Chapter 16
Part 16
HOSTESS. O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper.
FALSTAFF. How? The Prince is a Jack, a sneak-up. ’Sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so.
Enter Prince Henry with Peto, marching. Falstaff meets him, playing on his truncheon like a fife.
How now, lad? Is the wind in that door, i’faith? Must we all march?
BARDOLPH. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.
HOSTESS. My lord, I pray you, hear me.
PRINCE. What say’st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.
HOSTESS. Good my lord, hear me.
FALSTAFF. Prithee, let her alone, and list to me.
PRINCE. What say’st thou, Jack?
FALSTAFF. The other night I fell asleep here, behind the arras, and had my pocket picked. This house is turned bawdy-house; they pick pockets.
PRINCE. What didst thou lose, Jack?
FALSTAFF. Wilt thou believe me, Hal, three or four bonds of forty pound apiece and a seal-ring of my grandfather’s.
PRINCE. A trifle, some eightpenny matter.
HOSTESS. So I told him, my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say so. And, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.
PRINCE. What! he did not?
HOSTESS. There’s neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.
FALSTAFF. There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and, for woman-hood, Maid Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.
HOSTESS. Say, what thing, what thing?
FALSTAFF. What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on.
HOSTESS. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it! I am an honest man’s wife, and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.
FALSTAFF. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.
HOSTESS. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?
FALSTAFF. What beast? Why, an otter.
PRINCE. An otter, Sir John? Why an otter?
FALSTAFF. Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her.
HOSTESS. Thou art an unjust man in saying so, thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou.
PRINCE. Thou say’st true, hostess, and he slanders thee most grossly.
HOSTESS. So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day you ought him a thousand pound.
PRINCE. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?
FALSTAFF.
A thousand pound, Hal? A million. Thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy love.
HOSTESS. Nay, my lord, he call’d you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.
FALSTAFF. Did I, Bardolph?
BARDOLPH. Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
FALSTAFF. Yea, if he said my ring was copper.
PRINCE. I say ’tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word now?
FALSTAFF. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare, but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp.
PRINCE. And why not as the lion?
FALSTAFF. The King himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou think I’ll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break.
PRINCE. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But, sirrah, there’s no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all filled up with midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket! Why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy houses, and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am a villain. And yet you will stand to it, you will not pocket up wrong. Art thou not ashamed!
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell, and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man and therefore more frailty. You confess, then, you picked my pocket?
PRINCE. It appears so by the story.
FALSTAFF. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast, love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, be gone.
[_Exit Hostess._]
Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the robbery, lad, how is that answered?
PRINCE. O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee. The money is paid back again.
FALSTAFF. O, I do not like that paying back, ’tis a double labour.
PRINCE. I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.
FALSTAFF. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou dost, and do it with unwashed hands too.
BARDOLPH. Do, my lord.
PRINCE. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.
FALSTAFF. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels; they offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.
PRINCE. Bardolph!
BARDOLPH. My lord?
PRINCE. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.
[_Exit Bardolph._]
Go, Peto, to horse, to horse, for thou and I Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.
[_Exit Peto._]
Jack, meet me tomorrow in the Temple hall At two o’clock in the afternoon; There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive Money and order for their furniture. The land is burning, Percy stands on high, And either we or they must lower lie.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF. Rare words! Brave world!—Hostess, my breakfast, come.— O, I could wish this tavern were my drum.
[_Exit._]
ACT IV
SCENE I. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester and Douglas.
HOTSPUR. Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking truth In this fine age were not thought flattery, Such attribution should the Douglas have As not a soldier of this season’s stamp Should go so general current through the world. By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers, but a braver place In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.
DOUGLAS. Thou art the king of honour. No man so potent breathes upon the ground But I will beard him.
HOTSPUR. Do so, and ’tis well.
Enter a Messenger with letters.
What letters hast thou there? I can but thank you.
MESSENGER. These letters come from your father.
HOTSPUR. Letters from him! Why comes he not himself?
MESSENGER. He cannot come, my lord, he is grievous sick.
HOTSPUR. Zounds, how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time? Who leads his power? Under whose government come they along?
MESSENGER. His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord.
WORCESTER. I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?
MESSENGER. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth, And at the time of my departure thence He was much fear’d by his physicians.
WORCESTER. I would the state of time had first been whole Ere he by sickness had been visited. His health was never better worth than now.
HOTSPUR. Sick now? Droop now? This sickness doth infect The very life-blood of our enterprise; ’Tis catching hither, even to our camp. He writes me here, that inward sickness— And that his friends by deputation could not So soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet To lay so dangerous and dear a trust On any soul removed but on his own. Yet doth he give us bold advertisement That with our small conjunction we should on, To see how fortune is disposed to us; For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, Because the King is certainly possess’d Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
WORCESTER. Your father’s sickness is a maim to us.
HOTSPUR. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off— And yet, in faith, it is not! His present want Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? To set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good, for therein should we read The very bottom and the soul of hope, The very list, the very utmost bound Of all our fortunes.
DOUGLAS. Faith, and so we should, where now remains A sweet reversion. We may boldly spend Upon the hope of what is to come in. A comfort of retirement lives in this.
HOTSPUR. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the devil and mischance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.
WORCESTER. But yet I would your father had been here. The quality and hair of our attempt Brooks no division. It will be thought By some that know not why he is away, That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike Of our proceedings, kept the Earl from hence. And think how such an apprehension May turn the tide of fearful faction, And breed a kind of question in our cause. For well you know we of the off’ring side Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence The eye of reason may pry in upon us. This absence of your father’s draws a curtain That shows the ignorant a kind of fear Before not dreamt of.
HOTSPUR. You strain too far. I rather of his absence make this use: It lends a lustre and more great opinion, A larger dare to our great enterprise, Than if the Earl were here; for men must think If we without his help can make a head To push against the kingdom, with his help We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down. Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.
