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you have the money. Hoftefs, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, Thall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content: - and the argument fhall be thy running away.

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

Enter Hoftefs.

Hoft. O Jefu! my lord the Prince !

P. Henry. How now, my lady the hoftefs, what fayeft thou to me?

Hoft. Marry, my Lord, there is a Nobleman of the Court at door would fpeak with you; he fays, he comes from your

father.

P. Henry. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and fend him back again to my mother.

Fal. What manner of man is he?

Hoft. An old man.

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

P. Henry. Pr'ythee do, Jack.

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

[Exit P. Henry. Now, Sirs, by 'r lady, you fought fair; fo did you, Petos fo did you, Bardolph, you are lions too, you ran away upon inftinct; you will not touch the true Prince; no. Fie!

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

P. Henry. Tell me now in earneft; how came Falstaff's fword fo hackt?

Peto. Why, he hackt it with his dagger, and faid, he would fwear truth out of England, but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and perfuaded us to do the like.

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our nofes with spear-grafs, to make them bleed; and then beflubber our garments with it, and fwear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not these feven years before, I blush'd to hear his monftrous. devices.

P. Henry. O villain, thou stoleft a cup of fack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever fince thou

haft

haft blush'd extempore. Thou haft fire and sword on thy fide, and yet thou ranneft away. What inftinct hadst thou

for it?

Bard. My lord, do you fee these meteors? Do hold thefe exhalations?

P. Henry. I do.

Bard. What think you they portend?
P. Henry. Hot livers and cold purses.
Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.
P. Henry. No, if rightly taken, halter.

Re-enter Falstaff.

you be

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombaft? How long is't ago, Jack, fince thou faw'ft thy own knee?

Fal. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the waift; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring. A plague on fighing and grief, it blows up a man like a bladder. There's villainous news abroad; here was Sir John Braby from your father; you muft go to the Court in the morning. The fame mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales, that gave Amaimon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and fwore the devil his true liegeman upon the crofs of a Wel hook: what a plague call you him

Poins. O Glendower.

Fal. Owen, Owen; the fame; and his fon-in-law Morti mer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs a horfeback up a hill perpendicular. P. Henry. He that rides at high speed, and with a piftol kills a fparrow flying.

Fal. You have hit it.

P. Henry. So did he never the sparrow.

Fal. Well; that rascal has good mettle in him, he will

not run.

P. Henry. Why, what a rafcal art thou then, to praise him fo for running!

Fal. A horfeback, ye cuckow! but afoot, he will not budge a foot.

P. Henry. Yes, Jack, upon instinct,

Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and

One

e Mordake, and a thoufand blue caps more. Worcester tol'n away by night. Thy father's beard is turn'd white th the news. You may buy land now as cheap as stinkmackarel.

P. Henry. Then 'tis like, if there come a hot June, and fe civil buffetings hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they y hob-nails, by the hundred.

Fal. By the mass, lad, thou fayft true; it is like, we shall ve good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not ou horribly afraid, thou being heir apparent? Could the rld pick thee out three fuch enemies again as that fiend uglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art ou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it? P. Henry. Not a whit, i'faith; I lack fome of thy instinct. Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow, when ou com'ft to thy father; if thou love me, practise an fwer.

P. Henry. Do thou stand for my father, and examine me on the particulars of my life.

Fal. Shall I Content. This chair fhall be my state, this gger my fceptre, and this cushion my crown.

P. Henry. Thy ftate is taken for a joint-ftool, thy golden eptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown or a pitiful bald crown.

Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, ow fhalt thou be moved--Give me a cup of fack to make ine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; or I muft fpeak in paffion, and I will do it in King Camfes' vein.

P. Henry. Well, here is my leg.

Fal. And here is my fpeech-Stand afide, Nobility——
Hoft. This is excellent fport, i'faith.

Fal. Weep not, fweet Queen, for trickling tears are vain.
Hoft. O the father! how he holds his countenance !
Fal. For God's fake, lords, convey my triftful Queen,
For tears do ftop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Hoft. O rare! he doth it as like one of thofe harlotry layers, as I ever fee.

Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brainHarry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendeft thy time, at alfo how thou art accompany'd; for though the camo

mile, the more it is trodden on, the fafter it grows, yet youth, the more it is wafted, the fooner it wears. Thou art my fon; I have partly thy mother's word, partly mine 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 fon to me, here lieth the point; why, being fon to me, art thou fo pointed at? Shall the bleffed Sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat black-berries? A question not to be ak'd. Shall the fon of England prove a thief, and take purfes? A queftion to be afk'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou haft 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; fo doth the company thou keep'it; for, Harry, now do I not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleafure, but in paffion; not in words only, but in woes alfo.And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name. P. Henry. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty? Fal. A goodly portly man i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleafing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age fome 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 deceives me; for, Harry, I fee virtue in his looks. If then the fruit may be known by the tree, as the tree by the fruit, then peremp torily I fpeak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty var let, tell me, where haft thou been this month?

P. Henry. Doft thou speak like a King? Do thou ftand for me, and I'll play my father.

Fal. Depofe me.-If thou doft it half fo gravely, fo ma jeftically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-fucker, or a poulterer's hare.

P. Henry. Well, here I am fet.

Fal. And here I ftand; judge, my masters.
P. Henry. Now, Harry, whence come you?
Fal. My noble lord, from Eaft-cheap.

P. Henry. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous,
Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are falfe.

tickle ye for a young Prince.

Nay, I'l

P. Henry, Sweareft thou, ungracious boy? Henceforth

ne'er

ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace; there's a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why doft thou converse with that trunk of humours, that boulting hutch of beaftlinefs, that fwoln parcel of dropfies, that huge bombard of fack, that stufft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manwingtree 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 villainy ? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

Fal. I would your grace would take me with you. Whom means your grace?

P. Henry. That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

Fal. My lord, the man I know.

P. Henry, I know thou doft.

Fal. But to fay, I know more harm in him than in myfelf, were to fay more than I know. That he is old, the more is the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but that he is, faving your reverence, a whoremafter, that I utterly deny. If fack and fugar be a fault, God help the wicked. If to be old and merry, be a fin, then many an old hoft, that I know, is damn'd. If to be fat, be to be hated, then Pharoak's lean kine are to be lov'd. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Fack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company; banish plump fack, and banish all the world.

P. Henry. I do, I will. [Knocking; and Hoftefs goes out. Enter Bardolph running.

Bard. O, my lord, my lord, the Sheriff, with a moft monftrous watch, is at the door.

Fal. Out, you rogue!-Play out the Play; I have much to fay in behalf of that Falstaff.

Re-enter

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