Chapter 15
Part 15
POINS. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I’ll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty at least he fought with, what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lives the jest.
PRINCE. Well, I’ll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap; there I’ll sup. Farewell.
POINS. Farewell, my lord.
[_Exit._]
PRINCE. I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyok’d humour of your idleness. Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But, when they seldom come, they wish’d-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So when this loose behaviour I throw off, And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill, Redeeming time, when men think least I will.
[_Exit._]
SCENE III. The Same. A Room in the Palace.
Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt and others.
KING. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me, for accordingly You tread upon my patience: but be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself, Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition, Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, And therefore lost that title of respect Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.
WORCESTER. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves The scourge of greatness to be used on it, And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly.
NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord,—
KING. Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye: O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet endure The moody frontier of a servant brow. You have good leave to leave us. When we need Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
[_Exit Worcester._]
[_To Northumberland._]
You were about to speak.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, my good lord. Those prisoners in your Highness’ name demanded, Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is deliver’d to your Majesty. Either envy, therefore, or misprision Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.
HOTSPUR. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new reap’d Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home. He was perfumed like a milliner, And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took’t away again, Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talk’d. And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He question’d me, amongst the rest demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, Out of my grief and my impatience To be so pester’d with a popinjay, Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds, God save the mark! And telling me the sovereignest thing on Earth Was parmacety for an inward bruise, And that it was great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digg’d Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d So cowardly, and but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said, And I beseech you, let not his report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.
BLUNT. The circumstance consider’d, good my lord, Whatever Harry Percy then had said To such a person, and in such a place, At such a time, with all the rest retold, May reasonably die, and never rise To do him wrong, or any way impeach What then he said, so he unsay it now.
KING. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, But with proviso and exception, That we at our own charge shall ransom straight His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer, Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d The lives of those that he did lead to fight Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower, Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then Be emptied to redeem a traitor home? Shall we buy treason and indent with fears When they have lost and forfeited themselves? No, on the barren mountains let him starve; For I shall never hold that man my friend Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
HOTSPUR. Revolted Mortimer! He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, But by the chance of war. To prove that true Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, In single opposition hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment with great Glendower. Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink, Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood, Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. Never did bare and rotten policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds, Nor never could the noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly. Then let not him be slander’d with revolt.
KING. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him, He never did encounter with Glendower. I tell thee, he durst as well have met the devil alone As Owen Glendower for an enemy. Art not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer. Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, Or you shall hear in such a kind from me As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland, We license your departure with your son.— Send us your prisoners, or you’ll hear of it.
[_Exit King Henry, Blunt and train._]
HOTSPUR. An if the devil come and roar for them, I will not send them. I will after straight And tell him so, for I will ease my heart, Albeit I make a hazard of my head.
NORTHUMBERLAND. What, drunk with choler? Stay, and pause awhile. Here comes your uncle.
Enter Worcester.
HOTSPUR. Speak of Mortimer? Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul Want mercy if I do not join with him. Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins, And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust, But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer As high in the air as this unthankful King, As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke.
NORTHUMBERLAND. [_To Worcester._] Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.
WORCESTER. Who struck this heat up after I was gone?
HOTSPUR. He will forsooth have all my prisoners, And when I urged the ransom once again Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale, And on my face he turn’d an eye of death, Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.
WORCESTER. I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaim’d By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?
NORTHUMBERLAND. He was; I heard the proclamation. And then it was when the unhappy King— Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth Upon his Irish expedition; From whence he, intercepted, did return To be deposed, and shortly murdered.
WORCESTER. And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth Live scandalized and foully spoken of.
HOTSPUR. But soft, I pray you, did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer Heir to the crown?
NORTHUMBERLAND. He did; myself did hear it.
HOTSPUR. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin King, That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve. But shall it be that you that set the crown Upon the head of this forgetful man, And for his sake wear the detested blot Of murderous subornation—shall it be, That you a world of curses undergo, Being the agents, or base second means, The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather? O, pardon me, that I descend so low, To show the line and the predicament Wherein you range under this subtle King. Shall it for shame be spoken in these days, Or fill up chronicles in time to come, That men of your nobility and power Did gage them both in an unjust behalf (As both of you, God pardon it, have done) To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke? And shall it in more shame be further spoken, That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off By him for whom these shames ye underwent? No, yet time serves wherein you may redeem Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again: Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt Of this proud King, who studies day and night To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment of your deaths. Therefore, I say—
WORCESTER. Peace, cousin, say no more. And now I will unclasp a secret book, And to your quick-conceiving discontents I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous, As full of peril and adventurous spirit As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.
