Bard.

Save your grace.

P. Henry.

And yours, most noble Bardolph.

Poins.

Come, you ^{c note}virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be blushing? wherefore blush you now? what a maidenly man at arms are you become? Is it such a matter to get a pottle-pot's maiden-head?

Page.

He call'd me even now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face from the window; at last I spy'd his eyes, and methought he had made two holes in the ale-wives new petticoat, and peep'd through.

P. Henry.

Hath not the boy profited?

Bard.

Away, you whorson upright rabbet, away.

Page.

Away you rascally Althea's dream, away.

P. Henry.

Instruct us, boy, what dream, boy?

Page.

Marry, my lord, Althea dream'd she was deliver'd of a firebrand, and therefore I call him her dream.

P. Henry.

A crowns-worth of good interpretation; there it is, boy.

Poins.

O that this good blossom could be kept from cankers: well, there is six pence to preserve thee.

Bard.

If you do not make him be hang'd among you, the gallows shall be wrong'd.

P. Henry.

And how doth thy master, Bardolph?

Bard.

Well, my good lord; he heard of your grace's coming to town. There's a letter for you.

P. Henry.

Deliver'd with good respect; and how doth the Martlemas, your master?

Bard.

In bodily health, Sir.

Poins.

Marry, the immortal part needs a physician; but that moves not him; though that be sick, it dies not.

P. Henry.

I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me as my dog; and he holds his place: for look you how he writes.

Poins reads.

John Falstaff, knight—every man must know that, as oft as he hath occasion to name himself: even like those that are kin to the King, for they never prick their finger but they say there is some of the King's blood spilt. How comes that? says he that takes upon him not to conceive: the answer is as ready as a borrowed cap; I am the King's poor cousin, Sir.

P. Henry.

Nay, they will be kin to us, but they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter:—Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the King, nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.

Poins.
Why this is a certificate.

P. Henry.
Peace.
I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.

Poins.

Sure he means brevity in breath; short-winded. I commend

me to thee, I commend thee and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, for he misuses thy favours so much, that he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou may'st, and so farewel. Thine, by yea and no: which is as much as to say, as thou usest him, Jack Falstaff with my familiars: John with my brothers and sisters: and Sir John with all Europe.

P. Henry.

That's to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I marry your sister?

Poins.

May the wench have no worse fortune. But I never said so.

P. Henry.

Well, thus we play the fool with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us: is your master here in London?

Bard.

Yes, my lord.

P. Henry.

Where sups he? doth the old Boar feed in the old † ^notefrank?

Bard.

At the old place, my lord, in East-cheap.

P. Henry.

What company?

Page.

Ephesians, my lord, of the old church.

P. Henry.

Sup any women with him?

Page.

None, my lord, but old Mrs. Quickly, and Mrs. Dol Tear-sheet.

P. Henry.

What Pagan may that be?

Page.

A proper gentlewoman, Sir, and a kinswoman of my master's.

P. Henry.

Even such kin, as the parish heifers are to the town Bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper?

Poins.

I am your shadow, my lord, I'll follow you.

P. Henry.

Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to town. There's for your silence.

Bard.

I have no tongue, Sir.

Page.

And for mine, Sir, I will govern it.

P. Henry.

Fare ye well: go. This Dol Tear-sheet should be some road.

Poins.

I warrant you, as common as the way between St. Albans and London.

P. Henry.

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not our selves be seen?

Poins.

Put on two leather jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table, like drawers.

P. Henry.

From a God to a Bull? a heavy ^{d note}descension. It was Jove's case. From a Prince to a prentice, a low transformation; that shall be mine: for in every thing, the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned.