P. Henry.

Trust me, I am exceeding weary.

Poins.

Is it come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attach'd one of so high blood.

P. Henry.

It doth me, though it discolours the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not shew vilely in me, to desire small beer?

Poins.

Why, a Prince should not be so loosely studied, as to remember so weak a composition.

P. Henry.

Belike then my appetite was not princely got; for, in troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But indeed these humble considerations make me out of love with my greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy

name? or to know thy face to-morrow? or to take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast? (viz. these, and those that were the peach-colour'd ones;) or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as one for superfluity, and one other for use; but that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I, for it is a low ebb of linnen with thee, when thou keepest not racket there, as thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy low countreys have made a shift to eat up thy holland. † ^noteAnd God knows whether those that bawl out of the ruins of thy linnen shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say the children are not in the fault, whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily strengthened.

Poins.

How ill it follows, after you have labour'd so hard, you should talk so idely? tell me how many good young Princes should do so, their fathers lying so sick as yours is.

P. Henry.

Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?

Poins.

Yes and let it be an excellent good thing.

P. Henry.

It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine.

Poins.

Go to; I stand the push of your one thing, that you'll tell.

P. Henry.

Why I tell thee, it is not meet that I should be sad now my father is sick; albeit I could tell to thee, (as to one it pleases me for fault of a better, to call my friend) I could be sad and sad indeed too.

Poins.

Very hardly upon such a subject.

P. Henry.

Thou think'st me as far in the devil's book, as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and persistency. Let the end try the man. But I tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is sick; and keeping such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow.

Poins.

The reason?

P. Henry.

What would'st thou think of me, if I should weep?

Poins.

I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.

P. Henry.

It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed fellow, to think as every man thinks; never a man's thought in the world keeps the road-way better than thine; every man would think me an hyprocrite indeed. And what excites your most worshipful thought to think so?

Poins.

Why, because you have ^{b note}seem'd so lewd, and so much ingraffed to Falstaff.

P. Henry.

And to thee.

Poins.

Nay by this light I am well spoken of, I can hear it with mine own ears; the worst they can say of me is, that I am a second brother, and that I am a proper fellow of my hands: and those two things I confess I cannot help. Look, look, here comes Bardolph.

P. Henry.

And the boy that I gave Falstaff; he had him from me christian, and see if the fat villain have not transform'd him ape.