HOTSPUR. If we fall in, good night, or sink or swim! Send danger from the east unto the west, So honour cross it from the north to south, And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
NORTHUMBERLAND. Imagination of some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.
HOTSPUR. By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon, Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks, So he that doth redeem her thence might wear Without corrival all her dignities. But out upon this half-faced fellowship!
WORCESTER. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend.— Good cousin, give me audience for a while.
HOTSPUR. I cry you mercy.
WORCESTER. Those same noble Scots That are your prisoners—
HOTSPUR. I’ll keep them all; By God, he shall not have a Scot of them, No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not. I’ll keep them, by this hand!
WORCESTER. You start away, And lend no ear unto my purposes: Those prisoners you shall keep—
HOTSPUR. Nay, I will: that’s flat. He said he would not ransom Mortimer, Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer, But I will find him when he lies asleep, And in his ear I’ll holla “Mortimer!” Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but “Mortimer”, and give it him, To keep his anger still in motion.
WORCESTER. Hear you, cousin, a word.
HOTSPUR. All studies here I solemnly defy, Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke: And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales, But that I think his father loves him not, And would be glad he met with some mischance— I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale.
WORCESTER. Farewell, kinsman. I will talk to you When you are better temper’d to attend.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Art thou to break into this woman’s mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
HOTSPUR. Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged with rods, Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard’s time—what do you call the place? A plague upon’t! It is in Gloucestershire. ’Twas where the madcap Duke his uncle kept, His uncle York, where I first bow’d my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke, ’Sblood, when you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.
NORTHUMBERLAND. At Berkeley castle.
HOTSPUR. You say true. Why, what a candy deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me! “Look, when his infant fortune came to age,” And, “Gentle Harry Percy,” and “kind cousin.” O, the devil take such cozeners!—God forgive me! Good uncle, tell your tale. I have done.
WORCESTER. Nay, if you have not, to it again, We will stay your leisure.
HOTSPUR. I have done, i’faith.
WORCESTER. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners; Deliver them up without their ransom straight, And make the Douglas’ son your only mean For powers in Scotland, which, for divers reasons Which I shall send you written, be assured Will easily be granted.—[_To Northumberland._] You, my lord, Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, Shall secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate well beloved, The Archbishop.
HOTSPUR. Of York, is it not?
WORCESTER. True, who bears hard His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation, As what I think might be, but what I know Is ruminated, plotted, and set down, And only stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on.
HOTSPUR. I smell it. Upon my life it will do well.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Before the game is afoot thou still let’st slip.
HOTSPUR. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot; And then the power of Scotland and of York To join with Mortimer, ha?
WORCESTER. And so they shall.
HOTSPUR. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.
WORCESTER. And ’tis no little reason bids us speed, To save our heads by raising of a head; For, bear ourselves as even as we can, The King will always think him in our debt, And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay us home: And see already how he doth begin To make us strangers to his looks of love.
HOTSPUR. He does, he does, we’ll be revenged on him.
WORCESTER. Cousin, farewell. No further go in this Than I by letters shall direct your course. When time is ripe, which will be suddenly, I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer, Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once, As I will fashion it, shall happily meet, To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, Which now we hold at much uncertainty.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Farewell, good brother; we shall thrive, I trust.
HOTSPUR. Uncle, adieu. O, let the hours be short, Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!
[_Exeunt._]
ACT II
SCENE I. Rochester. An Inn-Yard.
Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.
FIRST CARRIER. 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!
OSTLER. [_within._] Anon, anon.
FIRST CARRIER. 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.
SECOND CARRIER. 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.
FIRST CARRIER. Poor fellow never joyed since the price of oats rose, it was the death of him.
SECOND CARRIER. I think this be the most villainous house in all London road for fleas. I am stung like a tench.
FIRST CARRIER. Like a tench! By the Mass, there is ne’er a king christen could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.
SECOND CARRIER. 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.
FIRST CARRIER. What, ostler! Come away and be hanged, come away.
SECOND CARRIER. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing Cross.
FIRST CARRIER. 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 hanged. Hast no faith in thee?
Enter Gadshill.
GADSHILL. Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock?
FIRST CARRIER. I think it be two o’clock.
