Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.

1. Car. Heigh-ho! an it be not four by the day, I'll be hang'd.

Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not

pack'd.- What, ostler!

Ost. [within] Anon, anon.

1. Car. I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the

point. Poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

Enter another Carrier.

2. Car. Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the

next way to give poor jades the bots. This house is turned upside

down since Robin Ostler died.

1. Car. Poor fellow never joyed since the price of oats rose. It

was the death of him.

2. Car. I think this be the most villanous house in all London road

for fleas. I am stung like a tench.

1. Car. Like a tench I By the mass, there is ne'er a king christen

could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.

2. Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we leak in

your chimney, and your chamber-lye breeds fleas like a loach.

1. Car. What, ostler! come away and be hang'd! come away!

2. Car. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be

delivered as far as Charing Cross.

1. Car. God's body! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.

What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy

head? Canst not hear? An 'twere not as good deed as drink to

break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang'd!

Hast no faith in thee?

Enter Gadshill.

Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?

1. Car. I think it be two o'clock.

Gads. I prithee lend me this lantern to see my gelding in the

stable.

1. Car. Nay, by God, soft! I know a trick worth two of that,

i' faith.

Gads. I pray thee lend me thine.

2. Car. Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth he? Marry,

I'll see thee hang'd first!

Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

2. Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.

Come, neighbour Mugs, we'll call up the gentlemen. They will

along with company, for they have great charge.

Exeunt [Carriers].

Gads. What, ho! chamberlain!

Enter Chamberlain.

Cham. At hand, quoth pickpurse.

Gads. That's even as fair as- 'at hand, quoth the chamberlain'; for

thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction

doth from labouring: thou layest the plot how.

Cham. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told

you yesternight. There's a franklin in the Wild of Kent hath

brought three hundred marks with him in gold. I heard him tell it

to one of his company last night at supper- a kind of auditor;

one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are

up already and call for eggs and butter. They will away

presently.

Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas' clerks, I'll

give thee this neck.

Cham. No, I'll none of it. I pray thee keep that for the hangman;

for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of

falsehood may.

Gads. What talkest thou to me of the hangman? If I hang, I'll make

a fat pair of gallows; for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me,

and thou knowest he is no starveling. Tut! there are other

Troyans that thou dream'st not of, the which for sport sake are

content to do the profession some grace; that would (if matters

should be look'd into) for their own credit sake make all whole.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny

strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued maltworms; but

with nobility, and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers,

such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and

speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray; and yet,

zounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the

commonwealth, or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for

they ride up and down on her and make her their boots.

Cham. What, the commonwealth their boots? Will she hold out water

in foul way?

Gads. She will, she will! Justice hath liquor'd her. We steal as in

a castle, cocksure. We have the receipt of fernseed, we walk

invisible.

Cham. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night

than to fernseed for your walking invisible.

Gads. Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as

I and a true man.

Cham. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

Gads. Go to; 'homo' is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler

bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

Exeunt.

Scene II. The highway near Gadshill.

Enter Prince and Poins.

Poins. Come, shelter, shelter! I have remov'd Falstaff's horse, and

he frets like a gumm'd velvet.

Prince. Stand close. [They step aside.]

Enter Falstaff.

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

Prince. I comes forward I Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rascal! What a

brawling dost thou keep!

Fal. Where's Poins, Hal?

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

[Steps aside.]

Fal. I am accurs'd to rob in that thief's company. The rascal hath

removed my horse and tied him I know not where. If I travel but

four foot by the squire 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 years, 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 drink to turn true man and to leave

these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a

tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles

afoot with me, and the stony-hearted villains know it well

enough. A plague upon it 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!

Prince. [comes forward] Peace, ye fat-guts! Lie down, lay thine ear

close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of

travellers.

Fal. Have you any levers 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?

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

Fal. I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's

son.

Prince. Out, ye rogue! Shall I be your ostler?

Fal. Go hang thyself in thine 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.

Enter Gadshill, [Bardolph and Peto with him].

Gads. Stand!

Fal. So I do, against my will.

Poins. [comes fortward] O, 'tis our setter. I know his voice.

Bardolph, what news?

Bar. Case ye, case ye! On with your vizards! There's money of the

King's coming down the hill; 'tis going to the King's exchequer.

Fal. You lie, ye rogue! 'Tis going to the King's tavern.

Gads. There's enough to make us all.

Fal. To be hang'd.

Prince. Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned

Poins and I will walk lower. If they scape from your encounter,

then they light on us.

