid me remember mine end.

Dol.

Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of?

Fal.

A good shallow young fellow: he would have made a good pantler, he would have chipp'd bread well.

Dol.

They say Poins hath a good wit.

Fal.

He a good wit? hang him, baboon, his wit is as thick as Tewksbury mustard: there is no more conceit in him, than is in a mallet.

Dol.

Why doth the Prince love him so then?

Fal.

Because their legs are both of a bigness: and he plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles end for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boot very smooth like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other gambol faculties he hath, that shew a weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him: for the Prince himself is such another: the weight of an hair will turn the scales between their Averdupois.

P. Henry.

Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?

Poins.

Let us beat him before his whore.

P. Henry.

Look, if the wither'd elder hath not his poll claw'd like a Parrot.

Poins.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

Fal.

Kiss me, Dol.

P. Henry.

Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! what says the almanack to that?

Poins.

And look, whether the fiery Trigon his man be not lisping to his master's old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper?

Fal.

Thou dost give me flattering busses.

Dol.

By my troth I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

Fal.

I am old, I am old.

Dol.

I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them all.

Fal.

What stuff wilt thou have a kirtle of? I shall receive mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come: it grows late, we will to bed. Thou wilt forget me when I am gone.

Dol.

By my troth thou wilt set me a weeping if thou say'st so: prove that ever I dress my self handsom 'till thy return— Well, hearken the end.

Fal.

Some sack, Francis.

P. Henry. Poins.

Anon, anon, Sir.

Fal.

Ha! a bastard son of the King's! and art not thou Poins his brother?

P. Henry.

Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what a life dost thou lead?

Fal.

A better than thou: I am a gentleman, thou art a drawer.

P. Henry.

Very true, Sir: and I come to draw you out by the ears.

Host.

Oh, the lord preserve thy good grace. Welcome to London. Now heav'n bless that sweet face of thine: what, are you come from Wales?

Fal.

Thou whorson-made compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome.

Dol.

How! you fat fool, I scorn you.

Poins.

My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge, and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat.

P. Henry.

You whorson candle-myne you, how vilely did you speak of me even now, before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman?

Host.

'Blessing on your good heart, and so she is by my troth.

Fal.

Didst thou hear me?

P. Henry.

Yes; and you knew me as you did when you ran away by Gads-hill, you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.

Fal.

No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing.

P. Henry.

I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse, and then I know how to handle you.

Fal.

No abuse, Hal, on my honour, no abuse.

P. Henry.

Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler, and bread-chipper, and I know not what?

Fal.

No abuse, Hal.

Poins.

No abuse!

Fal.

No abuse, Ned, in the world; honest Ned, none. I disprais'd him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend, and true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal, none, Ned, none; no, boys, none.

P. Henry.

See now whether pure fear and entire cowardise doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman, to close with us? Is she of the wicked? is thine hostess here of the wicked? or is the boy of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked?

Poins.

Answer, thou dead Elm, answer.

Fal.

The fiend hath prickt down Bardolph irrecoverable, and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but

roast mault-worms: for the boy, there is a good angel about him, but the devil† ^note out-bids him too.

P. Henry.

For the women?

Fal.

For one of them, she in is hell already, and burns poor souls: for the other, I owe her mony; and whether she be damn'd for that, I know not.

Host.

No, I warrant you.

Fal.

No, I think thou art not: I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law, for the which I think thou wilt howl.

Host.

All victuallers do so: what is a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

P. Henry.

You, gentlewoman.

Dol.

What says your grace?

Fal.

His grace says that which his flesh rebels against.

Host.

Who knocks so loud at door? look to the door there, Francis.