GADSHILL. I prithee, lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the stable.
FIRST CARRIER. Nay, by God, soft! I know a trick worth two of that, i’faith.
GADSHILL. I pray thee, lend me thine.
SECOND CARRIER. Ay, when? Canst tell? “Lend me thy lantern,” quoth he! Marry, I’ll see thee hanged first.
GADSHILL. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?
SECOND CARRIER. 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._]
GADSHILL. What, ho! Chamberlain!
Enter Chamberlain.
CHAMBERLAIN. At hand, quoth pick-purse.
GADSHILL. 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.
CHAMBERLAIN. 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.
GADSHILL. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’ clerks, I’ll give thee this neck.
CHAMBERLAIN. 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.
GADSHILL. 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 looked 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 malt-worms, 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.
CHAMBERLAIN. What, the commonwealth their boots? Will she hold out water in foul way?
GADSHILL. She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible.
CHAMBERLAIN. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.
GADSHILL. Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man.
CHAMBERLAIN. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.
GADSHILL. 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 Road by Gads-hill.
Enter Prince Henry and Poins; Bardolph and Peto at some distance.
POINS. Come, shelter, shelter! I have removed Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.
PRINCE. Stand close.
[_They retire._]
Enter Falstaff.
FALSTAFF. Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!
PRINCE. [_Coming forward._] Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! What a brawling dost thou keep!
FALSTAFF. Where’s Poins, Hal?
PRINCE. He is walked up to the top of the hill. I’ll go seek him.
[_Retires._]
FALSTAFF. I am accursed 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 square 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 bewitched with the rogue’s company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hanged. 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 hanged!
PRINCE. [_Coming forward._] Peace, you fat guts, lie down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.
FALSTAFF. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? ’Sblood, I’ll not bear my 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.
FALSTAFF. I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king’s son.
PRINCE. Out, ye rogue! Shall I be your ostler?
FALSTAFF. 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.
GADSHILL. Stand!
FALSTAFF. So I do, against my will.
POINS. O, ’tis our setter. I know his voice.
Comes forward with Bardolph and Peto.
BARDOLPH. What news?
GADSHILL. Case ye, case ye, on with your visards. There’s money of the King’s coming down the hill, ’tis going to the King’s exchequer.
FALSTAFF. You lie, ye rogue, ’tis going to the King’s tavern.
GADSHILL. There’s enough to make us all.
FALSTAFF. To be hanged.
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?
GADSHILL. Some eight or ten.
FALSTAFF. Zounds, will they not rob us?
PRINCE. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged.
PRINCE. [_aside to Poins._] Ned, where are our disguises?
POINS. [_aside to Prince Henry._] Here, hard by. Stand close.
[_Exeunt Prince and Poins._]
FALSTAFF. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I. Every man to his business.
Enter the Travellers.
FIRST TRAVELLER. Come, neighbour, the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we’ll walk afoot awhile and ease our legs.
THIEVES. Stand!
SECOND TRAVELLER. Jesu bless us!
FALSTAFF. Strike, down with them, cut the villains’ throats! Ah, whoreson caterpillars, bacon-fed knaves, they hate us youth. Down with them, fleece them!
FIRST TRAVELLER. O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever!
FALSTAFF. 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 them and bind them. Exeunt_]
Enter Prince Henry 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 retire._]
Enter the Thieves again.
FALSTAFF. 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._]
PRINCE. Your money!
POINS. Villains!
[_Falstaff after a blow or two, and the others run away, leaving the booty behind them._]
PRINCE. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse. The thieves are all scatter’d, 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 fat rogue roared!
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.
HOTSPUR. “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 tonight.—
Enter Lady Percy.
How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.
LADY PERCY. 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-eyed musing and curst 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, tents, 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 in 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.
HOTSPUR. What, ho!
Enter a Servant.
Is Gilliams with the packet gone?
SERVANT. He is, my lord, an hour ago.
HOTSPUR. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?
SERVANT. One horse, my lord, he brought even now.
HOTSPUR. What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
SERVANT. It is, my lord.
HOTSPUR. 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 PERCY. But hear you, my lord.
HOTSPUR. What say’st thou, my lady?
LADY PERCY. What is it carries you away?
HOTSPUR. Why, my horse, my love, my horse.
LADY PERCY. 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—
HOTSPUR. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
LADY PERCY. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly unto this question that I ask. In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry, If thou wilt not tell me all things true.