Peto. How many be there of them?

Gads. Some eight or ten.

Fal. Zounds, will they not rob us?

Prince. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

Fal. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no

coward, Hal.

Prince. Well, we leave that to the proof.

Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge. When thou

need'st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell and stand fast.

Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd.

Prince. [aside to Poins] Ned, where are our disguises?

Poins. [aside to Prince] Here, hard by. Stand close.

[Exeunt Prince and Poins.]

Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I. Every man to

his business.

Enter the Travellers.

Traveller. Come, neighbour.

The boy shall lead our horses down the hill;

We'll walk afoot awhile and ease our legs.

Thieves. Stand!

Traveller. Jesus bless us!

Fal. Strike! down with them! cut the villains' throats! Ah,

whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth. Down

with them! fleece them!

Traveller. O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever!

Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs;

I would your store were here! On, bacons on! What, ye knaves!

young men must live. You are grandjurors, are ye? We'll jure ye,

faith!

Here they rob and bind them. Exeunt.

Enter the Prince and Poins [in buckram suits].

Prince. The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I

rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument

for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.

Poins. Stand close! I hear them coming.

[They stand aside.]

Enter the Thieves again.

Fal. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's no equity stirring. There's no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck.

[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them. THey all run away, and Falstaff, after a blow or two, runs awasy too, leaving the booty behind them.]

Prince. Your money!

Poins. Villains!

Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse.

The thieves are scattered, and possess'd with fear

So strongly that they dare not meet each other.

Each takes his fellow for an officer.

Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death

And lards the lean earth as he walks along.

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

Poins. How the rogue roar'd! Exeunt.

Scene III. Warkworth Castle.

Enter Hotspur solus, reading a letter.

Hot. 'But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house.' He could be contented- why is he not then? In respect of the love he bears our house! He shows in this he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. 'The purpose you undertake is dangerous'- Why, that's certain! 'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 'The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition.' Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself; Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not, besides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month, and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the King and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself and go to buffets for moving such a dish of skim milk with so honourable an action! Hang him, let him tell the King! we are prepared. I will set forward to-night.

Enter his Lady.

How now, Kate? I must leave you within these two hours.

Lady. O my good lord, why are you thus alone?

For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed,

Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee

Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?

Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,

And start so often when thou sit'st alone?

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks

And given my treasures and my rights of thee

To thick-ey'd musing and curs'd melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd,

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,

Cry 'Courage! to the field!' And thou hast talk'd

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tent,

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight.

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow

Like bubbles ill a late-disturbed stream,

And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,

Such as we see when men restrain their breath

On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

Hot. What, ho!

[Enter a Servant.]

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago.

Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

Hot. What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

Serv. It is, my lord.

Hot. That roan shall be my throne.

Well, I will back him straight. O esperance!

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

[Exit Servant.]

Lady. But hear you, my lord.

Hot. What say'st thou, my lady?

Lady. What is it carries you away?

Hot. Why, my horse, my love- my horse!

Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape!

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

As you are toss'd with. In faith,

I'll know your business, Harry; that I will!

I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir

About his title and hath sent for you

To line his enterprise; but if you go-

Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me

Directly unto this question that I ask.

I'll break thy little finger, Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell my all things true.

Hot. Away.

Away, you trifler! Love? I love thee not;

I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world

To play with mammets and to tilt with lips.

We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns,

And pass them current too. Gods me, my horse!

What say'st thou, Kate? What wouldst thou have with me?

Lady. Do you not love me? do you not indeed?

Well, do not then; for since you love me not,

I will not love myself. Do you not love me?

Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.

Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride?

And when I am a-horseback, I will swear

I love thee infinitely. But hark you. Kate:

I must not have you henceforth question me

Whither I go, nor reason whereabout.

Whither I must, I must; and to conclude,

This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.

I know you wise; but yet no farther wise

Than Harry Percy's wife; constant you are,

But yet a woman; and for secrecy,

No lady closer, for I well believe

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know,

And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

Lady. How? so far?

Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:

Whither I go, thither shall you go too;

To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.

Will this content you, Kate,?

Lady. It must of force. Exeunt.

Scene IV. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern.

Enter Prince and Poins.

Prince. Ned, prithee come out of that fat-room and lend me thy hand

to laugh a little.

Poins. Where hast been, Hal?