DOUGLAS. As heart can think. There is not such a word Spoke in Scotland as this term of fear.
Enter Sir Richard Vernon.
HOTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! Welcome, by my soul.
VERNON. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, Is marching hitherwards, with him Prince John.
HOTSPUR. No harm, what more?
VERNON. And further, I have learn’d The King himself in person is set forth, Or hitherwards intended speedily, With strong and mighty preparation.
HOTSPUR. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, And his comrades, that daffed the world aside And bid it pass?
VERNON. All furnish’d, all in arms; All plumed like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed, Glittering in golden coats, like images, As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d, Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
HOTSPUR. No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March, This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come! They come like sacrifices in their trim, And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war All hot and bleeding will we offer them. The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh, And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse, Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales. Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse, Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse. O, that Glendower were come!
VERNON. There is more news. I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along, He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
DOUGLAS. That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet.
WORCESTER. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
HOTSPUR. What may the King’s whole battle reach unto?
VERNON. To thirty thousand.
HOTSPUR. Forty let it be. My father and Glendower being both away, The powers of us may serve so great a day. Come, let us take a muster speedily. Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.
DOUGLAS. Talk not of dying. I am out of fear Of death or death’s hand for this one half year.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. A public Road near Coventry.
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.
FALSTAFF. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through; we’ll to Sutton Co’fil’ tonight.
BARDOLPH. Will you give me money, captain?
FALSTAFF. Lay out, lay out.
BARDOLPH. This bottle makes an angel.
FALSTAFF. An if it do, take it for thy labour. An if it make twenty, take them all, I’ll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town’s end.
BARDOLPH. I will, captain: farewell.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the King’s press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeomen’s sons, inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice on the banns, such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lief hear the devil as a drum, such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I pressed me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins’ heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies—slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton’s dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fallen; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dishonourable-ragged than an old fazed ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs as if they had gyves on, for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There’s not a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald’s coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Albans, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that’s all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge.
Enter Prince Henry and the Lord of Westmoreland.
PRINCE. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?
FALSTAFF. What, Hal! How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.
WESTMORELAND. Faith, Sir John, ’tis more than time that I were there, and you too, but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all. We must away all night.
FALSTAFF. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.
PRINCE. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?
FALSTAFF. Mine, Hal, mine.
PRINCE. I did never see such pitiful rascals.
FALSTAFF. Tut, tut, good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder, they’ll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.
WESTMORELAND. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly.
FALSTAFF. Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me.
PRINCE. No, I’ll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy is already in the field.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF. What, is the King encamped?
WESTMORELAND. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF. Well, To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.
[_Exit._]
SCENE III. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas and Vernon.
HOTSPUR. We’ll fight with him tonight.
WORCESTER. It may not be.
DOUGLAS. You give him then advantage.
VERNON. Not a whit.
HOTSPUR. Why say you so? Looks he not for supply?
VERNON. So do we.
HOTSPUR. His is certain, ours is doubtful.
WORCESTER. Good cousin, be advised, stir not tonight.
VERNON. Do not, my lord.
DOUGLAS. You do not counsel well. You speak it out of fear and cold heart.
VERNON. Do me no slander, Douglas; by my life, And I dare well maintain it with my life, If well-respected honour bid me on, I hold as little counsel with weak fear As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives. Let it be seen tomorrow in the battle Which of us fears.
DOUGLAS. Yea, or tonight.
VERNON. Content.
HOTSPUR. Tonight, say I.
VERNON. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, Being men of such great leading as you are, That you foresee not what impediments Drag back our expedition. Certain horse Of my cousin Vernon’s are not yet come up. Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but today, And now their pride and mettle is asleep, Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, That not a horse is half the half himself.
HOTSPUR. So are the horses of the enemy In general, journey-bated and brought low. The better part of ours are full of rest.
WORCESTER. The number of the King exceedeth ours. For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in.
[_The trumpet sounds a parley._]
Enter Sir Walter Blunt.
BLUNT. I come with gracious offers from the King, If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.
HOTSPUR. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt, and would to God You were of our determination! Some of us love you well, and even those some Envy your great deservings and good name, Because you are not of our quality, But stand against us like an enemy.
BLUNT. And God defend but still I should stand so, So long as out of limit and true rule You stand against anointed majesty. But to my charge. The King hath sent to know The nature of your griefs, and whereupon You conjure from the breast of civil peace Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land Audacious cruelty. If that the King Have any way your good deserts forgot, Which he confesseth to be manifold, He bids you name your griefs, and with all speed You shall have your desires with interest And pardon absolute for yourself and these Herein misled by your suggestion.
HOTSPUR. The King is kind, and well we know the King Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. My father and my uncle and myself Did give him that same royalty he wears, And when he was not six-and-twenty strong, Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low, A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home, My father gave him welcome to the shore: And when he heard him swear and vow to God He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, To sue his livery, and beg his peace With tears of innocence and terms of zeal, My father, in kind heart and pity moved, Swore him assistance, and performed it too. Now, when the lords and barons of the realm Perceived Northumberland did lean to him, The more and less came in with cap and knee, Met him in boroughs, cities, villages, Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths, Give him their heirs as pages, follow’d him Even at the heels in golden multitudes. He presently, as greatness knows itself, Steps me a little higher than his vow Made to my father while his blood was poor Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh; And now forsooth takes on him to reform Some certain edicts and some strait decrees That lie too heavy on the commonwealth; Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep Over his country’s wrongs; and by this face, This seeming brow of justice, did he win The hearts of all that he did angle for; Proceeded further—cut me off the heads Of all the favourites that the absent King In deputation left behind him here When he was personal in the Irish war.
BLUNT. Tut, I came not to hear this.
