Where now remains a sweet reverfion.
We now may boldly spend upon the hope
Of what is to come in:

A comfort of retirement lives in this.

Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the Devil and Mifchance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

Wor. But yet I would your father had been here:
The quality and hair of our attempt
Brooks no divifion: it will be thought
By fome, that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and meer dislike
Of our proceedings, kept the Earl from hence.
And think, how fuch an apprehenfion
May turn the tide of fearful faction,

And breed a kind of question in our caufe:
For well you know, we of th' offending fide
Muft keep aloof from strict arbitrement;

And ftop all fight-holes, every loop, from whence
The eye of reafon may pry in upon us :
This abfence of your father draws a curtain,
That fhews the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt upon.

Hot. You ftrain too far.

I rather of his abfence make this ufe:
It lends a lufire, and more great opinion,
A larger Dare to our great enterprise,

Than if the Earl were here: for men must think,
If we without his help can make a head,
To push against the Kingdom; with his help,
We shall o'erturn it topfie-turvy down.

Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.
Dowg. As heart can think; there is not fuch a word
Spoke of in Scotland, as this term of fear.

Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

Hot. My coufin Vernon, welcome, by my foul! Ver. Pray God, my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Weftmorland, fev'n thousand strong, Is marching hither, with Prince John of Lancaster.

Hot. No harm; what more?

Ver. And further, I have learn'd,

The King himself in perfon hath fet forth,
Or hitherwards intended fpeedily,

With strong and mighty preparation.

Hot. He fhall be welcome too: where is his fon }
The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daft the world afide
And bid it pafs?

Ver. All furnisht, all in arms,

All plum'd like Eftridges, that with the wind
Baited like Eagles, having lately bath'd:
Glittering in golden coats like images,
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the Sun at Midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I faw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuiffes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rife from the ground like feather'd Mercury;
And vaulted with fuch eafe into his feat,
As if an Angel dropt down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegafus,

And witch the world with noble horfemanship.

Hot. No more, no more; worse than the Sun in March, This praise doth nourish agues; let them come. They come like Sacrifices in their trim, And to the fire-ey'd maid of fmoaky war, All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them. The mailed Mars fhall on his altar fit Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire, To hear this rich reprifal is fo nigh, And yet not ours. Come, let me take Who is to bear me, like a thunder-bolt, Against the bofom of the Prince of Wales. Harry to Harry fhall (not horfe to horse) Meet, and ne'er part, till One drop down a coarfe. Oh, that Glendower were come !

Ver. There is more news :

I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,

my horfe,

He cannot draw his Pow'r this fourteen days.

Dow. That's the worft tidings that I hear of, yet. Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frofty found. Hot. What may the King's whole Battle reach unto ? Ver. To thirty thoufand.

Hot. Forty let it be;

My father and Glendower being both away,
The Pow'r of us may serve fo great a day.
Come, let us take a mufter speedily:
Dooms-day is near; die all, die merrily.
Dow. Talk not of dying, I am out of fear
Of death, or death's hand, for this one half year.
[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a publick Road, near
Coventry.

Fal.

B

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Ardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of fack: our foldiers fhall march

through we'll to Sutton-cop-hill to night. Bard. Will you give me mony, captain? Fal. Lay out, lay out.

Bard. This bottle makes an angel.

[Exit.

Fal. And if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it make twenty, take them all, I'll answer the coynage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town's end. Bard. I will, captain; farewel. Fal. If I be not afham'd of my foldiers, I am a fowc'd gurnet: I have mif-us'd the King's Prefs damnably. I have got, in exchange of an hundred and fifty foldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good houtholders, yeomens' fons; enquire me out contracted batchelors, fuch as had been ask'd twice on the banes: fuch a commodity of warm flaves, as had as lieve hear the devil, as a drum; such as fear the report of a culverin, worse than a ftruckfowl, or a hurt wild duck. I prefs me none but fuch toafts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their fervices and now my whole Charge confifts of an

:

cients,

cients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, flaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the Glutton's dogs licked his fores; and fuch as indeed were never foldiers, but dif-carded unjust fervingmen, younger fons to younger brothers; revolted tapfters, and oftlers trade-fall'n, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; (10) ten times more difhonourably ragged, than an old-fac'd ancient ; and fuch have I to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their fervices; that you would think, I had a hundred and fifty tatter'd Prodigals, lately come from fwine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me, I had unloaded all the gibbets, and preft the dead bodies. eye hath feen fuch skare-crows: I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the villains

Na

(10) ten times more dishonourably ragged than an oldfac'd Ancient.] Shakespeare uses this Word fo promiscuously, to fignify an Enfign or Standard-bearer, and alfo the Colours or Standard borne, that I cannot be at a Certainty for his Allufion here. If the Text be genuine, I think, the Meaning. muft be; as dishonourably ragged as one that has been an Enfign all his days; that has let Age creep upon him, and never had Merit enough to gain Preferment. Mr. Warburton, who understands it in the Secoud Conftruction, has fufpected the Text, and given the following ingenious Emendation.

How is an old-fac'd Ancient, or Ensign, dishonourably ragged "On the contrary, Nothing is efteem'd more honourable than a ragged Pair of Colours. A very little Alteration will re"ftore it to its Original Senfe, which contains a Touch of "the strongest and most fine-turn'd Satire in the World;

Ten times more dishonourably ragged, than an old Feast Ancient: «i. e. the Colours used by the City-Companies in their Feafts "and Proceffions. For each Company had one with its "peculiar Device, which was usually display'd and borne "about on fuch Occafions. Now Nothing could be more "witty or fatirical than this Comparifon. For as Falstaff's "Raggamuffins were reduc'd to their tatter'd Condition thro' their riotous Exceffes; fo this old Feaft Ancient became 66 torn and fhatter'd, not in any manly Exercise of Arms, " but amidst the Revels of drunken Bacchanals.

march

march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on for, indeed, I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a fhirt and a half in all my company; and the half shirt is two napkins tack'd together, and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without fleeves ; and the fhirt, to say the truth, ftoll'n from my Host of St. Albans; or the red-nos'd Inn-keeper of Daintry. But that's all one, they'll find linnen enough on every hedge.

Enter Prince Henry, and Weftmorland.

P. Henry. How now, blown Jack? how now, quilt? Fal. What, Hal? How now, mad wag, what a devil doft thou in Warwickshire? My good lord of Weftmorland, I cry you mercy; I thought, your Honour had already been at Shrewsbury.

Weft. 'Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my Powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all we muft away all to night.

Fal. Tut, never fear me, I am as vigilant, as a Cat to fteal cream.

P. Henry. I think, to fteal cream, indeed; for thy theft hath already made thee butter; but tell me, Jack, whofe fellows are these that come after ?

Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.

P. Henry. I did never fee fuch pitiful rafcals.

Fal. Tut, tut, good enough to tofs: food for powder, food for powder; they'll fill a pit, as well as better; tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

Weft. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks, they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly.

Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am fure, they never learn'd that of me.

P. Henry. No, I'll be fworn, unless you call three fingers on the ribs, bare. But, Sirrah, make hafte. Percy is already in the field.

Fal. What, is the King encamp'd?

Weft. He is, Sir John: I fear, we shall stay too long.

Fal