doublet will fully. In Barbary, Sir, it cannot come to fo much.

Fran. What, Sir?

Poins. Francis,

P. Henry. Away, you rogue, doft thou not hear them call?

Here they both call; the drawer ftands amazed, not knowing which way to go.

Enter Vintner.

Vint. What, ftand'st thou ftill, and bear'ft fuch a Calling? Look to the guests within. [Exit drawer.] My lord, old Sir John with half a dozen more are at the door; fhall I let them in?

P. Henry. Let them alone a while, and then open the door. [Exit Vintner.] Poins,

Enter Poins.

Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. Sirrah, Falstaff and the reft of the thieves are at the door; fhall we be

merry?

Poins. As merry as Crickets, my lad. But hark ye, what cunning match have you made with this jeft of the drawer? come, what's the iffue?

P. Henry. I am now of all humours, that have fhew'd themselves humours, fince the old days of goodman Adam, to the pupil age of this prefent twelve o'clock at midnight. What's o'clock, Francis?

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. That ever this fellow fhould have fewer words than a Parrot, and yet the fon of a Woman! His induftry is up ftairs and down ftairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind,

I am not yet of Percy's mind, The drawer's anfwer had interrupted the prince's train of

difcourfe. He was proceeding thus, I am now of all humours that have shewed themselves bu

mour's

mind, the hot-fpur of the north; he that kills me fome fix or feven dozen of Scots at breakfast, washes his hands and fays to his wife, Fy upon this quiet life! I want work. O my fweet Harry, fays fhe, how many haft thou kill'd to-day? Give my roan horfe a drench, fays he, and anfwers, fome fourteen, an hour after; a trifle, a trifle. I pr'ythee, call in Falstaff; I'll play Percy, and that damn'd Brawn fhall play dame Mortimer his wife. Ribi3, fays the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.

SCENE IX.

Enter Falstaff, Gads-hill, Bardolph, and Peto. Poins. Welcome, Jack; where haft thou been? Fal. A plague on all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry and Amen!-Give me a cup of fack, boy-Ere I lead this life long, I'll fow nether focks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague on all cowards!-Give me a cup of fack, rogue.-Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks. P. Henry. Didft thou never fee Titan kifs a difh of butter? (pitiful-hearted Titan!) that melted at the

mour's

I am not get of Percy's mind. That is, I am willing to indulge myself in gaiety and frolick, and try all the varieties of human life. I am not yet of Percy's mind, who thinks all the time loft that is not spent in bloodfhed, forgets decency and civility, and has nothing but the barren talk of a brutal foldier.

3 Ribi, that is, drink. Han mer. All the former editions have rivo, which certainly had no meaning, but yet was perhaps the cant of English taverns.

pitiful hearted Titan, that

2

fweet

melted at the fweet Tale of the Sun? This abfurd Reading poffeffes all the Copies in general; and tho' it has pafs'd thro' fuch a Number of Impreffions, is Nonfenfe, which we may pronounce to have arifen at first from the Inadvertence, either of Tranfcribers, or the Compofitors at Prefs. 'Tis well known, Titan is one of the poetical Names of the Sun; but we have no authority from Fable for Titan's melting away at his own sweet Tale, as Narciffus did at the Reflec tion of his own Form. The

Poet's

fweet tale of the Sun? if thou didft, then behold that compound.

Fal. You rogue, ' here's lime in this fack too; there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man;

:

Poet's Meaning was certainly this: Falstaff enters in a great Heat, after having been robb'd by the Prince and Poins in Difguife and the Prince feeing him in fuch a Sweat, makes the following Simile upon him: "Do but look upon that Com"pound of Greafe; his Fat drips away with the Violence "of his Motion, juft as Butter "does with the Heat of the "Sun-Beams darting full upon "" it." THEOBALD.

