Pist. Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis; come, give me fome Sack. Si fortune me tormente, fperato me contento. Fear we broad-fides? No, let the Fiend give Fire: Give me fome Sack And Sweet-heart, lye thou there: Come we to full Poi ts here; and are & cætera's nothing?

:

Fal. Piftol, I would be quier.

Pift. Sweet Knight, kifs thy Neaffe: What ! we have seen the feven Sta: s.

Dol. Thruft him down Stairs, I cannot endure fuch a Fuftian Rafcal.

Pift. Thruft him down ftairs? know we not Galloway Nags?

Fal. Qoit him down, Bardolph, like a fhove-groat fhilling Nay, if he do nothing but speak nothing, he shall be nothing here.

Bard. Come, get you down Stairs.

Pift. What thall we have Incifion? fhall we embrew? then Death rock me afleep, abridge my doleful Days: Why then let grievous, ghaftly, gaping Wounds, untwine the Sisters three: Come, Atropos, I fay.

Hoft. Here's good stuff toward.
Fal. Give me my Rapier, Boy.

[Drawing his Sword.

Dol. I prethee, Jack, I prethee do not draw.

Fal. Get you down Stairs. [Drawing, and driving Pistol out. Hoft. Here's a goodly Tumult; I'll forfwear keeping Houfe, before I'll be in thefe tirrits and frights, So; Murther, I warrant now. Alas, put up your naked Weapons, put up your naked Weapons.

Dol. I prethee, Jack, be quiet, the Rafcal is gone : Ah you whorfon, little valiant Villain, you.

Hoft. Are you not hurt i'th Groin? Methought he made a fhrewd thruft at your Belly.

Fal. Have you turn'd him out of Doors?

Bard. Yes, Sir, the Rafcal's drunk: You have hurt him, Sir, in the Shoulder.

Fal. A Rafcal to brave me!

Dol. Ay, you fweet little Rogue you: Alas, poor Ape, how thou fweat't? come, let me wipe thy Face-Come on you whorfon Chops--Ah Rogue, I love thee---Thou artas valorous as Hector of Troy, worth fifty of Agamemnon; and ten times beater than the nine Worthies: Ah Villain.

Fal.

Fal. A rafcally Slave, I will tofs the Rogue in a Blanket. Dol. Do, if thou dar'ft for thy Heart: If thou do'st I'll canvass thee between a pair of Sheets.

Enter Mufick,

Page. The Mufick is come, Sir.

Fal. Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol. A Rafcal, bragging Slave: The Rogue fled from me like Quick-filver.

Dol. And thou followd'ft him like a Church: Thou whorfon little tydie Bartholomew Boor-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting on Days, and foyning on Nights, and begin to patch up thine old Body for Heaven?

Enter Prince Henry and Poins difguis'd.

Fal. Peace, good Dol, do not fpeak like a Deaths-head: Do not bid me remember mine end.

Dol. Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of?

Fal. A good fhallow young Fellow: He would have made. a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd Bread well. Dol. They fay Poins hath a good Wit.

Fal. He a good Wit? hang him, Baboon, his Wit is as thick as Tewksbury Muftard: There is no more conceit in him, than. is in a Mallet.

Dol. Why doth the Prince love him fo then?

Fal. Because their Legs are both of a bignefs: And he plays at Quoits well, and eats Conger and Fennel, and drinks off Candles ends for Flap-dragons, and rides the wild Mare with the Boys, and jumps upon joint Stools, and fwears with a good Grace, and wears his Boot very smooth, like unto the Sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of difcreet Stories; and fuch oth r Gambol faculties he hath that the w a weak Mind and an able Body, for the which the Prince admits him: For the Prince himself is fuch another: The weight of an Hair will turn the Scales between their Haberde-pois.

P. Henry. Would not this Nave of aWheel have his Ears

cut off?

Pains. Let us beat him before his Whore.

P. Henry. Look, if the wither'd Elder hath no his Poll claw'd like a Parrot.

Poius. Is it not ftrange that Defire should fo many years out-live Performance?

S 4

Fal.

Fal. Kifs me, Dol,

P. Henry. Saturn and Venus this year in Conjunction! What fays the Almanack to that?

Poins. And look, whether the fiery Trigon his Man be not lifping to his Mafter's old Tables, his Note-Book, his Coun fel-keeper?

Fal. Thou doft give me flatt'ring Buffes.

Dol. Nay, truly, I kifs thee with a moft conftant Heart.
Fal, I am old, I am old.

Dol. I love thee better than I love e'er a fcurvy young Boy of them all.

Fal. What ftuff wilt thou have a Kirtle of? I fhall receive Mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a Cap to morrow A merry Song, come: It grows late, we will to Bed. Thou wilt forget me when I am gone.