HOTSPUR. Then to the point. In short time after, he deposed the King, Soon after that deprived him of his life, And, in the neck of that, task’d the whole state. To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman March (Who is, if every owner were well placed, Indeed his king) to be engaged in Wales, There without ransom to lie forfeited; Disgraced me in my happy victories, Sought to entrap me by intelligence, Rated mine uncle from the Council-board, In rage dismiss’d my father from the court, Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong, And in conclusion drove us to seek out This head of safety, and withal to pry Into his title, the which now we find Too indirect for long continuance.
BLUNT. Shall I return this answer to the King?
HOTSPUR. Not so, Sir Walter. We’ll withdraw awhile. Go to the King, and let there be impawn’d Some surety for a safe return again, And in the morning early shall my uncle Bring him our purposes. And so, farewell.
BLUNT. I would you would accept of grace and love.
HOTSPUR. And maybe so we shall.
BLUNT. Pray God you do.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace.
Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.
ARCHBISHOP. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief With winged haste to the Lord Marshal, This to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest To whom they are directed. If you knew How much they do import, you would make haste.
SIR MICHAEL. My good lord, I guess their tenour.
ARCHBISHOP. Like enough you do. Tomorrow, good Sir Michael, is a day Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly given to understand, The King with mighty and quick-raised power Meets with Lord Harry. And, I fear, Sir Michael, What with the sickness of Northumberland, Whose power was in the first proportion, And what with Owen Glendower’s absence thence, Who with them was a rated sinew too, And comes not in, o’er-rul’d by prophecies, I fear the power of Percy is too weak To wage an instant trial with the King.
SIR MICHAEL. Why, my good lord, you need not fear, There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer.
ARCHBISHOP. No, Mortimer is not there.
SIR MICHAEL. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there is my Lord of Worcester, and a head Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.
ARCHBISHOP. And so there is. But yet the King hath drawn The special head of all the land together: The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blunt, And many more corrivals and dear men Of estimation and command in arms.
SIR MICHAEL. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed.
ARCHBISHOP. I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear; And to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed. For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King Dismiss his power he means to visit us, For he hath heard of our confederacy, And ’tis but wisdom to make strong against him. Therefore make haste. I must go write again To other friends; and so, farewell, Sir Michael.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT V
SCENE I. The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt and Sir John Falstaff.
KING. How bloodily the sun begins to peer Above yon bulky hill! The day looks pale At his distemp’rature.
PRINCE. The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, And by his hollow whistling in the leaves Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.
KING. Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
[_The trumpet sounds_.]
Enter Worcester and Vernon.
How, now, my Lord of Worcester! ’Tis not well That you and I should meet upon such terms As now we meet. You have deceived our trust, And made us doff our easy robes of peace, To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel. This is not well, my lord, this is not well. What say you to it? Will you again unknit This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, And move in that obedient orb again Where you did give a fair and natural light, And be no more an exhaled meteor, A prodigy of fear, and a portent Of broached mischief to the unborn times?
WORCESTER. Hear me, my liege: For mine own part, I could be well content To entertain the lag end of my life With quiet hours. For I do protest I have not sought the day of this dislike.
KING. You have not sought it? How comes it, then?
FALSTAFF. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.
PRINCE. Peace, chewet, peace!
WORCESTER. It pleased your Majesty to turn your looks Of favour from myself and all our house; And yet I must remember you, my lord, We were the first and dearest of your friends. For you my staff of office did I break In Richard’s time, and posted day and night To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, When yet you were in place and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. It was myself, my brother, and his son, That brought you home, and boldly did outdare The dangers of the time. You swore to us, And you did swear that oath at Doncaster, That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state, Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right, The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster. To this we swore our aid. But in short space It rain’d down fortune show’ring on your head, And such a flood of greatness fell on you, What with our help, what with the absent King, What with the injuries of a wanton time, The seeming sufferances that you had borne, And the contrarious winds that held the King So long in his unlucky Irish wars That all in England did repute him dead: And from this swarm of fair advantages You took occasion to be quickly woo’d To gripe the general sway into your hand, Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster; And, being fed by us, you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, Useth the sparrow—did oppress our nest, Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk That even our love durst not come near your sight For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing We were enforced, for safety sake to fly Out of your sight, and raise this present head, Whereby we stand opposed by such means As you yourself have forged against yourself, By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, And violation of all faith and troth Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.
KING. These things, indeed, you have articulate, Proclaim’d at market crosses, read in churches, To face the garment of rebellion With some fine colour that may please the eye Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, Which gape and rub the elbow at the news Of hurlyburly innovation. And never yet did insurrection want Such water-colours to impaint his cause, Nor moody beggars starving for a time Of pellmell havoc and confusion.
PRINCE. In both your armies there is many a soul Shall pay full dearly for this encounter If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew, The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes, This present enterprise set off his head, I do not think a braver gentleman, More active-valiant or more valiant-young, More daring or more bold, is now alive To grace this latter age with noble deeds. For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry, And so I hear he doth account me too. Yet this before my father’s Majesty— I am content that he shall take the odds Of his great name and estimation, And will, to save the blood on either side, Try fortune with him in a single fight.
KING. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee, Albeit considerations infinite Do make against it.—No, good Worcester, no. We love our people well, even those we love That are misled upon your cousin’s part, And, will they take the offer of our grace, Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man Shall be my friend again, and I’ll be his. So tell your cousin, and then bring me word What he will do. But if he will not yield, Rebuke and dread correction wait on us, And they shall do their office. So, be gone; We will not now be troubled with reply. We offer fair, take it advisedly.
[_Exit Worcester with Vernon._]
PRINCE. It will not be accepted, on my life. The Douglas and the Hotspur both together Are confident against the world in arms.
KING. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge; For on their answer, will we set on them, And God befriend us as our cause is just!
[_Exeunt the King, Blunt and Prince John._]
FALSTAFF. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship.
PRINCE. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell.
FALSTAFF. I would ’twere bedtime, Hal, and all well.
