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I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a yonker 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 fay fo.

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

Fal. How now, lad? is the wind in that door? must we all march?

Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate-fashion.

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

P. Henry. What fay't thou, Miftrels Quickly? how does thy husband? I love him well, he is an honeft man. Haft. Good my lord, hear me.

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

P. Henry. What fay't thou, Jack?

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

P. Henry. What didft thou lofe, Jack?

Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pounds a-piece, and a feal-ring of my grandfather'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 moft 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 else.

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.

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Hoft.

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 honest man's wife; and, fetting thy knighthood afide, thou art a knave to call me fo.

Fal. Setting thy womanhood afide, thou art a beast to fay otherwise.

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 fifh nor 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'it true, hoftess, and he flanders thee moft grofsly.

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, he would cudgel you.

Fal. Did I, Bardolph ?

Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you faid so.

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

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 ; doft 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 honest wo

man

man with picking thy pocket! why, thou whorfon, impudent, imbofs'd rafcal, if there were any thing in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, Memorandums of bawdyhoufes, and one poor penny-worth 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 state of innocency, Adam fell and what should poor Jack Falstaff do, in the days of villany? thou feeft, I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confess then, you pickt my pocket?

P. Henry. It appears fo by the story.

Fal. Hoftefs, I forgive thee: go make ready Breakfaft; love thy husband, look to thy fervants, and cherifh thy guests thou fhalt find me tractable to any honeft reafon: thou feeft, I am pacify'd still. Nay, I pr'ythee, be gone. [Exit Hoftefs. Now, Hal, to the news at Court: for the robbery, lad, how is That answer'd?

P. Henry. O my fweet beef, I muft ftill 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.

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

Bard. Do, my lord.

P. Henry. I have procur'd thee, Jack, a Charge of foot.

Fal. I would, it had been of horfe. 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 thank'd for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous; I laud them, I praise them.

P. Henry. Bardolph,
Bard. My lord 2

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P. Henry

P. Henry. Go bear this letter to lord John of Lancafter, to my brother John. This to my lord of Weftmorland; go, Peto, to horfe; for thou and I have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time. Jack, meet me tomorrow in the Temple-Hall at two o'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! hoftefs, my breakfaft, come:

Oh, I could wish, this tavern were my drum! [Exeunt.

A CT IV.

SCENE changes to SHREWSBURY. Enter Hot-fpur, Worcester, and Dowglas.

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ELL faid, my noble Scot, if speaking 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 defe

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, lord.
Dowg. Thou art the King of honour :

No man fo potent breathes upon the ground,

But I will beard him.

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Me. These 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 juftling time? who leads his Power; Under whofe government come they along?

Me. His letters bear his mind, not I his mind. Wor. I pr'ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed? Me. He did, my lord, four days ere I fet forth : And at the time of my departure thence,

He was much fear'd by his phyficians.

Wor. I would, the ftate of time had first 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 fmall conjunction we fhould on,
To see 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 fickness is a maim to us.
Hot. A perillous gafh, 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 fhould we read
The very bottom, and the foul of hope,
The very lift, the very utmoft Bound
Of all our fortunes.

Doug. Faith, and fo we fhould;

Where

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