Dol. Thou wilt fet me a weeping if thou fay'ft fo: Prove that ever I drefs my self handsom 'till thy return---Well, hearken the end.

Fal. Some Sack, Francis.

P. Henry. Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.

Fal. Ha! a Bastard Son of the King's! And art not thou Po ns his Brother?

P. Henry. Why, thou Globe of finful Continents, what a Life doft thou lead ?

Fal. A better than thou: I am a Gentleman, thou art a Drawer.

P. Henry. Very true, Sir: And I come to draw you out by the Ears.

Hoft. Oh, the Lord preferve thy good Grace. Welcome to London. Now Heaven blefs that fweet Face of thine: What, are you come from Wales?

Fal. Thou whorfon, mad compound of Majefty, by this light Flesh and corrupt Bloed thou art welcome.

[Leaning his Hand upon Dol. Dol. How! you fat Fool, I fcorn you.

Poins. My Lord, he will drive you out of your revenge, and turn all to merriment, if you take not the heat.

P. Henry. You whorfon Candle-myne you, how vilely did you speak of me even now, before this honeft, vertuous, civil Gentlewoman?

Hoft. 'Blefling on your good Heart, and fo the is by my troth.

Fal.

Fal. Didft thou hear me?

P. Henry. Yes; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gads-hill, you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose, to try my patience.

Fal. No, no no; not fo: I did not think thou waft within hearing.

P. Henry. I fhall drive you then to confefs the wilful abuse, and then I know how to handle you.

Fal. No abuse, Hal, on my Honour, no abuse.

P. Henry. Not to dilpraife me, and call me Pantler, and Bread-chopper, and I know not what?

Fal. No abufe, Hal.

Poins. No abuse!

Fal. No abufe, Ned, in the World; honeft Ned, none. I difprais'd him before the Wicked, that the Wicked might not fall in love with him: In which doing, I have done the part of a careful Friend, and true Subject, and thy Father is to give me thanks for it. No abufe, Hal, none, Ned, none; no Boys, none.

P. Henry. See now whether pure Fear, and entire Cowardife, doth not make thee wrong this virtuous Gentlewoman, to close with us? Is he of the Wicked? Is thine Hostess here of the Wicked? Or is the Boy of the Wicked? Or honeft Bardolph, whofe zeal burns in his nose, of the Wicked?

Poins. Anfwer, thou dead Elm, answer.

Fal. The Fiend hath Prickt down Bardolph irrecoverable, and his Face is Lucifer's Privy-Kitchin, where he doth nothing but roaft Mault-Worms: for the Boy, there is a good Angel about him, but the Devil out-bids him too.

P. Henry. For the Women?

Fal. For one of them, fhe is in Hell already, and burns poor Souls: for the other, I owe her Mony; and whether the be damn'd for that, I know not.

Hoft. No, I warrant you.

Fal. No, I think thou art not: I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another Indictment upon thee, for fuffering flesh to be eaten in thy houfe, contrary to the Law, for the which I think thou wilt howl.

Hoft. All Victuallers do fo: What is a Joynt of Mutton or two in a whole Lent?

P. Henry. You, Gentlewoman.

Dol

Dol. What fays your Grace?

Fal. His Grace fays that, which his flesh rebels againft. Hoft. Who knocks fo loud at the Door? Look to the door there, Francis?

Enter Peto.

P. Henry. Peto, how now? what News?

Peto. The King, your Father, is at Westminster,
And there are twenty weak and wearied Pofts,
Come from the North; and as I came along,
I met, and over-took a dozen Captains,
Bare-headed, fweating, knocking at the Taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

P. Henry. By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to prophane the precious time:

When Tempest of Commotion, like the South

Born with black Vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmed Heads.
Give me my Sword, and Cloak:

Falstaff, good night.

[Exit.

Fal. Now comes in the sweetest Morfel of the night, and we muft hence, and leave it unpickt.

door? How now? what's the matter?

More knocking at the

Bard. You must away to the Court, Sir, prefently, A dozen Captains ftay at the door for you.

Fal. Pay the Muficians, Sirrah: farewel Hoftefs, farewel Dol. You fee, my good Wenches, how Men of Merit are fought after; the Undeferver may fleep, when the Man of Action is call'd on. Farewel, good Wenches; if I be not fent away poft, I will fee you again, e're I

go.

Dol. I cannot fpeak; if my heart be not ready to burst--Well, fweet Jack, have a care of thy felf.

Fal. Farewel, farewel.

[Exit.

Hoft. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these

twenty nine Years, come Pefcod-time; but an honefter, and truer-hearted Man. Well, fare thee well.

Bard. Miftrefs Tear-fleet.

Hoft. What's the matter?

Bard. Bid Miftrefs Tear-feet come to my Mafter.

Hoft. O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol.

[Exeunt.

ACT