Each takes his fellow for an officer.
Away, good Ned. Now Falstaff (weats to death,
And lards the lean earth as he walks along :
Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
Poins. How the rogue roar'd!

SCENE V. Lord Percy's Houfe.
Enter Hot-fpur folus, reading a letter.

[Exeunt.

But for mine own part, my Lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your boufe. He could be contented to be there; why is he not then? in refpect of the love he bears our houfe: he fhews in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house.

Let me

fee fome more. The purpofe you undertake is dangerous. Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to fleep, to drink; but I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower fafety. The purpose. you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time it felf unforted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoize of fo great an oppofition. Say you fo, fay you fo? I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and conftant: a good plot, good friends, and full of ex pectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frofty-fpirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rafcai, I could brain him with his Lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and my felf, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not befides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are there not fome of them fet forward already? What a Pagan rascal is this! an infidel. Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide my felf, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a difh of fkimm'd milk with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared. I will fet forward to-night.

C 2

SCENE

SCENE VI. Enter Lady Percy.

How now, Kate! I muft leave you within thefe two hours.
Lady. O my good Lord, why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?
Tell me, fweet Lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy ftomach, pleasure, and thy golden fleep?
Why doft thou bend thy eyes upon the earth?
And ftart fo often when thou fitt'ft alone?
Why haft thou loft the fresh blood in thy cheeks?
And given my treasures and my rights of thee,
To thick-ey'd mufing, and curft melancholy?
In thy faint flumbers I by thee have watcht,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars:
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding fteed;
Cry, Courage to the field! and thou haft talk'd
Of fallies, and retires; of trenches, tents,
Of palifadoes, fortins, parapets;

Of bafilifks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prifoners ranfcm, and of foldiers flain,
And all the current of a heady fight.
Thy fpirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath fo beftir'd thee in thy fleep,
That beads of fweat have ftood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-difturbed ftream:

And in thy face ftrange motions have appear'd,
Such as we fee when men reftrain their breath
On fome great fudden hafte. O, what portents are these?
Some heavy business hath my Lord in hand,

And I must know it; elfe he loves me not.

Hot. What, ho! is Gilliams with the packet gone?
Enter Servant.

Serv. He is, my Lord, an hour agone.

Hot. Hath Butler brought thofe horfes from the Sheriff
Serv. One horie, my Lord, he brought ev'n now.
Hot. What horfe? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
Serv. It is, my Lord.

Hot That roan fhall be my throne.

Well, I will back him ftrait. O Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

[Exit Serv.

Lady.

Lady. But hear you, my Lord.
Hot. What fay'ft thou, my Lady?

Lady. What is it carries you away?

Hot. Why, my horfe, my love, my horfe.
Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape! A weazel hath
Not fuch a deal of spleen as you are toft with.
In faith, I'll know your bufinefs, that I will.
I fear my brother Mortimer doth ftir.
About his title, and hath fent for you
To line his enterprize : but if you go

Hot.

answer me

So far afoot, I fhall be weary, love.
Lady. Come, come, you Paraquito,
Directly to this question, I fhall afk.
I'll break thy little finger, Harry, if
Thou wilt not tell me true.

Hot. Away, you trifler: love! I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate; this is no world

To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips.
We must have bloody nofes, and crack'd crowns,
And pafs them currant too

gods me! my horse!
What fay'ft thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me?
Lady. Do ye not love me? do you not indeed?
Well, do not then. For fince you love me not,
I will not love my felf. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me if you speak in jeft or no.
Hot. Come, wilt thou fee me ride?
And when I am o'horfe-back, I will fwear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth queftion me,
Whither I go; not reason whereabout.
Whither I muft, I muft; and to conclude,
This evening muft I leave thee, gentle Kate.
I know you wife, but yet no further wife
Than Harry Percy's wife. Conftant you are,
But yet a woman; and for fecrefie,
No Lady clofer. For I will believe,

Thou wilt not utter what thou doft not know,
And fo far will I trust thee, gentle Kate,

Lady. How! fo far?

Hot. Not an inch further.

But hark you me, Kate,
Whither

C 3

Whither I go, thither fhall you go too :
To-day will I fet forth, to-morrow you.
Will this content you, Kate ?

Lady. It muft of force.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII. The Tavern in Eaft-cheap.
Enter Prince Henry and Poins.

P. Henry. Ned, pr'ythee come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

Poins. Where haft been, Hal ?

P. Henry. With three or four loggerheads, amongst three or fourfcore hogfheads. I have founded the very bafe ftring of humility. Sirrah, I am fworn brother to a leafh of drawers, and can call them by their Chriftian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their confcience that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King of courtefie; telling me flatly, I am no proud Jack, like Jack Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy: and when I am King of England, I fhall command all the good lads in Eaft-cheap. They call drinking deep, dying fcarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they cry, bem! and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am fo good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own lan guage during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou haft loft much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action; but, fweet Ned, to fweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of fugar, clapt even now into my hand by an under fkinker, one that never fpake other English in his life, than Eight Shillings and Six Pence, and You are welcome Sir: with this fhrill addition, Anon, Sir, anon, Sir; Score a pint of baftard in the half moon, or fo. But, Ned, to drive away time 'till Falstaff come, pr'ythee, do thou ftand in fome by-room, while I question my puny drawer, to what end he gave me the fugar: and do never leave calling Francis, that his tale to me may be nothing but, anon. Step afide, and I'll fhew thee a precedent. [Pains retires,

Poins. Francis!

P. Henry. Thou art perfect.
Pans. Francis!

SCENE

SCENE VIII. Enter Francis the Draven.
Fran. Anon, anon, Sir; look down into the pomegranet,

Ralph.

P. Henry. Come hither, Francis.

Fran. My Lord.

P. Henry. How long hast thou to ferve, Francis?
Fran. Forfooth, five years, and as much as to —
Poins. Francis!

Fran, Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry, Five years; by'rlady, a long leafe for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, dareft thou be so valiant, as to play the coward with thy indenture, and fhew it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?

Fran. O Lord, Sir, I'll be fworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart

Poins. Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. How old art thou, Francis ?

Fran. Let me fee, about Michaelmas next I fhall be→→→→ Poins. Francis !

Fran. Anon, Sir; pray you stay a little, my Lord,

P. Henry. Nay, but hark you, Francis, for the fugar thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not?

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

P. Henry. I will give thee for it a thousand pound: alk me when thou wilt, and thou, shalt have it.

Poins. Francis !

Fran. Anon, anon.

P. Henry. Anon, Francis? no, Francis, but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, on Thursday; or indeed, Francis when thou wilt. But, Francis!

Fran. My Lord.

P. Henry, Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, cryftal button, knot-pated, agat-ring, puke-ftocking, caddicegarter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch?

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

P. Henry. Why then your brown baftard is your only drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will fully. In Barbary, Sir, it cannot come to fo much. Fran. What, Sir?

Poins.