Prince,. With three or four loggerheads amongst three or

fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very bass-string of

humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers and

can call them all by their christen names, as Tom, Dick, and

Francis. They take it already upon their salvation that, though

I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell

me flatly I am no proud Jack like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a

lad of mettle, a good boy (by the Lord, so they call me!), and

when I am King of England I shall command all the good lads

Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dying scarlet; and when

you breathe in your watering, they cry 'hem!' and bid you play it

off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an

hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during

my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour that thou

wert not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned- to sweeten which

name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapp'd even

now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that never spake other

English in his life than 'Eight shillings and sixpence,' and 'You

are welcome,' with this shrill addition, 'Anon, anon, sir! Score

a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,' or so- but, Ned, to drive

away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee do thou stand in some

by-room while I question my puny drawer to what end be gave me

the sugar; and do thou never leave calling 'Francis!' that his

tale to me may be nothing but 'Anon!' Step aside, and I'll show

thee a precedent.

Poins. Francis!

Prince. Thou art perfect.

Poins. Francis! [Exit Poins.]

Enter [Francis, a] Drawer.

Fran. Anon, anon, sir.- Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph.

Prince. Come hither, Francis.

Fran. My lord?

Prince. How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to-

Poins. [within] Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon, sir.

Prince. Five year! by'r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of

Pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the

coward with thy indenture and show 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. [within] Francis!

Fran. Anon, sir.

Prince. How old art thou, Francis?

Fran. Let me see. About Michaelmas next I shall be-

Poins. [within] Francis!

Fran. Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord.

Prince. Nay, but hark you, Francis. For the sugar thou gavest me-

'twas a pennyworth, wast not?

Fran. O Lord! I would it had been two!

Prince. I will give thee for it a thousand pound. Ask me when thou

wilt, and, thou shalt have it.

Poins. [within] Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon.

Prince. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or,

Francis, a Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But

Francis-

Fran. My lord?

Prince. Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button,

not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,

smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch-

Fran. O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

Prince. 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. [within] Francis!

Prince. Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them call?

Here they both call him. The Drawer stands amazed,

not knowing which way to go.

Enter Vintner.

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

to the guests within. [Exit Francis.] My lord, old Sir John, with

half-a-dozen more, are at the door. Shall I let them in?

Prince. Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.

[Exit Vintner.]

Poins!

Poins. [within] Anon, anon, sir.

Enter Poins.

Prince. 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?

Prince. I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours

since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this

present this twelve o'clock at midnight.

[Enter Francis.]

What's o'clock, Francis?

Fran. Anon, anon, sir. [Exit.]

Prince. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a

parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and

downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet

of Percy's mind, the Hotspur 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 prithee 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.

Enter Falstaff, [Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto;

Francis follows with wine].

Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?

Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! Marry and

amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll

sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of

all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue

extant?

He drinketh.

Prince. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter?

Pitiful-hearted butter, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun!

If thou didst, then behold that compound.

Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too! There is nothing but

roguery to be found in villanous man. Yet a coward is worse than

a cup of sack with lime in it- a villanous coward! Go thy ways,

old Jack, die when thou wilt; if manhood, good manhood, be not

forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring.

There lives not three good men unhang'd in England; and one of

them is fat, and grows old. God help the while! A bad world, I

say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything. A

plague of all cowards I say still!

Prince. How now, woolsack? What mutter you?

Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a

dagger of lath and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock

of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince

of Wales?

Prince. Why, you whoreson round man, what's the matter?

Fal. Are not you a coward? Answer me to that- and Poins there?

Poins. Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the

Lord, I'll stab thee.

Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee

coward, but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as

thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care

not who sees Your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A

plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. Give me

a cup of sack. I am a rogue if I drunk to-day.

Prince. O villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd since thou drunk'st

last.

Fal. All is one for that. (He drinketh.) A plague of all cowards

still say I.

Prince. What's the matter?

Fal. What's the matter? There be four of us here have ta'en a

thousand pound this day morning.

Prince. Where is it, Jack? Where is it?

Fal. Where is it, Taken from us it is. A hundred upon poor four of

us!

Prince. What, a hundred, man?

Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them

two hours together. I have scap'd by miracle. I am eight times

thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut

through and through; my sword hack'd like a handsaw- ecce signum!

I never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A

plague of all cowards! Let them speak, If they speak more or less

than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.

Prince. Speak, sirs. How was it?

Gads. We four set upon some dozen-

Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord.

Gads. And bound them.

Peto. No, no, they were not bound.

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them, or I am a Jew

else- an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men sea upon us-

Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

Prince. What, fought you with them all?

