Hot. What, ho! is Gilliams with the packet gone? Enter Servant. Serv. He is, my lord, an hour agone. Hot. Hath Butler brought thofe horfes from the Sheriff? Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought ev'n now. Hot. That roan fhall be my Throne. Well, I will back him ftrait. O Esperance! But Butler lead him forth into the Park. Lady. But hear you, my Lord. Hot. What fay'ft thou, my Lady? Lady. What is it carries you away? Hot. Why, my horfe, my love, my horse. Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape! a weazel hath not Such a deal of fpleen as you are toft with.In faith, I'll know your business, that I will. I fear, my brother Mortimer doth ftir About his Title, and hath fent for you To line his enterprize: but if you go— Hot. So far afoot, I fhall be weary, love. Lady. Come, come, you Paraquito, answer me Directly to this queftion, I fhall afk.. I'll break thy little Finger, Harry, An if thou wilt not tell me all things true. Hot. Away, away, you trifler :-love! I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate; this is no world * To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips. Lady. Do ye not love me? do you not, indeed? Well, do not then. For, fince you love me not, #mammets,] i. e. Girls. Mr. Pope. I will not love myself. Do you not love me? or no? Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know; Lady. How! fo far? Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate, Whither I go, thither fhall you go too; To day will I fet forth, to-morrow you. Will this content you, Kate? Lady. It muft of force. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. Changes to the Boar's-Head Tavern in Eaft-cheap. Enter Prince Henry and Poins. P. Henry. NED, pr'ythee come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little. Poins. Where haft been, Hal? P. Henry. With three or four loggerheads, amongst three or fourfcore hogfheads. I have founded the very bafe ftring of humility. Sirrah, I am fworn brother to a leafh of drawers, and can call them all by their Chriftian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their confcience, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King of courtesy; telling me flatly, I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but C 5 a Co a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy: (by the Lord, fo they call me ;) and when I am King of England, I fhall command all the good lads in Eaft-cheap. They call drinking deep, dying scarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they cry, hem; and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am fo good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou haft loft much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action; but, fweet Ned,-(to fweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of fugar, clapt even now into my hand by an under-fkinker, one that never spake other English in his life, than Eight Shillings and Six Pence, and You are welcome, Sir: with this fhrill addition, Anon, anon, Sir; Score a pint of baftard in the half moon, or fo.) But, Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I pr'ythee, do thou ftand in fome bye-room, while I queftion my puny drawer, to what end he gave me the fugar; and do thou never leave calling Francis, that his tale to me may be nothing but, anon. Step afide, and I'll fhew thee a precedent. [Poins retires. Poins. Francis, P. Henry. Thou art perfect. Fran. SCENE VIII. Enter Francis the drawer. ANON, anon, Sir; look down into the pomgranet, Ralph. P. Henry. Come hither, Francis. Fran. My lord. P. Henry. How long haft thou to ferve, Francis? Poins. Francis, Fran. Anon, anon, Sir. P. Henry. P. Henry. Five years; by'rlady, a long leafe for the clinking of pewter. But Francis, dareft thou be fo valiant, as to play the coward with thy indenture, and fhew it a fair pair of heels, and run from it? Fran. O Lord, Sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart Poins. Francis, Fran. Anon, anon, Sir. P. Henry. How old art thou Francis? Fran. Let me fee, about Michaelmas next I fhall be Poins. Francis, Fran. Anon, Sir; pray you ftay a little, my lord. P. Henry. Nay, but hark you, Francis, for the fugar thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not? Fran. O lord, I would it had been two. P. Henry. I will give thee for it a thousand pound: afk me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it. Poins. Francis, Fran. Anon, anon. P. Henry. Anon, Francis? no, Francis, but to-morrow, Francis, or Francis, on Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis, Fran. My lord? P. Henry. Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, cryftalbutton, knot-pated, agat-ring, puke-flocking, caddice-garter, fmooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch. Fran. O lord, Sir, who do you mean? P. Henry. Why then your brown baflard is your only drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas 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. C 6 Enter Enter Vintner. Vint. What, ftand'ft thou ftill, and hear'ft such a Calling? Look to the guests within. 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. Poins, [Exit Vintner 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 son of a Woman!— His induftry is up ftairs and down ftairs; his eloquence the parcel of a recko.ag. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the hot-fpur of the north; he that kills me fome fix or feven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, wafhes his hands and fays to his wife, fie upon this quiet life! I want work. O my fweet Harry, fays fhe, how many haft thou kill'd to day? Give my roan horse a drench, fays he, and answers, 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. Ribi, fays the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow. SCENE |