HOTSPUR. 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 PERCY. 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.
HOTSPUR. 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 PERCY. How? So far?
HOTSPUR. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate, Whither I go, thither shall you go too. Today will I set forth, tomorrow you. Will this content you, Kate?
LADY PERCY. It must, of force.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern.
Enter Prince Henry.
PRINCE. Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.
Enter Poins.
POINS. Where hast been, Hal?
PRINCE. With three or four loggerheads amongst three or fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their Christian 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 in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, “dyeing 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, clapped even now into my hand by an underskinker, 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 he 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.
[_Exit Poins._]
POINS. [_Within_] Francis!
PRINCE. Thou art perfect.
POINS. [_Within_] Francis!
Enter Francis.
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir.—Look down into the Pomegarnet, Ralph.
PRINCE. Come hither, Francis.
FRANCIS. My lord?
PRINCE. How long hast thou to serve, Francis?
FRANCIS. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—
POINS. [_within._] Francis!
FRANCIS. 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?
FRANCIS. O Lord, sir, I’ll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart—
POINS. [_within._] Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, sir.
PRINCE. How old art thou, Francis?
FRANCIS. Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shall be—
POINS. [_within._] Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, sir.—Pray, stay a little, my lord.
PRINCE. Nay, but hark you, Francis, for the sugar thou gavest me, ’twas a pennyworth, was’t not?
FRANCIS. 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!
FRANCIS. Anon, anon.
PRINCE. Anon, Francis? No, Francis, but tomorrow, Francis; or, Francis, a Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis,—
FRANCIS. My lord?
PRINCE. Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch—
FRANCIS. 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.
FRANCIS. 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.
VINTNER. 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!
Enter Poins.
POINS. Anon, anon, sir.
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 twelve o’clock at midnight.
Enter Francis.
What’s o’clock, Francis?
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir.
[_Exit Francis._]
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 killed today?” “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 damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. _Rivo!_ says the drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow.
Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph and Peto; followed by Francis with wine.
POINS. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?
FALSTAFF. 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?
[_Drinks._]
PRINCE. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter (pitiful-hearted Titan!), that melted at the sweet tale of the sun’s? If thou didst, then behold that compound.
FALSTAFF. You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous 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 unhanged 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, wool-sack, what mutter you?
FALSTAFF. 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?
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. I call thee coward? I’ll see thee damned 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 today.
PRINCE. O villain! Thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk’st last.
FALSTAFF. All is one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say I.
[_Drinks._]
PRINCE. What’s the matter?
FALSTAFF. 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?
FALSTAFF. Where is it? Taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.
PRINCE. What, a hundred, man?
FALSTAFF. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have ’scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hacked 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?
GADSHILL. We four set upon some dozen.
FALSTAFF. Sixteen at least, my lord.
GADSHILL. And bound them.
PETO. No, no, they were not bound.
FALSTAFF. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them, or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.
GADSHILL. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.
FALSTAFF. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
PRINCE. What, fought you with them all?
FALSTAFF. 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-legged creature.
PRINCE. Pray God you have not murdered some of them.
FALSTAFF. Nay, that’s past praying for. I have peppered 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.
FALSTAFF. Four, Hal, I told thee four.
POINS. Ay, ay, he said four.
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. In buckram?
POINS. Ay, four, in buckram suits.
FALSTAFF. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
PRINCE. [_aside to Poins._] Prithee let him alone, we shall have more anon.
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear me, Hal?
PRINCE. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
FALSTAFF. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of—
PRINCE. So, two more already.
FALSTAFF. Their points being broken—
POINS. Down fell their hose.
FALSTAFF. 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!
FALSTAFF. 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 the father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene greasy tallow-catch—
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. 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 horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh—
FALSTAFF. ’Sblood, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish—O, for breath to utter what is like thee! You tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, 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, outfaced 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 roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. 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?
FALSTAFF. 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 tonight, pray tomorrow. 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.
FALSTAFF. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!
Enter the Hostess.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord the Prince—
PRINCE. How now, my lady the hostess! What say’st thou to me?
HOSTESS. 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.
FALSTAFF. What manner of man is he?
HOSTESS. An old man.
FALSTAFF. What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his answer?
PRINCE. Prithee do, Jack.
FALSTAFF. 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!
