Poins. Why, a Prince fhould not be fo loofly ftudied, as to remember fo weak a Compofition.

P. Henry. Belike then, my Appetite was not Princely got, for, in troth, I do now remember the poor Creature, Imall Beer. But indeed thefe humble confiderations make me out of love with my Greatnefs. What a difgrace is it to me, to remember thy Name? or to know thy Face to morrow? or to take notice how many pair of Silk Stockings thou haft? (viz. these, and those that were the peach-colour'd ones;) or to bear the Inventory of thy Shirts; as one for fuperfluity, and one other for ufe; but that the Tennis Court Keeper knows better than I, for it is a low ebb of Linnen with thee, when thou keepest not Racket there, as thou haft not done a great while, because the rest of thy Low Countreys have made a Shift to eat up thy Holland.

Poins. How ill it follows, after you have labour'd fo hard, you should talk fo idely? Tell me how many good young Princes would do fo, their Fathers lying fo fick, as yours is?

P. Henry. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?

Poins. Yes; and let it be an excellent good thing.

P. Henry. It fhall ferve among Wits of no higher breeding than thine.

Poins. Go to; I ftand the push of your one thing, that you'll tell.

P. Henry. Why, I tell thee, it is not meet that I should be fad now my Father is fick; albeit I could tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my Friend, I could be fad, and fad indeed too.

Poins. Very hardly upon fuch a Subje&.

P. Henry. Thou think'st me as far in the Devil's Book, as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and perfiftency. Let the end try the Man. But I tell thee, my Hearts bleeds inwardly, that my Father is fick; and keeping fuch vile Com pany as thou art, hath in Reason taken from me, all oftentation of forrow.

Poins. The Reafon.

P. Henry. What would't thou think of me, if I fhould weep?

Poins. I would think thee a moft Princely Hypocrite.

P. Henry.

P. Henry. It would be every Man's thought; and thou art a bleffed Fellow, to think as every Man thinks; never a Man's thought in the World keeps the Road-way better than thine; every Man would think me an Hypocrite indeed. And what excites your moft worshipful thought to think fo?

Poins. Why, because you have been fo lewd, and fo much ingraffed to Falstaff.

P. Henry. And to thee.

Poins. Nay, I am well spoken of, I can hear it with mine own Ears; the worst they can fay of me is, that I am a fecond Brother, and that I am a proper Fellow of my Hands; and those two things I confefs I cannot help. Look, look, here comes Bardolph.

P. Henry. And the Boy that I gave Falstaff; he had him from me Chriftian, and fee if the fat Villain have not transform'd him Ape.

Enter Bardolph and Page.

Bard. Save your Grace.

P. Henry. And yours, moft noble Bardolph.

Poins. Come, you pernicious Afs, you bafhful Fool muft you be blushing? wherefore blush you now? what a Maidenly Man at Arms are you become? Is it fuch a matter to get a Pottle-pots Maiden-head?

Page. He call'd me even now, my Lord, through a red Lattice, and I could difcern no part of his Face from the Window; at last I fpy'd his Eyes, and methought he had made two Holes in the Ale-wives new Petticoat, and peeped through.

P. Henry. Hath not the Boy profited?

Bard. Away, you whorfon upright Rabbet, away. Page. Away you rafcally Althea's Dream away. P. Henry. Inftru&t us, Boy, what dream, Boy? Page. Marry, my Lord, Althea dream'd fhe was deliver'd of a Firebrand, and therefore I call him her Dream. P. Henry. A Crowns-worth of good Interpretation; there it is, Boy.

Poins. O that this good Bloffom could be kept from Cankers: Well, there is Six-pence to preferve thee.

Bard. If you do not make him be hang'd among you, the Gallows fhall be wrong'd.

P. Henry.

P. Henry. And how doth thy Mafter, Bardolph? Bard. Well, my good Lord; he heard of your Grace's coming to Town. There's a Letter for you.

P. Henry. Deliver'd with good refpect; and how doth the Martlemafs, your Mafter?

Bard. In bodily health, Sir.

Poins. Marry, the immortal part needs a Phyfician; but that moves not him; though that be fick, it dies not.

P. Henry. I do allow this Wen to be as familiar with me as my Dog. And he holds his place, for look you how he

writes.

