Hoft. No, Sir John: you do not know me, Sir John; I know you, Sir John; you owe me mony, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of fhirts to your back.

Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers wives, and they have made boulters of them.

Hoft. Now as I am a true woman, Holland of eight fhillings an ell you owe mony here befides, Sir John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and mony lent you, four and twenty pounds.

Fal. He had his part of it, let him pay.

Hoft. He alas! he is poor, he hath nothing.

Fal. How! poor? look upon his face: what call your rich? let him coin his nofe, let him coin his cheeks: I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? fhall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I fhall have my pocket pick'd? I have loft a feal-ring of my grand-father's worth forty mark.

Hoft O Jefu! I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that the ring was copper.

Fal. How? the Prince is a Jack, a fneak-cup; and if. he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so.

SCENE VI.

Enter Prince Henry marching, and Peto; Falstaff meets them, playing on bis Truncheon like a Fife.

Fal. How now,

we all march?

lad? is the wind in that door? muft

Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion,

Hoft. My Lord, I pray you, hear me.

P. Henry. What fay'ft thou, Miftrefs Quickly? how does thy husband? I love him well, he is an honeft man. Hoft. Good my Lord, hear me.

Fal. Pr'ythee, let her alone, and lift to me.

P. Henry. What say'st thou, Jack ?

Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras, and had my pocket pickt: this houfe is turn'd bawdyhoufe, they pick pockets.

P. Henry. What didft thou lofe, Jack?

Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds

of

of forty pound a-piece, and a feal-ring of my grand-father's, P. Henry. A trifle, fome eight-penny matter.

Hoft. So I told him, my Lord; and I faid, I heard your Grace fay fo: and, my Lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd man as he is, and faid he would cudgel you.

P. Henry. What! he did not?

Hoft. There's neither faith, truth, nor woman-hood in me elfe.

Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a ftew'd prune; 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!

Hoft. Say, what thing? what thing?

Fal. What thing? why, a thing to thank God on. Hoft. I am nothing to thank God on, I would thou fhould't know it: I am an honeft man's wife; and setting thy knight-hood afide, thou art a knave to call me fo. Fal. Setting thy woman-hood afide, thou art a beaft to Lay otherwife.

Hoft. Say, what beaft, thou knave thou?

Fal. What beaft? why, an Otter.

P. Henry. An Otter, Sir John, why an Otter? Fal. Why? fhe's neither fish por flesh; a man knows not where to have her.

Hoft. Thou art an unjust man in faying fo; thou, or any man, knows where to have me; thou knave thou! P. Henry. Thou fay'ft true, hoftefs, and he flanders thee moft grofly.

Hoft. So he doth you, my Lord, and faid this other day, you ow'd him a thousand pound.

P. Henry. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound? Fal. A thousand pound, Hal? a million; thy love is worth a million: thou ow'ft me thy love.

Hoft. Nay, my Lord, he call'd you Jack, and faid be would cudgel you.

Fal. Did I, Bardolph ?

Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you faid fo.

Fal. Yea, if he faid my ring was copper.

P. Aenry.

P. Henry. I fay 'tis copper. Dar'ft thou be as good as thy word now?

Fal. Why, Hal, thou know'ft as thou art but a man I dare; but as thou art a Prince, I fear thee, as I fear the roaring of the Lion's whelp.

P. Henry. And why not as the Lion ?

Fal. The King himself is to be fear'd as the Lion; do'ft thou think I'll fear thee, as I fear thy father? nay, if I do, let my Girdle break!

P. Henry. O, if it fhould, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But, Sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honefty, in this bofom of thine; it is all fill'd up with guts and midriff. Charge an honeft woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whorfon, impudent, imbost rascal, if there were any thing in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, Memorandums of bawdy-houses, and one poor pennyworth of fugar-candy to make thee long-winded; if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but thefe, I am a villain; and yet you will ftand to it, you will not pocket up wrongs. Art thou not asham'd?

Fal. Doft thou hear, Hal? thou know'ft in the ftate of innocency, Adam fell; and what fhould poor Jack Falstaff do, in the days of villainy? thou feeft, I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confefs then you pickt my pocket?

P. Henry. It appears fo by the ftory.

Fal, Hoftefs, I forgive thee: go make ready breakfast ; love thy hufband, look to thy fervants, and cherish thy guests thou shalt find me tractable to any honeft reason: thou feeft, I am pacify'd, - ftill? Nay, I pr'ythee, be gone. [Exit Hoftefs, weeping. Now, Hal, to the news at Court for the robbery, lad: how is that anfwer'd ?

P. Henry. O my fweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee. The mony is paid back again.

Fal. O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labour.

P. Henry. I am good friends with my father, and may do any thing.

I

Fal.

Fal, Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou do'ft, and do it with unwafh'd hands too.

Bard. Do, my Lord.

P. Henry. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot. Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where fhall I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of two and twenty, or thereabout; I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for thefe rebels, they offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.

P. Henry. Bardolph!

Bard, My Lord.

P. Henry, Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, to my brother John: this to my Lord of Westmorland. Go, Peto, to horfe; for thou and I have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time. Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple-Hall at two a-clock in the afternoon, there shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive mony and order for their furniture.

The land is burning, Percy ftands on high,

And either they, or we, muft lower lye.

Fal. Rare words! brave world! hoftess, my breakfast,

come:

Oh, I could wish this tavern were my drum !

Hot.

W

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A SHREWSBURY.

[Exeunt.

Enter Hot-fpur, Worcester, and Dowglas.
Ell faid, my noble Scot; if fpeaking truth
In this fine age were not thought flattery,
Such attribution fhould the Douglas have,
As not a foldier of this feafon's ftamp
Should go fo gen'ral currant through the world.
By heav'n, I cannot flatter: I defie

The tongues of foothers. But a braver place
In my heart's love hath no man than your felf.
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, Lordi
Dow. Thou art the King of honour :

No man fo potent breathes upon the ground,
But I will beard him,

2

Enter

Enter a Meffenger.

Hot. Do, and 'tis well-What letters haft thou there? I can but thank you.

Meff. Thefe come from your father.

Hot. Letters from him? why comes he not himself?
Me. He cannot come, my Lord, he's grievous fick,
Hot. Heav'ns! how has he the leifure to be fick
In fuch a justling time? Who leads his power;
Under whofe government come they along?
Me. His letters bear his mind, not I.
Hot. His mind!

I pr'ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?
Meff. He did, my Lord, four days ere I fet forth :
And at the time of my departure thence,

He was mach fear'd by his physician.

Wor.

would the ftate of time had firft been whole,

Ere he by fickness had been vifited;

His health was never better worth than now.

Hot. Sick now? droop now? this fickness doth infect The very life blood of our enterprize;

'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.

He writes me here, that inward fickness
And that his friends by deputation

Could not fo foon be drawn: nor thought he meet
To lay fo dangerous and dear a trust

On any foul remov'd, but on his own.

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,

That with our small conjunction we fhould on,
To fee how fortune is difpos'd to us :
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the King is certainly poffeft
Of all our purpofes. What fay you to it?
Wor. Your father's ficknefs is a maim to us.
Hot. A perilous gath, a very limb lopt off:
And yet, in faith, 'tis not; his present want
Seems more than we fhall find it. Were it good,
To fet the exact wealth of all our ftates

All at one caft? to fet fo rich a main

On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?

It were not good; for therein should we read
VOL, V.

F

The