BARDOLPH. Faith, I ran when I saw others run.
PRINCE. Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff’s sword so hacked?
PETO. Why, he hacked 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.
BARDOLPH. Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass 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 blushed 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 blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou ran’st away. What instinct hadst thou for it?
BARDOLPH. My lord, do you see these meteors? Do you behold these exhalations?
PRINCE. I do.
BARDOLPH. What think you they portend?
PRINCE. Hot livers and cold purses.
BARDOLPH. 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?
FALSTAFF. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon 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.
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. You have hit it.
PRINCE. So did he never the sparrow.
FALSTAFF. 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!
FALSTAFF. A-horseback, ye cuckoo, but afoot he will not budge a foot.
PRINCE. Yes, Jack, upon instinct.
FALSTAFF. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester is stolen away tonight; thy father’s beard is turned white with the news. You may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.
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.
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid tomorrow when thou comest to thy father. If thou love me practise an answer.
PRINCE. Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars of my life.
FALSTAFF. 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 joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown.
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i faith!
FALSTAFF. Weep not, sweet Queen, for trickling tears are vain.
HOSTESS. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance!
FALSTAFF. For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen, For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see!
FALSTAFF. Peace, good pint-pot; 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 villainous 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 asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? A question to be asked. 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?
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. And here I stand. Judge, my masters.
PRINCE. Now, Harry, whence come you?
FALSTAFF. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
PRINCE. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.
FALSTAFF. ’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 swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag 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 villainous, but in all things? Wherein worthy, but in nothing?
FALSTAFF. I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your Grace?
PRINCE. That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.
FALSTAFF. My lord, the man I know.
PRINCE. I know thou dost.
FALSTAFF. 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 damned. 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.
BARDOLPH. O, my lord, my lord, the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.
FALSTAFF. Out, ye rogue! Play out the play. I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.
Enter the Hostess, hastily.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord, my lord—
PRINCE. Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick. What’s the matter?
HOSTESS. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door. They are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially made without seeming so.
PRINCE. And thou a natural coward without instinct.
FALSTAFF. 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.
FALSTAFF. Both which I have had, but their date is out, and therefore I’ll hide me.
PRINCE. Call in the sheriff.
[_Exeunt all but the Prince and Peto._]
Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.
Now, master sheriff, what is your will with me?
SHERIFF. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry Hath followed certain men unto this house.
PRINCE. What men?
SHERIFF. 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 tomorrow dinner-time, Send him to answer thee, or any man, For anything he shall be charged withal. And so let me entreat you leave the house.
SHERIFF. 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.
SHERIFF. Good night, my noble lord.
PRINCE. I think it is good morrow, is it not?
SHERIFF. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock.
[_Exit Sheriff with the 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 pocket, and findeth certain papers._]
What hast thou found?
PETO. Nothing but papers, my lord.
PRINCE. Let’s see what they be. Read them.
PETO. [_reads_] Item, a capon, . . . . . . . . . . . 2s. 2d. Item, sauce, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4d. Item, sack, two gallons, . . . 5s. 8d. Item, anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d. 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._]
ACT III
SCENE I. Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer and Glendower.
MORTIMER. These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of prosperous hope.
HOTSPUR. Lord Mortimer and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down? And uncle Worcester, A plague upon it! I have forgot the map.
GLENDOWER. 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.
HOTSPUR. And you in hell, As oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.
GLENDOWER. 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 Shaked like a coward.
HOTSPUR. 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.
GLENDOWER. I say the Earth did shake when I was born.
HOTSPUR. And I say the Earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook.
GLENDOWER. The heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble.
HOTSPUR. O, then th’ 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 beldam Earth, and topples down Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth Our grandam Earth, having this distemp’rature, In passion shook.
GLENDOWER. 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.
HOTSPUR. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh. I’ll to dinner.
MORTIMER. Peace, cousin Percy, you will make him mad.
GLENDOWER. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
HOTSPUR. Why, so can I, or so can any man, But will they come when you do call for them?
GLENDOWER. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.
HOTSPUR. 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!
MORTIMER. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.
GLENDOWER. 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.
HOTSPUR. Home without boots, and in foul weather too! How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name!
GLENDOWER. Come, here’s the map, shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta’en?
MORTIMER. 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, Tomorrow, cousin Percy, you and I, And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish power, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower is not ready yet, Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days. [_To Glendower._] Within that space you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.