PRINCE. Why, thou owest God a death.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF. ’Tis not due yet, I would be loth to pay Him before His day. What need I be so forward with Him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter, honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word, “honour”? What is that “honour”? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth be hear it? No. ’Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.
[_Exit._]
SCENE II. The Rebel Camp.
Enter Worcester and Vernon.
WORCESTER. O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard, The liberal and kind offer of the King.
VERNON. ’Twere best he did.
WORCESTER. Then are we all undone. It is not possible, it cannot be, The King should keep his word in loving us; He will suspect us still, and find a time To punish this offence in other faults. Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes, For treason is but trusted like the fox, Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d and lock’d up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. Look how we can, or sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our looks, And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, The better cherish’d still the nearer death. My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot, It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood, And an adopted name of privilege— A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen. All his offences live upon my head And on his father’s. We did train him on, And, his corruption being ta’en from us, We as the spring of all shall pay for all. Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know In any case the offer of the King.
VERNON. Deliver what you will, I’ll say ’tis so. Here comes your cousin.
Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind.
HOTSPUR. My uncle is return’d. Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland. Uncle, what news?
WORCESTER. The King will bid you battle presently.
DOUGLAS. Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland.
HOTSPUR. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so.
DOUGLAS. Marry, I shall, and very willingly.
[_Exit._]
WORCESTER. There is no seeming mercy in the King.
HOTSPUR. Did you beg any? God forbid!
WORCESTER. I told him gently of our grievances, Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus, By now forswearing that he is forsworn. He calls us rebels, traitors, and will scourge With haughty arms this hateful name in us.
Enter Douglas.
DOUGLAS. Arm, gentlemen; to arms! For I have thrown A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth, And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it, Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.
WORCESTER. The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the King, And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.
HOTSPUR. O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads, And that no man might draw short breath today But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, How show’d his tasking? Seem’d it in contempt?
VERNON. No, by my soul. I never in my life Did hear a challenge urged more modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms. He gave you all the duties of a man, Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue, Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, Making you ever better than his praise By still dispraising praise valued with you, And, which became him like a prince indeed, He made a blushing cital of himself, And chid his truant youth with such a grace As if he master’d there a double spirit Of teaching and of learning instantly. There did he pause: but let me tell the world, If he outlive the envy of this day, England did never owe so sweet a hope So much misconstrued in his wantonness.
HOTSPUR. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured Upon his follies. Never did I hear Of any prince so wild a liberty. But be he as he will, yet once ere night I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm, That he shall shrink under my courtesy. Arm, arm with speed! And, fellows, soldiers, friends, Better consider what you have to do Than I that have not well the gift of tongue Can lift your blood up with persuasion.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. My lord, here are letters for you.
HOTSPUR. I cannot read them now.— O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. And if we live, we live to tread on kings; If die, brave death, when princes die with us! Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair When the intent of bearing them is just.
Enter another Messenger.
MESSENGER. My lord, prepare. The King comes on apace.
HOTSPUR. I thank him that he cuts me from my tale, For I profess not talking. Only this: Let each man do his best. And here draw I A sword whose temper I intend to stain With the best blood that I can meet withal In the adventure of this perilous day. Now, Esperance! Percy! And set on. Sound all the lofty instruments of war, And by that music let us all embrace, For, Heaven to Earth, some of us never shall A second time do such a courtesy.
[_The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt._]
SCENE III. Plain between the Camps.
The King enters with his power. Alarum to the battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt.
BLUNT. What is thy name that in the battle thus Thou crossest me? What honour dost thou seek Upon my head?
DOUGLAS. Know then my name is Douglas, And I do haunt thee in the battle thus Because some tell me that thou art a king.
BLUNT. They tell thee true.
DOUGLAS. The Lord of Stafford dear today hath bought Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him. So shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
BLUNT. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot, And thou shalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford’s death.
[_They fight, and Blunt is slain._]
Enter Hotspur.
HOTSPUR. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, I never had triumphed upon a Scot.
DOUGLAS. All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies the King.
HOTSPUR. Where?
DOUGLAS. Here.
HOTSPUR. This, Douglas? No, I know this face full well. A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt, Semblably furnish’d like the King himself.
DOUGLAS. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes! A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear. Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?
HOTSPUR. The King hath many marching in his coats.
DOUGLAS. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats; I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, Until I meet the King.
HOTSPUR. Up, and away! Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.
[_Exeunt._]
Alarums. Enter Falstaff solus.
FALSTAFF. Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here. Here’s no scoring but upon the pate.—Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt. There’s honour for you. Here’s no vanity. I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me, I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered. There’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life. But who comes here?
Enter Prince Henry.
PRINCE. What, stand’st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword. Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are yet unrevenged. I prithee Lend me thy sword.
FALSTAFF. O Hal, I prithee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.
PRINCE. He is indeed, and living to kill thee. I prithee, lend me thy sword.
FALSTAFF. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
PRINCE. Give it me. What, is it in the case?
FALSTAFF. Ay, Hal, ’tis hot, ’tis hot. There’s that will sack a city.
[_The Prince draws out a bottle of sack._]
PRINCE. What, is it a time to jest and dally now?
[_Throws it at him, and exit._]
FALSTAFF. Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath. Give me life, which if I can save, so: if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field.
Alarums. Excursions. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster and Westmoreland.
KING. I prithee, Harry, withdraw thyself, thou bleedest too much. Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.
LANCASTER. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.
PRINCE. I do beseech your Majesty, make up, Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.
KING. I will do so. My Lord of Westmoreland, Lead him to his tent.
WESTMORELAND. Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent.
PRINCE. Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help, And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on, And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres!
LANCASTER. We breathe too long. Come, cousin Westmoreland, Our duty this way lies. For God’s sake, come.
[_Exeunt Lancaster and Westmoreland._]
PRINCE. By Heaven, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster, I did not think thee lord of such a spirit. Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now I do respect thee as my soul.
