P. Henry. Content; and the argument shall be, thy run ning away. Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, if thou loveft me. Hoft. O Jefu! my Lord the Prince! P. Henry. How now, my Lady, the hostess, what say'st 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, Peto, 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 earnest; 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 fpear-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 seven years before, I blush'd to hear his monftrous devices. P. Henry. O villain, thou ftoleft a cup of fack eighteen years ago, and wert taken in the manour, and ever fince thou hast blush'd extempore; thou hadft fire and fword on thy fide, and yet thou ranneft away; what inftina had thou for it? Bard. My Lord, do you fee these meteors? do you behold thefe exhalations? VOL, V. D P. Henry. e P. Henry. I do. Bard. What think you they portend? SCENE XI. Enter Falstaff. Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now, my fweet 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 wafte; I could have crept into any Alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of fighing and grief, it blows a man up like a bladder. There's villainous news abroad: here was Sir John Braby from your father you must go to the Court in the morning. That fame mad fellow of the north, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the Devil his true Liege-man upon the crofs of a Welshhook what a plague call you him Poins. O, Glendower. Fal. Owen, Owen; the fame, and his fon-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and the fpightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs a horfe-back up a hill perpen dicular P. Henry. He that rides at high speed, and with a piftol kills a Sparrow flying. Fal. You have hit it. P. Henry. So did he never the Sparrow. Fal. Well, that rascal hath 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 inftinct. Fal. I grant ye, upon inftinct: well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Wor cefter is ftol'n away by night: thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as flinking mackerel. P. Henry. P. Henry. Then 'tis like, if there come a hot June, and this civil buffetting hold, we fhall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundred. Fal. By the Mafs, lad, thou fay'ft true; it is like we fhall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art thou not horribly afeard? thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three fuch enemies again as that, fiend Douglas, that fpirit Percy, and that devil Glendoaver? art thou 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 thou com'ft to thy father: if thou do love me, practise an answer. P. Henry. Do thou ftand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life. Fal. Shall I? content: this chair fhall be my ftate, this dagger my scepter, and this cufhion my crown. P. Henry. Thy ftate is taken for a joint-ftool, thy golden fcepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown. Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now fhalt thou be moved- Give me a cup of fack to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I muft fpeak in paffion, and I will do it in King Cambyfes' 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 players, as ever I fee. Fal. Peace, good pint-pot, peace good tickle-brainHarry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendeft thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: for though the camomil, the more it is trodden on, the fafter it grows: yet An old Play intitled Alamentable Tragedie mixed full of plejant Birth, containing the life of Cambifes King of Percia. By Thomas Preston. D 2 youth, youth, the more it is wafted, the fooner it wears. Thou art my fon; I have partly thy mother's word, partly my 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 heav'n prove a micher, and eat black-berries? a question not to be afk'd. Shall the fon of England prove a thief, and take purfes? a question to be afk'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; fo doth the company thou keep'ft; for, Harry, now do I nct fpeak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, 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 Majefty? Fal. A goodly portly man i' faith, and a corpulent; of a chearful look, a pleafing eye, and a most noble carriage; and as I think, his age fome fifty, or, by'rlady, inclining to threefcore; and now I remember me, his name is Fal Staff: if that man fhould 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 peremptorily I fpeak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the reft banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where haft thou been this month? P. Henry. Deft thou fpeak 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 majeftically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbet-fucker, or a poulterer's hare. P. Henry. Well, here I am fet. Fal. And here I ftand; judge, my masters. P. Henry. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous. tickle ye for a young Prince. -Nay, I'll P. Henry. P. Henry, Sweareft thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me; thou art violently carry'd 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 beastliness, that fwoln parcel of dropfies, that huge bornbard of fack, that ftuft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manning-tree 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 tafte fack 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 mif-leader of youth, Falftaff, that old white-bearded Sathan. 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 my felf were to fay more than I know. That he is old, the more's: the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but that he is, (faving your reverence,) a whore after, 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 Pharoab's lean kine are to be lov'd. No, my good Lord, banish Peto, banifh Bardolph, banifh Poins; but for fweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff," and therefore more valiant, being as he is, old Jack Falstaff; banish not him thy Harry's company: banith plump Jack, and banish all the world. P. Henry. I do, I will. [Knocking, and Hostess 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 the behalf of that Falstaff. D. 3 Rea |