Fal. All? I know not what you call all, but if I fought not with

fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish! If there were not two or

three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legg'd

creature.

Prince. Pray God you have not murd'red some of them.

Fal. Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them. Two

I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee

what, Hal- if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay, and thus I bore my point.

Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.

Prince. What, four? Thou saidst but two even now.

Fal. Four, Hal. I told thee four.

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.

Fal. These four came all afront and mainly thrust at me. I made me

no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

Prince. Seven? Why, there were but four even now.

Fal. In buckram?

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

Prince. [aside to Poins] Prithee let him alone. We shall have more

anon.

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?

Prince. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the list'ning to. These nine in buckram

that I told thee of-

Prince. So, two more already.

Fal. Their points being broken-

Poins. Down fell their hose.

Fal. Began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in,

foot and hand, and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.

Prince. O monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two!

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in

Kendal green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so

dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

Prince. These lies are like their father that begets them- gross as

a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts, thou

knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch-

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? Is not the truth the truth?

Prince. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green when

it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your

reason. What sayest thou to this?

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Fal. What, upon compulsion? Zounds, an I were at the strappado or

all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion.

Give you a reason on compulsion? If reasons were as plentiful as

blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

Prince. I'll be no longer guilty, of this sin; this sanguine

coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill

of flesh-

Fal. 'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried

neat's-tongue, you bull's sizzle, you stockfish- O for breath to

utter what is like thee!- you tailor's yard, you sheath, you

bowcase, you vile standing tuck!

Prince. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again; and when thou

hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Poins. Mark, Jack.

Prince. We two saw you four set on four, and bound them and were

masters of their wealth. Mark now how a plain tale shall put you

down. Then did we two set on you four and, with a word, outfac'd

you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here

in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as

nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and still

run and roar'd, as ever I heard bullcalf. What a slave art thou

to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in

fight! What trick, what device, what starting hole canst thou now

find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack. What trick hast thou now?

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear

you, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should

I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as

Hercules; but beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true

prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on

instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my

life- I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by

the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to

the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys,

hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you!

What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore?

Prince. Content- and the argument shall be thy running away.

Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!

Enter Hostess.

Host. O Jesu, my lord the Prince!

Prince. How now, my lady the hostess? What say'st thou to me?

Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door

would speak with you. He says he comes from your father.

Prince. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him

back again to my mother.

Fal. What manner of man is he?

Host. An old man.

Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him

his answer?

Prince. Prithee do, Jack.

Fal. Faith, and I'll send him packing.

Exit.

Prince. Now, sirs. By'r Lady, you fought fair; so did you, Peto; so

did you, Bardolph. You are lions too, you ran away upon instinct,

you will not touch the true prince; no- fie!

Bard. Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

Prince. Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's sword so

hack'd?

Peto. Why, he hack'd it with his dagger, and said he would swear

truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in

fight, and persuaded us to do the like.

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with speargrass to make them

bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it and swear it

was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year

before- I blush'd to hear his monstrous devices.

Prince. O villain! thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago

and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blush'd

extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou

ran'st away. What instinct hadst thou for it?

Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors? Do you behold these

exhalations?

Prince. I do.

Bard. What think you they portend?

Prince. Hot livers and cold purses.

Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

Prince. No, if rightly taken, halter.

Enter Falstaff.

Here comes lean Jack; here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee? Fal. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talent in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder. There's villanous news abroad. Here was Sir John Bracy from your father. You must to the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the North, Percy, and he of Wales that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook- what a plague call you him? Poins. O, Glendower. Fal. Owen, Owen- the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs a-horseback up a hill perpendicular- Prince. He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying. Fal. You have hit it. Prince. So did he never the sparrow. Fal. Well, that rascal hath good metal in him; he will not run. Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise him so for running! Fal. A-horseback, ye cuckoo! but afoot he will not budge a foot. Prince. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand bluecaps more. Worcester is stol'n away to-night; thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news; you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mack'rel. Prince. Why then, it is like, if there come a hot June, and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hobnails, by the hundreds. Fal. By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? Thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it? Prince. Not a whit, i' faith. I lack some of thy instinct. Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father. If thou love file, practise an answer. Prince. Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars of my life. Fal. Shall I? Content. This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my, crown. Prince. Thy state is taken for a join'd-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown. Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein. Prince. Well, here is my leg. Fal. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility. Host. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i' faith! Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain. Host. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance! Fal. For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen! For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes. Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see! Fal. Peace, good pintpot. Peace, good tickle-brain.- Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point: why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries? A question not to be ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses? A question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch. This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also: and yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name. Prince. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty? Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If that man should be lewdly, given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff. Him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me where hast thou been this month? Prince. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my father. Fal. Depose me? If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter's hare. Prince. Well, here I am set. Fal. And here I stand. Judge, my masters. Prince. Now, Harry, whence come you? Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous. Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false! Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince, i' faith. Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? Henceforth ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace. There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting hutch of beastliness, that swoll'n parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuff'd cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing? Fal. I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your Grace? Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan. Fal. My lord, the man I know. Prince. I know thou dost. Fal. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old (the more the pity) his white hairs do witness it; but that he is (saving your reverence) a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damn'd. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord. Banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world! Prince. I do, I will. [A knocking heard.] [Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph.]