KING. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point With lustier maintenance than I did look for Of such an ungrown warrior.
PRINCE. O, this boy Lends mettle to us all!
[_Exit._]
Enter Douglas.
DOUGLAS. Another king! They grow like Hydra’s heads. I am the Douglas, fatal to all those That wear those colours on them. What art thou That counterfeit’st the person of a king?
KING. The King himself, who, Douglas, grieves at heart So many of his shadows thou hast met, And not the very King. I have two boys Seek Percy and thyself about the field, But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily, I will assay thee, and defend thyself.
DOUGLAS. I fear thou art another counterfeit, And yet, in faith, thou bearest thee like a king. But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, And thus I win thee.
They fight; the King being in danger, enter Prince Henry.
PRINCE. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up again! The spirits Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms. It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, Who never promiseth but he means to pay.
[_They fight. Douglas flies._]
Cheerly, my lord. How fares your Grace? Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, And so hath Clifton. I’ll to Clifton straight.
KING. Stay and breathe awhile. Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion, And show’d thou mak’st some tender of my life, In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.
PRINCE. O God, they did me too much injury That ever said I hearken’d for your death. If it were so, I might have let alone The insulting hand of Douglas over you, Which would have been as speedy in your end As all the poisonous potions in the world, And saved the treacherous labour of your son.
KING. Make up to Clifton. I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.
[_Exit._]
Enter Hotspur.
HOTSPUR. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.
PRINCE. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name.
HOTSPUR. My name is Harry Percy.
PRINCE. Why then I see A very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more. Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere, Nor can one England brook a double reign, Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.
HOTSPUR. Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come To end the one of us, and would to God Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!
PRINCE. I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee, And all the budding honours on thy crest I’ll crop to make a garland for my head.
HOTSPUR. I can no longer brook thy vanities.
[_They fight._]
Enter Falstaff.
FALSTAFF. Well said, Hal! To it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you.
Enter Douglas. He fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. The Prince kills Hotspur.
HOTSPUR. O Harry, thou hast robb’d me of my youth! I better brook the loss of brittle life Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh. But thoughts, the slaves of life, and life, time’s fool, And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust, And food for—
[_Dies._]
PRINCE. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal. But let my favours hide thy mangled face; And even in thy behalf I’ll thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember’d in thy epitaph!
[_Sees Falstaff on the ground._]
What, old acquaintance, could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity. Death hath not struck so fat a deer today, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. Embowell’d will I see thee by and by, Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.
[_Exit._]
Falstaff rises up.
FALSTAFF. Embowell’d! If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too tomorrow. ’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit. To die, is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure, yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.
[_Takes Hotspur on his back._]
Enter Prince Henry and Lancaster.
PRINCE. Come, brother John, full bravely hast thou flesh’d Thy maiden sword.
LANCASTER. But soft, whom have we here? Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?
PRINCE. I did; I saw him dead, Breathless and bleeding on the ground.—Art thou alive? Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight? I prithee, speak, we will not trust our eyes Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st.
FALSTAFF. No, that’s certain, I am not a double man. But if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy! [_Throwing the body down._] If your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.
PRINCE. Why, Percy I kill’d myself, and saw thee dead.
FALSTAFF. Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I was down and out of breath, and so was he, but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I’ll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh. If the man were alive, and would deny it, zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword.
LANCASTER. This is the strangest tale that ever I heard.
PRINCE. This is the strangest fellow, brother John.— Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back. For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
[_A retreat is sounded._]
The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours. Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field, To see what friends are living, who are dead.
[_Exeunt Prince Henry and Lancaster._]
FALSTAFF. I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, I’ll grow less, for I’ll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman should do.
[_Exit, bearing off the body._]
SCENE V. Another Part of the Field.
The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Westmoreland and others, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.
KING. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke. Ill-spirited Worcester, did not we send grace, Pardon, and terms of love to all of you? And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary? Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman’s trust? Three knights upon our party slain today, A noble earl, and many a creature else, Had been alive this hour, If, like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne Betwixt our armies true intelligence.
WORCESTER. What I have done my safety urged me to; And I embrace this fortune patiently, Since not to be avoided it falls on me.
KING. Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon too. Other offenders we will pause upon.
[_Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded._]
How goes the field?
PRINCE. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him, The noble Percy slain, and all his men Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest, And, falling from a hill, he was so bruised That the pursuers took him. At my tent The Douglas is, and I beseech your Grace I may dispose of him.
KING. With all my heart.
PRINCE. Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you This honourable bounty shall belong. Go to the Douglas and deliver him Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free. His valours shown upon our crests today Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds, Even in the bosom of our adversaries.
LANCASTER. I thank your Grace for this high courtesy, Which I shall give away immediately.
KING. Then this remains, that we divide our power. You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland, Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop, Who, as we hear, are busily in arms. Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales, To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March. Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, Meeting the check of such another day, And since this business so fair is done, Let us not leave till all our own be won.
[_Exeunt._]
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH
Contents
INDUCTION
ACT I Scene I. The same. Scene II. London. A street. Scene III. York. The Archbishop’s palace.
ACT II Scene I. London. A street. Scene II. London. Another street. Scene III. Warkworth. Before the castle. Scene IV. The Boar’s head Tavern in Eastcheap.
ACT III Scene I. Westminster. The palace. Scene II. Gloucestershire. Before Justice Shallow’s house.
ACT IV Scene I. Yorkshire. Gaultree Forest. Scene II. Another part of the forest. Scene III. Another part of the forest. Scene IV. Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber. Scene V. Another chamber.
ACT V Scene I. Gloucestershire. Shallow’s house. Scene II. Westminster. The palace. Scene III. Gloucestershire. Shallow’s orchard. Scene IV. London. A street. Scene V. A public place near Westminster Abbey.