Sir Richard Hawkins, one of Queen Elizabeth's fea captains, in his voyages, p. 379. fays, Since the Spanish facks have been common in our taverns, which for confervation are mingled with lime in the making, our nation complains of calentures, of the flone, the dropfy, and infinite other diftempers not heard of before this wine came into frequent use. Befides, there is no year that it wafleth not two millions of crowns of our fubftance by conveyance into foreign countries. This latter, indeed, was a fubftantial evil. But as to lime's giving the flone, this fure must be only the good old man's prejudice; fince in a wifer age by far, an old wo man made her fortune, by fhewing us that lime was a cure for the ftone. Sir John Faistaff, were he alive again, would fay the deferved it, for fatisfying us that we might drink fack in fafety: But that liquor has been long fince out of date. I think Lord Clarendon, in his Apology, tells us, That fweet wines, before the Reftoration, were so much to the English tafle, that we engrossed the whole product of the Canaries; and that not a pipe of it was expended in any other country in Europe. But the banished Cavaliers brought home with them the gouft for French wines, which has continued ever fince; and here's lime in this fack from whence, perhaps, we may too; there is nothing but roguery more truly date the greater freto be found in villainous manquency of the stone.

Didft thou never see Titan kifs a difh of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan! that melted at the fweet tale of the Sun?] This perplexes Mr. Theobald; he calls it nonfenfe, and indeed, having made nonfenfe of it, changes it to pitiful hearted Butter. But the common reading is right: And all that wants reftoring is a parenthefis into which (pitifulhearted Titan!) fhould be put. Pitiful-hearted means only amor ous, which was Titan's character: the pronoun that refers to butter. But the Oxford Editor goes ftill further, and not only takes without ceremony Mr. Theobald's bread and butter, but turns tale into face; not perceiving that the heat of the Sun is figuratively represented as a love tale, the poet having before called him pitiful-hearted, or amorous.

5

WARBURTON.

WARE.

yet a coward is worse than a cup of fack with lime in it; a villainous coward-Go thy ways, old Jack, die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a fhotten herring. There live not three good men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, God help, the while! a bad world; I fay. I would, I were a weaver; I could fing all manner of fongs.-A plague on all cowards, I fay ftill!

6

?

P. Henry. How now, Woolfack, what mutter you Fal. A King's fon! If I do not beat thee out of thy Kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy Subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geefe, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales! P. Henry. Why, you whorfon round man! what's the matter?

Fal. Are you not a coward? answer me to that, and Poins there?

P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll ftab thee.

Fal. I call thee coward! I'll fee thee damn'd ere. I call thee coward; but I would give a thoufand pound I could run as faft as thou can'ft. You are strait

wards corrected. The reading of the three laft editions, I could fing pfalms and all manner of Jongs, is made without authority out of different copies.

I believe nothing more is here meant than to allude to the practice of weavers, who having their hands more employed than their minds, amuse themfelves frequently with fongs at the loom. The knight, being full of vexation, wishes he could fing to divert his thoughts.

Weavers are mentioned as lovers of mufick in the Merchant of Venice. Perhaps to fing like a Weaver might be proverbial.

enough

enough in the fhoulders, you care not who fees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? a plague upon fuch backing! give me them that will face meGive me a cup of fack; I am a rogue if I drunk to day.

P. Henry. O villain, thy lips are fcarce wip'd fince thou drunk'ft laft.

Fal. All's one for that.

A plague on all cowards, ftill, fay I!

P. Henry. What's the matter?

[He drinks.

Fal. What's the matter! here be four of us, have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.

P. Henry, Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Fal. Where is it? taken from us, it is. A hundred upon poor four of us.

P. Henry. What a hundred, man?

Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-fword with a
dozen of them two hours together. I have efcaped by
miracle. I am eight times thurft through the doublet,
four through the hofe, my buckler cut through and
through, my fword hack'd like.a hand-faw, ecce fignum.
[Shews his fword.] I never dealt better fince I was a
man. All would not do. A plague on all cowards!
-Let them speak; if they speak more or less than
truth, they are villains, and the fons of darkness.
P. Henry. Speak, Sirs, how was it?

Gads. We four fet upon fome dozen.
Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord.

Gads. And bound them.

Peto. No, no, they were not bound.

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them, or I am a Jew elfe, an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were fharing, fome fix or seven fresh men fet upon us.

Fal. And unbound the reft, and then came in the other.

P. Henry. What, fought ye with them all?

Fal.