Enter Bardolph, running.

Bard. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch

is at the door.

Fal. Out, ye rogue! Play out the play. I have much to say in the

behalf of that Falstaff.

Enter the Hostess.

Host. O Jesu, my lord, my lord!

Prince. Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick!

What's the matter?

Host. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door. They are come

to search the house. Shall I let them in?

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a

counterfeit. Thou art essentially mad without seeming so.

Prince. And thou a natural coward without instinct.

Fal. I deny your major. If you will deny the sheriff, so; if not,

let him enter. If I become not a cart as well as another man, a

plague on my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled

with a halter as another.

Prince. Go hide thee behind the arras. The rest walk, up above.

Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

Fal. Both which I have had; but their date is out, and therefore

I'll hide me. Exit.

Prince. Call in the sheriff.

[Exeunt Manent the Prince and Peto.]

Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.

Now, Master Sheriff, what is your will with me?

Sher. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry

Hath followed certain men unto this house.

Prince. What men?

Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious lord-

A gross fat man.

Carrier. As fat as butter.

Prince. The man, I do assure you, is not here,

For I myself at this time have employ'd him.

And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee

That I will by to-morrow dinner time

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For anything he shall be charg'd withal;

And so let me entreat you leave the house.

Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

Prince. It may be so. If he have robb'd these men,

He shall be answerable; and so farewell.

Sher. Good night, my noble lord.

Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not?

Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o'clock.

Exit [with Carrier].

Prince. This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's. Go call him

forth.

Peto. Falstaff! Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a

horse.

Prince. Hark how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

He searcheth his pockets and findeth certain papers.

What hast thou found?

Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord.

Prince. Let's see whit they be. Read them.

Peto. [reads] 'Item. A capon. . . . . . . . . . . . . ii s. ii d.

Item, Sauce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . iiii d.

Item, Sack two gallons . . . . . . . . v s. viii d.

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper. ii s. vi d.

Item, Bread. . . . . . . . . . . . . . ob.'

Prince. O monstrous! but one halfpennyworth of bread to this

intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we'll

read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day. I'll to

the court in the morning . We must all to the wars. and thy place

shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of

foot; and I know, his death will be a march of twelve score. The

money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes

in the morning, and so good morrow, Peto.

Peto. Good morrow, good my lord.

Exeunt.

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ACT III. Scene I. Bangor. The Archdeacon's house.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Lord Mortimer, Owen Glendower.

Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,

Will you sit down?

And uncle Worcester. A plague upon it!

I have forgot the map.

Glend. No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur,

For by that name as oft as Lancaster

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with

A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven.

Hot. And you in hell, as oft as he hears

Owen Glendower spoke of.

Glend. I cannot blame him. At my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes

Of burning cressets, and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the earth

Shak'd like a coward.

Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your

mother's cat had but kitten'd, though yourself had never been

born.

Glend. I say the earth did shake when I was born.

Hot. And I say the earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.

Hot. O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,

And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth

In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth

Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd

By the imprisoning of unruly wind

Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving,

Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down

Steeples and mossgrown towers. At your birth

Our grandam earth, having this distemp'rature,

In passion shook.

Glend. Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave

To tell you once again that at my birth

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds

Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.

These signs have mark'd me extraordinary,

And all the courses of my life do show

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipp'd in with the sea

That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,

Which calls me pupil or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman's son

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hot. I think there's no man speaks better Welsh. I'll to dinner.

Mort. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?

Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil-

By telling truth. Tell truth and shame the devil.

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,

And I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him

Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too?

How scapes he agues, in the devil's name

Glend. Come, here's the map. Shall we divide our right

According to our threefold order ta'en?

Mort. The Archdeacon hath divided it

Into three limits very equally.