EPILOGUE
Dramatis Personæ
RUMOUR, the Presenter. KING HENRY the Fourth. HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards King Henry the Fifth. THOMAS, DUKE OF CLARENCE. PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER. PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER. EARL OF WARWICK. EARL OF WESTMORELAND. EARL OF SURREY. GOWER. HARCOURT. SIR JOHN BLUNT. Lord CHIEF JUSTICE of the King’s Bench. A SERVANT of the Chief Justice. Henry Percy, Earl of NORTHUMBERLAND. Scroop, ARCHBISHOP of York. Lord MOWBRAY. Lord HASTINGS. LORD BARDOLPH. SIR JOHN COLEVILLE. TRAVERS and MORTON, retainers of Northumberland. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. His Page. BARDOLPH. PISTOL. POINS. PETO. SHALLOW and SILENCE, country justices. DAVY, Servant to Shallow. MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, and BULLCALF, recruits. FANG and SNARE, sheriff’s officers.
LADY NORTHUMBERLAND. LADY PERCY. MISTRESS QUICKLY, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. DOLL TEARSHEET.
Lords and Attendants; Porter, Drawers, Musicians, Beadles, Grooms, etc.
A Dancer, speaker of the epilogue.
SCENE: England.
INDUCTION
Warkworth. Before the castle.
Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues.
RUMOUR. Open your ears; for which of you will stop The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth. Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. I speak of peace, while covert enmity Under the smile of safety wounds the world. And who but Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepared defence, Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wav’ring multitude, Can play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my household? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry’s victory, Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops, Quenching the flame of bold rebellion Even with the rebels’ blood. But what mean I To speak so true at first? My office is To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword, And that the King before the Douglas’ rage Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death. This have I rumour’d through the peasant towns Between that royal field of Shrewsbury And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, Where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland, Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on, And not a man of them brings other news Than they have learnt of me. From Rumour’s tongues They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.
[_Exit._]
ACT I
SCENE I. The same.
Enter Lord Bardolph.
LORD BARDOLPH. Who keeps the gate here, ho?
The Porter opens the gate.
Where is the Earl?
PORTER. What shall I say you are?
LORD BARDOLPH. Tell thou the Earl That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.
PORTER. His lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard. Please it your honour knock but at the gate, And he himself will answer.
Enter Northumberland.
LORD BARDOLPH. Here comes the Earl.
[_Exit Porter._]
NORTHUMBERLAND. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now Should be the father of some stratagem. The times are wild; contention, like a horse Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose And bears down all before him.
LORD BARDOLPH. Noble earl, I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Good, an God will!
LORD BARDOLPH. As good as heart can wish. The King is almost wounded to the death; And, in the fortune of my lord your son, Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts Kill’d by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field; And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the hulk Sir John, Is prisoner to your son. O, such a day, So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won, Came not till now to dignify the times Since Caesar’s fortunes!
NORTHUMBERLAND. How is this derived? Saw you the field? Came you from Shrewsbury?
LORD BARDOLPH. I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence, A gentleman well bred and of good name, That freely render’d me these news for true.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent On Tuesday last to listen after news.
Enter Travers.
LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I over-rode him on the way, And he is furnish’d with no certainties More than he haply may retail from me.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?
TRAVERS. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back With joyful tidings, and, being better horsed, Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse. He ask’d the way to Chester, and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. He told me that rebellion had bad luck And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold. With that he gave his able horse the head, And bending forward struck his armed heels Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head, and starting so He seem’d in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Ha? Again: Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold? Of Hotspur, Coldspur? That rebellion Had met ill luck?
LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I’ll tell you what: If my young lord your son have not the day, Upon mine honour, for a silken point I’ll give my barony, never talk of it.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers Give then such instances of loss?
LORD BARDOLPH. Who, he? He was some hilding fellow that had stolen The horse he rode on, and, upon my life, Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.
Enter Morton.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood Hath left a witness’d usurpation. Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?
MORTON. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord, Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask To fright our party.
NORTHUMBERLAND. How doth my son and brother? Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burnt; But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue, And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it. This thou wouldst say: “Your son did thus and thus; Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas” Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds: But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, Ending with “Brother, son, and all are dead.”
MORTON. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet; But, for my lord your son—
NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, he is dead. See what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes That what he fear’d is chanced. Yet speak, Morton; Tell thou an earl his divination lies, And I will take it as a sweet disgrace And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.
MORTON. You are too great to be by me gainsaid, Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead. I see a strange confession in thine eye. Thou shakest thy head and hold’st it fear or sin To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so. The tongue offends not that reports his death; And he doth sin that doth belie the dead, Not he which says the dead is not alive. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Remember’d tolling a departing friend.
LORD BARDOLPH. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
MORTON. I am sorry I should force you to believe That which I would to God I had not seen; But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state, Rend’ring faint quittance, wearied and outbreathed, To Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down The never-daunted Percy to the earth, From whence with life he never more sprung up. In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp, Being bruited once, took fire and heat away From the best-temper’d courage in his troops; For from his metal was his party steel’d, Which once in him abated, all the rest Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead. And as the thing that’s heavy in itself Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss, Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester Too soon ta’en prisoner; and that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain th’ appearance of the King, Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame Of those that turn’d their backs, and in his flight, Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, Under the conduct of young Lancaster And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.
NORTHUMBERLAND. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well. And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs, Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged with grief, Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch! A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel Must glove this hand. And hence, thou sickly coif! Thou art a guard too wanton for the head Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron, and approach The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring To frown upon th’ enraged Northumberland! Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature’s hand Keep the wild flood confined! Let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage To feed contention in a lingering act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, And darkness be the burier of the dead!
LORD BARDOLPH. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.
MORTON. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour. The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er To stormy passion, must perforce decay. You cast th’ event of war, my noble lord, And summ’d the account of chance, before you said “Let us make head.” It was your presurmise That in the dole of blows your son might drop. You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge, More likely to fall in than to get o’er. You were advised his flesh was capable Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged. Yet did you say “Go forth;” and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall’n, Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth, More than that being which was like to be?