GLENDOWER. 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.
HOTSPUR. 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 in this place dammed up, And here the smug and silver 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.
GLENDOWER. Not wind? It shall, it must. You see it doth.
MORTIMER. 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.
WORCESTER. 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.
HOTSPUR. I’ll have it so, a little charge will do it.
GLENDOWER. I’ll not have it altered.
HOTSPUR. Will not you?
GLENDOWER. No, nor you shall not.
HOTSPUR. Who shall say me nay?
GLENDOWER. Why, that will I.
HOTSPUR. Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.
GLENDOWER. 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.
HOTSPUR. 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 ballad-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 forced gait of a shuffling nag.
GLENDOWER. Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.
HOTSPUR. 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?
GLENDOWER. 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._]
MORTIMER. Fie, cousin Percy, how you cross my father!
HOTSPUR. 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.
MORTIMER. 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.
WORCESTER. 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.
HOTSPUR. Well, I am school’d. Good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.
Enter Glendower with Lady Mortimer and Lady Percy.
MORTIMER. This is the deadly spite that angers me, My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.
GLENDOWER. My daughter weeps, she’ll not part with you, She’ll be a soldier too, she’ll to the wars.
MORTIMER. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily.
[_Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers him in the same._]
GLENDOWER. She is desperate here, a peevish self-willed harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon.
[_Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh._]
MORTIMER. 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 parley should I answer thee.
[_Lady Mortimer speaks to him 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 bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
GLENDOWER. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.
[_Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh._]
MORTIMER. O, I am ignorance itself in this!
GLENDOWER. 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.
MORTIMER. With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing, By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.
GLENDOWER. 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.
HOTSPUR. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down. Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
LADY PERCY. Go, ye giddy goose.
[_The music plays._]
HOTSPUR. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh, And ’tis no marvel he’s so humorous. By’r Lady, he’s a good musician.
LADY PERCY. Then should you be nothing but musical, For you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.
HOTSPUR. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
LADY PERCY. Wouldst thou have thy head broken?
HOTSPUR. No.
LADY PERCY. Then be still.
HOTSPUR. Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault.
LADY PERCY. Now God help thee!
HOTSPUR. To the Welsh lady’s bed.
LADY PERCY. What’s that?
HOTSPUR. Peace, she sings.
[_Here the lady sings a Welsh song._]
Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.
LADY PERCY. Not mine, in good sooth.
HOTSPUR. 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 never walk’dst 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 PERCY. I will not sing.
HOTSPUR. ’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._]
GLENDOWER. 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.
MORTIMER. With all my heart.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. London. A Room in the Palace.
Enter King Henry, Prince Henry and Lords.
KING. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I Must have some private conference: but be near at hand, For we shall presently have need of you.
[_Exeunt Lords._]
I know not whether God will have it so For some displeasing service I have done, That, in His secret doom, out of my blood He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me; But thou dost in thy passages of life Make me believe that thou art only mark’d For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else, Could such inordinate and low desires, Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts, Such barren pleasures, rude society, As thou art match’d withal, and grafted to, Accompany the greatness of thy blood, And hold their level with thy princely heart?
PRINCE. So please your Majesty, I would I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse As well as I am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal. Yet such extenuation let me beg As, in reproof of many tales devised, By smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers, Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear, I may for some things true, wherein my youth Hath faulty wander’d and irregular, Find pardon on my true submission.
KING. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors. Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost, Which by thy younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the court and princes of my blood. The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man Prophetically do forethink thy fall. Had I so lavish of my presence been, So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men, So stale and cheap to vulgar company, Opinion, that did help me to the crown, Had still kept loyal to possession, And left me in reputeless banishment, A fellow of no mark nor likelihood. By being seldom seen, I could not stir But like a comet I was wonder’d at, That men would tell their children, “This is he.” Others would say, “Where, which is Bolingbroke?” And then I stole all courtesy from heaven, And dress’d myself in such humility That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts, Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, Even in the presence of the crowned King. Thus did I keep my person fresh and new, My presence, like a robe pontifical, Ne’er seen but wonder’d at, and so my state, Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast, And won by rareness such solemnity. The skipping King, he ambled up and down With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits, Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state, Mingled his royalty, with cap’ring fools, Had his great name profaned with their scorns, And gave his countenance, against his name, To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push Of every beardless vain comparative; Grew a companion to the common streets, Enfeoff’d himself to popularity, That, being daily swallow’d by men’s eyes, They surfeited with honey, and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes As, sick and blunted with community, Afford no extraordinary gaze, Such as is bent on sun-like majesty When it shines seldom in admiring eyes, But rather drowsed and hung their eyelids down, Slept in his face, and render’d such aspect As cloudy men use to their adversaries, Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full. And in that very line, Harry, standest thou, For thou hast lost thy princely privilege With vile participation. Not an eye But is a-weary of thy common sight, Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more, Which now doth that I would not have it do, Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
PRINCE. I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord, Be more myself.