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,

By south and east is to my part assign'd;

All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,

And all the fertile land within that bound,

To Owen Glendower; and, dear coz, to you

The remnant northward lying off from Trent.

And our indentures tripartite are drawn;

Which being sealed interchangeably

(A business that this night may execute),

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I

And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth

To meet your father and the Scottish bower,

As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.

My father Glendower is not ready yet,

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.

[To Glend.] Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords;

And in my conduct shall your ladies come,

From whom you now must steal and take no leave,

For there will be a world of water shed

Upon the parting of your wives and you.

Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,

In quantity equals not one of yours.

See how this river comes me cranking in

And cuts me from the best of all my land

A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I'll have the current ill this place damm'd up,

And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run

In a new channel fair and evenly.

It shall not wind with such a deep indent

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glend. Not wind? It shall, it must! You see it doth.

Mort. Yea, but

Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side,

Gelding the opposed continent as much

As on the other side it takes from you.

Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here

And on this north side win this cape of land;

And then he runs straight and even.

Hot. I'll have it so. A little charge will do it.

Glend. I will not have it alt'red.

Hot. Will not you?

Glend. No, nor you shall not.

Hot. Who shall say me nay?

Glend. No, that will I.

Hot. Let me not understand you then; speak it in Welsh.

Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you;

For I was train'd up in the English court,

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament-

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot. Marry,

And I am glad of it with all my heart!

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew

Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd

Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree,

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,

Nothing so much as mincing poetry.

'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag,

Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn'd.

Hot. I do not care. I'll give thrice so much land

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,

I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair

Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be gone?

Glend. The moon shines fair; you may away by night.

I'll haste the writer, and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence.

I am afraid my daughter will run mad,

So much she doteth on her Mortimer. Exit.

Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

Hot. I cannot choose. Sometimes he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,

And of a dragon and a finless fish,

A clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven,

A couching lion and a ramping cat,

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I tell you what-

He held me last night at least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils' names

That were his lackeys. I cried 'hum,' and 'Well, go to!'

But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill far

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me

In any summer house in Christendom).

Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,

Exceedingly well read, and profited

In strange concealments, valiant as a lion,

And wondrous affable, and as bountiful

As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?

He holds your temper in a high respect

And curbs himself even of his natural scope

When you come 'cross his humour. Faith, he does.

I warrant you that man is not alive

Might so have tempted him as you have done

Without the taste of danger and reproof.

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame,

And since your coming hither have done enough

To put him quite besides his patience.

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault.

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood-

And that's the dearest grace it renders you-

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,

Defect of manners, want of government,

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain;

The least of which haunting a nobleman

Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain

Upon the beauty of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation.

Hot. Well, I am school'd. Good manners be your speed!

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

Enter Glendower with the Ladies.

Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me-

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with you;

She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy

Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers

him in the same.

Glend. She is desperate here. A peevish self-will'd harlotry,

One that no persuasion can do good upon.

The Lady speaks in Welsh.

Mort. I understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh

Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a Barley should I answer thee.

The Lady again in Welsh.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,

And that's a feeling disputation.

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learnt thy language: for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,

Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bow'r,

With ravishing division, to her lute.

Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

The Lady speaks again in Welsh.

Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this!

Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,

And she will sing the song that pleaseth you

And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,

Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep

As is the difference betwixt day and night

The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team

Begins his golden progress in the East.

Mort. With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing.

By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

Glend. Do so,

And those musicians that shall play to you

Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,

And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend.

Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down. Come, quick,

quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose.

The music plays.

Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;

And 'tis no marvel, be is so humorous.

By'r Lady, he is a good musician.

Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are

altogether govern'd by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the

lady sing in Welsh.

Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

Hot. No.

Lady P. Then be still.

Hot. Neither! 'Tis a woman's fault.

Lady P. Now God help thee!

Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed.

Lady P. What's that?

Hot. Peace! she sings.

Here the Lady sings a Welsh song.

Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.

Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot. Not yours, in good sooth? Heart! you swear like a

comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth!' and 'as true as I

live!' and 'as God shall mend me!' and 'as sure as day!'

And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths

As if thou ne'er walk'st further than Finsbury.

Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth'

And such protest of pepper gingerbread

To velvet guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing.

Lady P. I will not sing.

Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor or be redbreast-teacher. An

the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so

come in when ye will. Exit.

Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer. You are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book is drawn; we'll but seal,

And then to horse immediately.

Mort. With all my heart.

Exeunt.