LORD BARDOLPH. We all that are engaged to this loss Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas That if we wrought out life ’twas ten to one; And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed Choked the respect of likely peril fear’d; And since we are o’erset, venture again. Come, we will put forth, body and goods.
MORTON. ’Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord, I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth: The gentle Archbishop of York is up With well-appointed powers. He is a man Who with a double surety binds his followers. My lord your son had only but the corpse, But shadows and the shows of men, to fight; For that same word, “rebellion” did divide The action of their bodies from their souls, And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d, As men drink potions, that their weapons only Seem’d on our side; but, for their spirits and souls, This word, “rebellion,” it had froze them up, As fish are in a pond. But now the bishop Turns insurrection to religion. Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts, He’s follow’d both with body and with mind, And doth enlarge his rising with the blood Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones; Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause; Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land, Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke; And more and less do flock to follow him.
NORTHUMBERLAND. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth, This present grief had wiped it from my mind. Go in with me, and counsel every man The aptest way for safety and revenge. Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed. Never so few, and never yet more need.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. London. A street.
Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler.
FALSTAFF. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?
PAGE. He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but, for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he knew for.
FALSTAFF. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything that tends to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on me. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. If the Prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgement. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never manned with an agate till now, but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel,—the juvenal, the Prince your master, whose chin is not yet fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he shall get one off his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal. God may finish it when He will, ’tis not a hair amiss yet. He may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it. And yet he’ll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he’s almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dommelton about the satin for my short cloak and my slops?
PAGE. He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph. He would not take his band and yours, he liked not the security.
FALSTAFF. Let him be damned like the glutton! Pray God his tongue be hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! A rascally yea-forsooth knave, to bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is through with them in honest taking up, then they must stand upon security. I had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with security. I looked he should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me “security”. Well, he may sleep in security, for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it; and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where’s Bardolph?
PAGE. He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your worship a horse.
FALSTAFF. I bought him in Paul’s, and he’ll buy me a horse in Smithfield. An I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived.
Enter the Lord Chief Justice and Servant.
PAGE. Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the Prince for striking him about Bardolph.
FALSTAFF. Wait close, I will not see him.
CHIEF JUSTICE. What’s he that goes there?
SERVANT. Falstaff, an ’t please your lordship.
CHIEF JUSTICE. He that was in question for the robbery?
SERVANT. He, my lord; but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury, and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster.
CHIEF JUSTICE. What, to York? Call him back again.
SERVANT. Sir John Falstaff!
FALSTAFF. Boy, tell him I am deaf.
PAGE. You must speak louder, my master is deaf.
CHIEF JUSTICE. I am sure he is, to the hearing of anything good. Go pluck him by the elbow, I must speak with him.
SERVANT. Sir John!
FALSTAFF. What! A young knave, and begging! Is there not wars? Is there not employment? Doth not the King lack subjects? Do not the rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it.
SERVANT. You mistake me, sir.
FALSTAFF. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? Setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat if I had said so.
SERVANT. I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your soldiership aside, and give me leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you say I am any other than an honest man.
FALSTAFF. I give thee leave to tell me so? I lay aside that which grows to me? If thou get’st any leave of me, hang me; if thou tak’st leave, thou wert better be hanged. You hunt counter. Hence! Avaunt!
SERVANT. Sir, my lord would speak with you.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.
FALSTAFF. My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad. I heard say your lordship was sick. I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; and I most humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend care of your health.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to Shrewsbury.
FALSTAFF. An ’t please your lordship, I hear his Majesty is returned with some discomfort from Wales.
CHIEF JUSTICE. I talk not of his Majesty. You would not come when I sent for you.
FALSTAFF. And I hear, moreover, his Highness is fallen into this same whoreson apoplexy.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, God mend him! I pray you let me speak with you.
FALSTAFF. This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an ’t please your lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling.
CHIEF JUSTICE. What tell you me of it? Be it as it is.
FALSTAFF. It hath it original from much grief, from study and perturbation of the brain. I have read the cause of his effects in Galen. It is a kind of deafness.
CHIEF JUSTICE. I think you are fallen into the disease, for you hear not what I say to you.
FALSTAFF. Very well, my lord, very well. Rather, an ’t please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal.
CHIEF JUSTICE. To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears, and I care not if I do become your physician.
FALSTAFF. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient. Your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but how I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or indeed a scruple itself.
CHIEF JUSTICE. I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to come speak with me.
FALSTAFF. As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not come.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.
FALSTAFF. He that buckles himself in my belt cannot live in less.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great.
FALSTAFF. I would it were otherwise, I would my means were greater and my waist slenderer.
CHIEF JUSTICE. You have misled the youthful prince.
FALSTAFF. The young prince hath misled me. I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound. Your day’s service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night’s exploit on Gad’s Hill. You may thank th’ unquiet time for your quiet o’er-posting that action.
FALSTAFF. My lord!
CHIEF JUSTICE. But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping wolf.
FALSTAFF. To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a fox.
CHIEF JUSTICE. What! You are as a candle, the better part burnt out.
FALSTAFF. A wassail candle, my lord, all tallow. If I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.
CHIEF JUSTICE. There is not a white hair in your face but should have his effect of gravity.
FALSTAFF. His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.
CHIEF JUSTICE. You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel.
FALSTAFF. Not so, my lord, your ill angel is light, but I hope he that looks upon me will take me without weighing. And yet in some respects, I grant, I cannot go. I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these costermongers’ times that true valour is turned bearherd; pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings. All the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls, and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I must confess, are wags too.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity? And will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!
FALSTAFF. My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not. The truth is, I am only old in judgement and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him! For the box of the ear that the Prince gave you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have checked him for it, and the young lion repents. Marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, God send the Prince a better companion!
FALSTAFF. God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the King hath severed you and Prince Harry. I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland.