KING. For all the world As thou art to this hour was Richard then When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh, And even as I was then is Percy now. Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy interest to the state Than thou, the shadow of succession. For of no right, nor colour like to right, He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws, And, being no more in debt to years than thou, Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on To bloody battles and to bruising arms. What never-dying honour hath he got Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds, Whose hot incursions and great name in arms, Holds from all soldiers chief majority And military title capital Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ. Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathing clothes, This infant warrior, in his enterprises Discomfited great Douglas, ta’en him once, Enlarged him, and made a friend of him, To fill the mouth of deep defiance up, And shake the peace and safety of our throne. And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland, The Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer, Capitulate against us and are up. But wherefore do I tell these news to thee? Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, Which art my nearest and dearest enemy? Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear, Base inclination, and the start of spleen, To fight against me under Percy’s pay, To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns, To show how much thou art degenerate.
PRINCE. Do not think so, you shall not find it so. And God forgive them that so much have sway’d Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me! I will redeem all this on Percy’s head, And, in the closing of some glorious day, Be bold to tell you that I am your son, When I will wear a garment all of blood, And stain my favours in a bloody mask, Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame with it. And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights, That this same child of honour and renown, This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet. For every honour sitting on his helm, Would they were multitudes, and on my head My shames redoubled! For the time will come, That I shall make this northern youth exchange His glorious deeds for my indignities. Percy is but my factor, good my lord, To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf, And I will call him to so strict account That he shall render every glory up, Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart. This in the name of God I promise here, The which if He be pleased I shall perform, I do beseech your Majesty may salve The long-grown wounds of my intemperance. If not, the end of life cancels all bands, And I will die a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.
KING. A hundred thousand rebels die in this. Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.
Enter Sir Walter Blunt.
How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.
BLUNT. So hath the business that I come to speak of. Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word That Douglas and the English rebels met The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury. A mighty and a fearful head they are, If promises be kept on every hand, As ever offer’d foul play in a state.
KING. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth today, With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster, For this advertisement is five days old. On Wednesday next you, Harry, shall set forward, On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting is Bridgenorth. And, Harry, you Shall march through Gloustershire; by which account, Our business valued, some twelve days hence Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet. Our hands are full of business. Let’s away, Advantage feeds him fat while men delay.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern.
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.
FALSTAFF. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady’s loose gown. I am withered like an old apple-john. Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer’s horse. The inside of a church! Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
BARDOLPH. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.
FALSTAFF. Why, there is it. Come, sing me a song, make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times—a week; went to a bawdy house not above once in a quarter—in an hour; paid money that I borrowed—three or four times; lived well and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.
BARDOLPH. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.
FALSTAFF. Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop, but ’tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.
BARDOLPH. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.
FALSTAFF. No, I’ll be sworn, I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death’s-head or a _memento mori_. I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple, for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face. My oath should be, “By this fire, that’s God’s angel.” But thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran’st up Gad’s Hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an _ignis fatuus_ or a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years, God reward me for it!
BARDOLPH. ’Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!
FALSTAFF. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heartburnt.
Enter the Hostess.
How now, Dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired yet who picked my pocket?
HOSTESS. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John, do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I have enquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.
FALSTAFF. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shaved and lost many a hair, and I’ll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go.
HOSTESS. Who, I? No; I defy thee: God’s light, I was never called so in mine own house before.
FALSTAFF. Go to, I know you well enough.
HOSTESS. No, Sir John, you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John, you owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.
FALSTAFF. Dowlas, filthy dowlas. I have given them away to bakers’ wives; and they have made bolters of them.
HOSTESS. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.
FALSTAFF. He had his part of it, let him pay.
HOSTESS. He? Alas, he is poor, he hath nothing.
FALSTAFF. How? Poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks. I’ll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather’s worth forty mark.