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P. Henry. What, fought you with them all ?
Fal. Ail? I know not what ye 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 twolegged creature.
P. Henry. Pray heaven, you have not murdered some of them. Fal. 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. (Taking a position for fighting.)—Here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at meP. Henry
What, four ? thou saidst but two, even now. Fal. Four, Hal! I told thee four.—These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. P. Henry
Seven! why, there were but four, even now. Fal. In buckram. P. Henry. Ay, four in buckram suits.
Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? P. Henry.
Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do so, for it is worth listening to.—These nine in buckram that I told thee of P. Henry.
So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken,-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. P. Henry.
Oh monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of two!
Fal. But, as ill-luck 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. P. Henry.
These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou knotty-pated thou greasy
tallow-tub. Fal. What, art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is not the truth the truth? P. Henry.
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? Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
Fal. What, upon compulsion ?-No. Were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason upon compulsion! If reasons
were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back breaker, this huge hill of flesh
Fal. Away, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stock-fish! Oh for breath to utter what is like thee! you taylor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck,
P. Henry. Well, breathe awhile and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.-Poins and I saw you four set on four ; you 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 can show it you here in the house. And Falstaff, you carried your paunch away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard a 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? Fal. Ha! ha! ha!--D'ye think I did not know you,
Hal ? Why, hear ye, my master, 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 a coward on instinct, I grant you ; and I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But I am glad you have the
Let us clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.
What! shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore?
P. Henry. Content and the argument shall be, thy running away:
Fal. Ah !no more of that, Hal, if thou lovest me.
Sir Philip. Come hither. I believe you hold a farm of mine.
Ash. Zometimes it be, zur. But thic year it be all t'other way, as 'twur; but I do hope, as our landlords have a tightish big lump of the good, they'll be zo kind-hearted as to take a little bit of the bad.
Sir P. It is but reasonable. I conclude, then, you are in
Ash. Ees, zur, I be; at your
pay. Ash. Not a varthing, zur, at your zarvice. Sir P. Well, I am willing to allow you every indulgence. Ash. Be you, zur ? that be deadly kind. Dear heart! it will make
my auld dame quite young again, and I don't think helping a poor man will do your honor's health any harm; I don't indeed, zur. I had a thought of speaking to your worship aboat it; but then, thinks I, the gentleman mayhap be one of those that do like to do a good turn, and not have a word zaid about it: zo, zur, if you had not mentioned what I owed you, I am zure I never should ; should not, indeed, zur.
Sir. P. Nay, I will wholly acquit you of the debt, on condition
Ash. Ees, zur.
Sir. P. On condition, I say, that you instantly turn out that boy; that Henry
Ash. Turn out Henry! Ha, ha, ha! Excuse my tittering, zur; but you bees making your vun of I, zure.
Sir P. I am not apt to trifle; send him instantly from you, or take the consequences.
Ash. Turn out Henry! I do vow I should'nt know how to set about it; I should not, indeed, zur.
Sir P. You hear my determination. If you disobey, you know what will follow. I'll leave you to reflect on it. (Exit.)
Ash. Well, zur, I'll argify the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye. (Makes the motion of turning out.) I should be deadly awkard at it, vor zartain. However, I'll put the case. Well! I goes whiztling whoam; noa, drabbit it! I shouldn't be able to whiztle a bit, I'm zure. Well! I goes whoam, and I zees Henry sitting by my wife, mixing up someit to comfort the wold zoul, and take away the pain of her rheumatics. Very well! Then Henry places a chair vor I by the vire-side, and zays—“ Varmer, the horses be fed, the sheep be folded, and you have nothing to do but to zit down, smoke your pipe, and be happy!" Very well! (Becomes af
fected.) Then I zays, “ Henry, you be poor and friendless, so you must turn out of my house directly.” Very well! then my wife stares at I; reaches her hand towards the vire-place,
and throws the poker at my head. Very well! then Henry gives a kind of aguish shake, and getting up, sighs from the bottom of his heart; then holding up his head like a king, zays, “ Varmer, I have too long been a burden to you. Heaven protect you, as you have me. Farewell! I go.” Then I zays, “If thee doez I'll be smashed.” (With great energy.) Hollo! you Mister Sir Philip! you may come in.
(Enter Sir Philip Blandford.) Zur, I have argified the topic, and it wouldn't be pretty ; zo I can't.
Sir P. Can't!
Ash. No, zur, I won't. I'd see myself hanged first, and you too, zur! I would indeed. (Bowing.)
Sir. P. You refuse then to obey ?
Ash. I be zorry for that too. I be, indeed, zur ; but if com wou’dn't grow I cou’dn't help it; it wer'n't poisoned by the hand that zowed it. Thic hand, zur, be as free from guilt as your own. Good morning to you. I do hope I have made myself agreeable; and zo I'll go whoam. (Exeunt.)
DR. GREGORY—PATIENT.-Anonymous. SCENE.—Dr. Gregory's study. Enter a plump Glasgow merchant.
Patient. Good morning, Dr. Gregory; I'm just come into Edinburgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my trouble.
Doctor. Pray sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be ?
Pa. Indeed doctor, I'm not very sure ; but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pinkling about my stomach—I'm just na right.
Dr. You are from the west country, I should suppose, sir ?
Dr. Then perhaps you are a drunkard ?
tell me your
of that ; I'm of the dissenting persuasion, doctor, and an elder, so ye may suppose I'm na drunkard. Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you
mode of life.—I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it ?
Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock, tak a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kippered salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter.
Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast ?
Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make ?
Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes ; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite.
Dr. You take a little pudding then, and afterwards some cheese?
Pa. Oh yes! though I don't care much about them.
cheese? Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both.
Dr. You west-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner.
Pa. Yes, we do ; it's good for digestion.
any wine during dinner? Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry, but I'm indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer. Dr. What quantity of port
drink? Pa. Oh, very little ; not above half a dozen glasses, or so.
Dr. In the west country, it is impossible, I hear, to dine. without punch?
Pa. Yes, sir ; indeed 'tis punch we drink chiefly; but for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers, or so, and that's moderate.
Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter?
Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters.
Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose ?
Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to tak supper; just something before going to bed; a rizzered haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half hundred of oysters or the like o' that, and may be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I tak no regular supper.