FALSTAFF. Yea, I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all you that kiss my lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily. If it be a hot day, and I brandish anything but a bottle, I would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last ever. But it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, be honest, be honest, and God bless your expedition!
FALSTAFF. Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth?
CHIEF JUSTICE. Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland.
[_Exeunt Chief Justice and Servant._]
FALSTAFF. If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than he can part young limbs and lechery: but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy!
PAGE. Sir?
FALSTAFF. What money is in my purse?
PAGE. Seven groats and two pence.
FALSTAFF. I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse. Borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the Prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I perceived the first white hair of my chin. About it. You know where to find me. [_Exit Page_.] A pox of this gout! or a gout of this pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe. ’Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of anything. I will turn diseases to commodity.
[_Exit._]
SCENE III. York. The Archbishop’s palace.
Enter the Archbishop, the Lords Hastings, Mowbray and Bardolph.
ARCHBISHOP. Thus have you heard our cause and known our means, And, my most noble friends, I pray you all Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes. And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?
MOWBRAY. I well allow the occasion of our arms, But gladly would be better satisfied How in our means we should advance ourselves To look with forehead bold and big enough Upon the power and puissance of the King.
HASTINGS. Our present musters grow upon the file To five and twenty thousand men of choice; And our supplies live largely in the hope Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns With an incensed fire of injuries.
LORD BARDOLPH. The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus: Whether our present five and twenty thousand May hold up head without Northumberland.
HASTINGS. With him we may.
LORD BARDOLPH. Yea, marry, there’s the point: But if without him we be thought too feeble, My judgement is, we should not step too far Till we had his assistance by the hand; For in a theme so bloody-faced as this Conjecture, expectation, and surmise Of aids incertain should not be admitted.
ARCHBISHOP. ’Tis very true, Lord Bardolph, for indeed It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury.
LORD BARDOLPH. It was, my lord; who lined himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply, Flatt’ring himself in project of a power Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts, And so, with great imagination Proper to madmen, led his powers to death And winking leap’d into destruction.
HASTINGS. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.
LORD BARDOLPH. Yes, if this present quality of war— Indeed the instant action, a cause on foot— Lives so in hope, as in an early spring We see th’ appearing buds; which to prove fruit Hope gives not so much warrant as despair That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model, And when we see the figure of the house, Then we must rate the cost of the erection, Which if we find outweighs ability, What do we then but draw anew the model In fewer offices, or at least desist To build at all? Much more, in this great work, Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down And set another up, should we survey The plot of situation and the model, Consent upon a sure foundation, Question surveyors, know our own estate, How able such a work to undergo, To weigh against his opposite; or else We fortify in paper and in figures, Using the names of men instead of men, Like one that draws the model of a house Beyond his power to build it, who, half through, Gives o’er and leaves his part-created cost A naked subject to the weeping clouds And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny.
HASTINGS. Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth, Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d The utmost man of expectation, I think we are a body strong enough, Even as we are, to equal with the King.
LORD BARDOLPH. What, is the King but five and twenty thousand?
HASTINGS. To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph; For his divisions, as the times do brawl, Are in three heads: one power against the French, And one against Glendower; perforce a third Must take up us. So is the unfirm king In three divided, and his coffers sound With hollow poverty and emptiness.
ARCHBISHOP. That he should draw his several strengths together And come against us in full puissance Need not be dreaded.
HASTINGS. If he should do so, He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh Baying him at the heels: never fear that.
LORD BARDOLPH. Who is it like should lead his forces hither?
HASTINGS. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland; Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth; But who is substituted ’gainst the French I have no certain notice.
ARCHBISHOP. Let us on, And publish the occasion of our arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice; Their over-greedy love hath surfeited. An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. O thou fond many, with what loud applause Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke, Before he was what thou wouldst have him be! And being now trimm’d in thine own desires, Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up. So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard; And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard lived, would have him die Are now become enamour’d on his grave. Thou that threw’st dust upon his goodly head When through proud London he came sighing on After th’ admired heels of Bolingbroke, Criest now “O earth, yield us that king again, And take thou this!” O thoughts of men accursed! Past and to come seems best; things present, worst.
MOWBRAY. Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on?
HASTINGS. We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT II
SCENE I. London. A street.
Enter Hostess with two Officers, Fang and Snare, following.
HOSTESS. Master Fang, have you entered the action?
FANG. It is entered.
HOSTESS. Where’s your yeoman? Is ’t a lusty yeoman? Will he stand to ’t?
FANG. Sirrah, where’s Snare?
HOSTESS. O Lord, ay! Good Master Snare.
SNARE. Here, here.
FANG. Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff.
HOSTESS. Yea, good Master Snare, I have entered him and all.
SNARE. It may chance cost some of our lives, for he will stab.
HOSTESS. Alas the day, take heed of him. He stabbed me in mine own house, and that most beastly, in good faith. He cares not what mischief he does, if his weapon be out, he will foin like any devil. He will spare neither man, woman, nor child.
FANG. If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust.
HOSTESS. No, nor I neither. I’ll be at your elbow.
FANG. An I but fist him once, an he come but within my vice,—
HOSTESS. I am undone by his going, I warrant you, he’s an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him sure. Good Master Snare, let him not ’scape. He comes continuantly to Pie Corner—saving your manhoods—to buy a saddle, and he is indited to dinner to the Lubber’s Head in Lumbert Street, to Master Smooth’s the silkman. I pray you, since my exion is entered, and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear, and I have borne, and borne, and borne, and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing, unless a woman should be made an ass and a beast, to bear every knave’s wrong. Yonder he comes, and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and Master Snare, do me, do me, do me your offices.
Enter Falstaff, Bardolph and Page.
FALSTAFF. How now, whose mare’s dead? What’s the matter?
FANG. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly.
FALSTAFF. Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph! Cut me off the villain’s head. Throw the quean in the channel.