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That, being daily fwallow'd by men's eyes,
They furfeited with honey, and began

To loath the tafte of sweetnefs; whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So when he had occafion to be seen,
He was but, as the Cuckow is in June,
Heard, not regarded; seen, but with fuch eyes,
As, fick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze;

Such as is bent on fun like Majesty,

When it fhines feldom in admiring eyes:

But rather drowz'd, and hung their eye-lids down,
Slept in his face, and rendred fuch aspect
As cloudy men ufe to their adverfaries,
Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd and full.
And in that very line, Harry, ftand'st thou;
For thou haft loft thy Princely privilege
With vile participation. Not an eye,
But is a-weary of thy common fight,

Save mine, which hath defir'd to fee thee more;
Which now doth, what I would not have it do,
Make blind it felf with foolish tenderness.

P. Henry. I fhall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, Be more my self.

K. Henry. For all the world,

As thou art at this hour was Richard then,'
When I from France fet foot at Ravenspurg;
And ev'n as I was then, is Percy now.
Now by my fcepter, and my foul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the State,
Than thou, the fhadow of fucceffion!

For, of no Right, nor colour like to Right,
He doth fill fields with harnefs in the Realm,
Turns head against the Lion's armed jaws ;
And, being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and rev'rend bishops on,
To bloody battels, and to bruifing arms.
What never-dying honour hath he
got

Against renowned Dowglas, whofe high deeds,
Whofe hot incurfions, and great name in arms,

Holds

Holds from all foldiers chief majority,

And military Title capital,

Through all the Kingdoms that acknowledge Chrift.
Thrice hath this Hot-pur Mars in fwathing-cloaths,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises,
Difcomfited great, Douglas, ta'en him once,
Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,

And shake the peace and fafety of our Throne.
And what fay you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
Th' Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, and Mortimer,
Capitulate against us, and are up.

But wherefore do I tell this news to thee?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my near'ft and deareft enemy?
Thou that art like enough, through vaffal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
To fight against me under Percy's pay;
To dog his heels, and curtfie at his frowns,
To fhow how much thou art degenerate.

P. Henry. Do not think fo, you fhall not find it fo:
And heav'n forgive them, that fo much have fway'd
Your Majefty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head.
And in the clofing of fome glorious day,
Be bold to tell you, that I am your fon.
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And ftain my favours in a bloody mask,

Which, wash'd away, fhall fcowre my fhame with it.
And that shall be the day, when e'er it lights,
That this fame child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hot-fpur, this all-praised Knight,
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet.
For every honour fitting on his helm,

"Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My fhames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I fhall make this northern Youth exchange
His glorious deeds my indignities.

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Percy is but my fador, good my lord,
T'engrofs up gl. us deeds on my behalf:

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And

And I will call him to fo ftri&t account,
That he fhall render every glory up,
Yea, even the flighteft worthip of his time,
Or I will tear the reck'ning from his heart.
This in the name of heav'n I promise here:
The which, if I perform, and do furvive,
I do beseech your Majefty, may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperature.
If not, the end of life cancels all bonds;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ere break the finalleft parcel of this vow.

K. Herry. A hundred thousand Rebels die in this!
Thou fhalt have Charge, and fovereign Trust herein.
Enter Blunt.

How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.
Blunt. So is the bufinefs that I come to speak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath fent word,
That Douglas and the English rebels met
Th' eleventh of this month, at Shrewsbury:
A mighty and a fearful head they are,
If promifes be kept on every hand,
As ever offer'd foul play in a State.

K. Henry. The Earl of Weftmorland fet forth to day, With him my fon, lord John of Lancaster;

For this advertisement is five days old.

On Wednesday next, Harry, thou fhalt fet forward :
On Thursday, we our felves will march: our meeting
Is at Bridgnorth; and, Harry, you shall march
Through Glofershire: by which, fome twelve days

hence

Our general forces at Bridgnorth shall meet.
Our hands are full of business: let's away,
Advantage feeds them fat, while we delay.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Boar's-head Tavern in

Eaft-cheap.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal. this laft action? Do I not bate ? do I not

Ardolph, am not I fall'n away vilely, fince

dwindle?

dwindle? why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loofe gown: I am wither'd, like an old apple John. Well, I'll repent, and that fuddenly, while I am in fome liking: I fhall be out of heart fhortly, and then I fhall have no ftrength to repent. An I have

not forgotten what the infide of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a brewer's horfe; the infide of a church! company, villainous company hath been the fpoil of me.

Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

Fal. Why, there is it; come, fing me a bawdy fong, to make me merry: I was as virtuously given, as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; fwore little; diced not above feven times a week; went to a bawdyhouse not above once in a quarter of an hour; paid mony, that I borrow'd, three or four times; liv'd well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compafs.

Bard. Why, you are fo fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compafs, out of all reasonable compafs, Sir John.

Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our Admiral, thou beareft the lanthorn in the poop, but 'tis in the nose of thee; thou art the knight of the burning lamp.

Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal. No, I'll be fworn; I make as good use of it, as many a man doth of a death's head, or a memento mori. I never fee thy face, but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that liv'd in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way

given to virtue, I would fwear by thy face; my oath fhould be, by this fire; but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rann'ft up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think, thou had'st been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in mony. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light; thou haft faved

me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern ; but the fack, that thou haft drunk me, would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the deareft chandler's in Europe. I have maintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years, heav'n reward me for it!

Bard. 'Sblood, I would, my face were in your belly. Fal. God-a-mercy! fo fhould I be fure to be heartburn'd.

Enter Hoftefs.

How now, dame Partlet the hen, have you enquir'd yet who pick'd my pocket?

Hoft. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think, I keep thieves in my houfe? I have fearch'd, I have enquir'd, fo has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, fervant by fervant: the tithe of a hair was never loft in my houfe before.

Fal. Ye lie, hoftefs; Bardolph was fhav'd, and loft many a hair; and I'll be fworn, my pocket was pick'd; go to, you are a woman, go.

Hoft. Who I? I defie thee; I was never call'd fo in mine own house before.

Fal. Go to, I know you well enough.

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 his face what call you rich? let him coin his nofe, let him coin his cheeks:

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