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 Sugar, clapt even now into my Hand by an under Skinker, one that never spake other English in his Life, then Eight Shillings and Six Pence, and, You are welcome Sir: With this fhrill Addition, Anon Sir, Anon Sir, Score a Pint of Ba ftard in the Half Moon, or fo. But Ned, to drive away time 'till Falstaff come, I prithee do thou ftand in fome by Room, while I queftion my puny Drawer, to what end he gave me the Sugar, and do never leave calling Francis, that his Tale to me may be nothing but, Anon: Step afide, and I'll fhew thee a Prefident.

Poins. Francis.

P. Henry. Thou art perfect.
Poins. Francis.

Enter Francis and the Drawer.

Fran. 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?
Fran. Fotfooth five Years, and as much as to-

Poins. Francis.

Fran. Anon, anon Sir.

P. Henry. Five Years; Berlady, along Leafe for the clink" ing 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 fworn, 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?

Francis. 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 Sugar thou gaveft me, 'twas a Pennyworth, was't not?

Fran. O Lord, Sir, I would it had been two

P. Henry.

P. Henry. I will give thee for it a thousand Pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou fhalt 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, Christal Button, Not-pated, Aga-tring, Puke-stocking, Caddice-Garter, Spanish Pouch.

Fran. O Lord, Sir, who do you mean?

P. Henry. Why then your brown Baftard 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 hear them call? [Here they both call, the Drawer ftands amazed, not knowing which way to go.

Enter Vintner.

Vint. What ftand'ft thou ftill, and hear'st such a calling? Look to the Gueft 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.

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 themfelves Humours, fince the old Days of Goodman Adam, to the Pupil Age of this prefent twelve a Clock at Midnight. What's a 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 Indu

ftry

ftry is up Stairs and down Stairs; his Eloquence the parcell of a Reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's Mind, the Hot-Spur of the North; he that kills me fome fix or fe ven Dozen of Scots at a Breakfast, washes his Hands and fays to his Wife, Fie upon this quiet Life, I want Work. O my fweet Harry, fays he, 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 prithee call in Falstaff, I'll play Percy, and that damn'd Brawn fhall play Dame Mortimer his Wife. Rivo, fays the Drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow. Enter Falstaff.

Poins. Welcome Jack, where haft thou been?

Fal. A plague of all Cowards, I fay, and a Vengeance too, marry and Amen. Give me a Cup of Sack, Boy. E'er I lead this Life long, I'll fow nether Socks, and mend them too. A plague of all Cowards. Give me a Cup of Sack, Rogue. Is there no Virtue extant?

P. Henry. Didft thou never fee Titan kifs a Difh of Butter, pitiful hearted Titan, that melted at the fweet Tale of the Sun? If thou didft, then behold that Compound.

A

Fal. You Rogue, here's Lime in this Sack too; there is nothing but Roguery to be found in villainous Man; yet a Coward is worse than a Cup of Sack with Lime. 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 lives 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 Songs. A plague of all Cowards, I fay ftill.

P. Henry. How now Woolfack, what mutter you?

Fal. A King's Son? 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 horfon round Man! What's the Matter? Fal. Are you not a Coward? Anfwer me to that, and Poins there?

P. Henry. Ye fat Paunch, and ye call me Coward, I'll ftab thee.

Fal.

Fal. I call thee Coward! I'll fee thee damn'd e'er I call thee Coward; but I would give a thoufand Pound I could run as faft as thou canft. You are ftreight enough in the Shoulders, 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 me. Give me a Cup of Sack, I am a Rogue if I drunk to Day.

P. Henry. O Villain, thy Lips as 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 Sword with a Dozen of them two Hours together. I have efcap'd by Miracle. I am eight times thruft through the Doubler, four through the Hofe, my Buckler cut through and through, my Sword hack'd like a Hand-faw, ecce fignum. I never dealt better fince I was a Man; all would not do. A Plague on all Cowards-let them fpeak; if they speak more or less than Truth, they are Villains and the Sons of Darkness.

P. Henry. Speak Sirs, how was it?
Gads. We four fet upon fome Dozen.'
Fal. Sixteen, at leaft, 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 few elfe, an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were fharing, fome fix or feven 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. All? I know not what ye call All; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a Bunch of Radish; if there VOL. III.

N

were

were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legg'd Creature.

Poins. Pray Heav'n, you have not murthered fome of them. Fal. Nay, that's paft praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two I am fure I have pay'd, two Rogues in Buckram Suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a Lie, fpit in my Eace, call me Horfe; thou know'ft my old Word; here I lay, and thus I bore my Point; four Rogues in Buckram let drive at me.

P. Henry. What, four? thou faidft but two, even now. Fal. Four Hal, I told thee four.

Poins. Ay, Ay, he faid four.

Fal. Thefe four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me; I made no more ado, but took all their feven Points in my Target, thus.

P. Henry. Seven? why there were but four, even now. Fal. In Buckram.

Poins. Ay, four, in Buckram Suits.

Fal. Seven, by these Hilts, or I am a Villain elfe.

P. Henry. Prithee let him alone, we shall have more anon. Fal. Doft thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal. Do fo, for it is worth the liftning too: These nine in Buckram, that I told thee of

P. Henry. So, two more already.

Fal. Their Points being broken-
Poins. Down fell his Hofe.

Fal. Began to give me Ground; I but follow'd me clofe, came in Foot and Hand; and with a Thought feven of the eleven I pay'd.

P. Henry. O monftrous! Eleven Buckram Men grown out

of two!

Fal. But as the Devil would have it, three mis-begoten Knaves, in Kendal Green, came at my Back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not fee thy Hand.

P. Henry. Thefe Lies are like the Father that begets them, grofs as a Mountain, open, palpable. Why thou Claybrain'd Guts, thou Knotty-pated Fool, thou Horfon obfcene greafie Tallow Catch.

Fal.