Poins reads. John Falstaff, Knight, Every Man muft krow that, as oft as he hath occafion to Name himself: Even like thofe that are Kin to the King, for they never prick their Finger, but they fay there is fome of the King's blood fpilt. How comes that? fays he that takes upon him not to conceive: The Answer is as ready as a borrowed Cap; I am the King's poor Coufin, Sir.

P. Henry. Nay, they will be Kin to us,but they will ferch it from Japhet. But to the Letter: Sir John Faiftaff, Knight, to the Son of the King, nearest his Father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.

Poins. Why this is a Certificate.

P. Henry. Peace.

I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.

Poins. Sure he means brevity in breath; thort-winded. I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, for he misujes thy Favours se much, that he wears thou art to marry his Sifter Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayft, and fo farewel. Thine, by yea and no: Which is as much as to say, as thou ufeft him. Jack Falftaff with my Familiars: John with my Brothers and Sifters: And Sir John with all Europe.

My Lord, I will fleep this Letter in Sack, and make him eat it.

P. Henry. That's to make him eat twenty of his Words. But do you use me thus, Ned? Maft I marry your Si fter?

Poins. May the Wench have no worfe Fortune. But I never faid fo.

P. Henry

P. Henry. Well, thus we play the Fool with the time, and the Spirits of the Wife fit in the Clouds, and mock us: Is your Mafter here in London?

Bard. Yes, my Lord.

P. Henry. Where fups he? Doth the old Boor feed in the old Frank?

Bard. At the old place, my Lord, in Eaft-cheap.

P. Henry. What Company?

Page. Ephefians, my Lord, of the old Church.
P. Henry. Sup any Women with him?

Page. None, my Lord, but old Mistress Quickly, and Mis. Dol Tear-fheet.

P. Henry. What Pagan may that be?

Page. A proper Gentlewoman, Sir, and a Kinfwoman of my Master's.

P. Henry. Even fuch Kin, as the Parish Heyfars are to the Town-Bull.

Shall we fteal upon them, Ned, at Supper?

Poins. I am your Shadow, my Lord, I'll follow you. P. Henry. Sırrah, you Bóy, and Bardolph, no word to your Mafter that I am yet in Town.

There's for your Silence.

Bard. I have no Tongue, Sir.

Page. And for mine, Sir, I will govern it.

P. Henry. Fare ye well: Go.

This Dol Tear-fheet fhould be fome Road.

Poins. I warrant you, as common as the way between St. Albans and London.

P. Henry. How might we fee Falstaff beftow himself to Night in his true Colours, and not our felves be feen? Poins. Put on two Leather Jerkins, and Aprons, and wait upon him at his Table, like Drawers.

P. Henry. From a God to a Bull? A heavy declenfion: It was Jove's Cafe. From a Prince to a Prentice, a low transformation, that fhall be mine: For in every thing, the Purpose must weigh with the Folly. Follow me, Ned.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE III.

Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumberland, and Lady
Percy.

North. I prethee, loving Wife, and gentle Daughter,
Give an even way unto my rough Affairs.
Put not you on the Vifage of the Times,
And be like them to Percy, troublesome.

L. North. I have given over, I will speak no more:
Do what you will: Your Wifdom be your Guide.
North. Alas, fweet Wife, my Honour is at Pawn,
And but my going, nothing can redeem it.

L. Percy. Oh yet, for Heav'ns fake, go not to thefe Wars.
The time was, Father, when you broke your word,
When you were more endear'd to it, than now,
When your own Percy, when my Heart-dear Harry,
Threw many a Northward look, to fee his Father'
Bring up his Powers: But he did long in vain.
Who then perfuaded you to flay at home?
There were two Honours loft; yours and your Son's.
For yours, may heav'nly Glory brighten it:
For his, it ftuck upon him, as the Sun

In the grey Vault of Heav'n: And by his Light
Did all the Chevalry of England move

To do brave Acts. He was, indeed, the Glafs
Wherein the noble Youth did drefs themselves.
He had no Legs, that practis'd not his Gate:
And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,
Became the Accents of the Valiant.

For those that could fpeak low, and tardily,
Would turn their own Perfection to Abuse,
To feem like him. So that in Speech, and Gate,
In Diet, in Affections of delight,

In Military Rules, Humours of Blood,

He was the Mark, and Glafs, Copy, and Book,

That fashion'd others. And him, O wondrous him!

O Miracle of Men! Him did you leave
Second to none, un-feconded by you,

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