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Enter Musick. Page. The Musick is come, Sir.

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

Dol. And thou follow'dit him like a Church: Thou whorson little tydie Bartholomew Boar-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 disguis'd. Fal. Peace, good Dol, do not speak like a Deaths-head: Do not bid me remember mine End.

Dol. Sirrah, what Humour is the Prince of?

Fal. A good shallow young Fellow : He would have made a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd Bread well.

Del. They fay Poins hath a good Wit.

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

Dol. Why doth the Prince love him so then?

Fal. Because their Legs are both of a bigness:: And he plays at Quoits well

, and cats 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 swears with a good Grace, and wears his Boot very smooth, like unto the Sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet Stories; and such' other Gambol faculties he hath that shew a weak Mind and an able Body, for the which the Prince admits him: For the Prince himself is such another: The weight of an Hair will turn the Scales between their H. berde-pois.

P. Henry. Would not this Naye of a Whcel have his Ears cut off?

Poins. Let us beat him before his Whore.

P. Henry. Look, if the wither'd. Elder hath not his Pol} claw'd like a Parrot.

Poins. Is it not strange that Delore should so many Years aut-live Performance?

Fal. Kiss me, Dol.

2. Henry

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

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

Fal. Thou dost give me Aatt’ring Buffes.
Deli Nay, truly, I kiss chee with a most constant Heart.
Fal. I am old, I am old.

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

Fal. What Stuff wilt thou have a Kirtle of? I Mall re. ceive 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 set me a weeping if thou say't so: Prove that ever I dress my self handsom 'till thy return-Well, hearken the end.

Fal. Some Sack, Fancis.
P. Henry. Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.

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

P. Henry. Why, thou Globe of sinful Continents, what a Life dost 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 preserve thy good Grace. Wel.. come to London. Now Heav'n bless that sweet Face of thine: What are you come from Wales? Fal

. - Thou whorson made compound of Majesty, by this light Flesh and corrupt Blood thou art welcome.

[Leaning bis Hand upon Dol. Dol. How! you fat Fool, I scorn you.

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

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


Hoft. 'Blessing on your good Heart, and so she is by my troth.

Fal. Didit thou hear me?

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

Fal. No, no, no, not so: I did not think thou wast within hearing:

P. Henry. I shall drive you then to confess the wilful &buse, and then I know how to handle you.

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

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

Fał. No abuse, Hal.
Poins. No abuse!

Fal. No abuse, Ned, in the World; honeft Ned, none. I disprais'd him before the Wicked, that the Wicked might not fall in love with him; In which doing, I have donc the

part of a careful Friend, and true Subject, and thy Fa: ther is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal, none,

Ned, none; no Boys, none. . P. Henry. Sec now whether pure Fear, and entire Cow

ardise, doth not make thee wrong this virtuous Gentlewoman, to close with us? Is she of the Wicked? Is thide Hostess here of the Wicked? Or is the Bay of the Wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his Nose, of the Wicked?

Poins. Answer, thou dcad 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, the is in Hell already, and burns poor Souls: for the other, I owe her Mony; and whether the bę 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 suffering flesh to be eaten in thy House, contrary to the Law, for the which I think thou wilt howl.'

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

P. Henry. You, Gentlewoman.
Dol. What says your Grace?
Fal. His Grace lays that, which his flesh rebels against.

Hoft. Who knocks so loud at Door? Look to the Door there, Francis,

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

Peto. The King, your Father, is at Weftminffer,
And there are twenty weak and wearied Posts,
Come from the North; and as I came along,
I met, and over-took a dozen Captains,
Bare-headed, sweating, 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 fweetest Morsel of the Night, and we must hence, and leave it unpickt. More knocking at the Door? How now? what's the matter?

Bard. You must away to the Court, Şir, prefently, A dozen Captains stay at Door for you.

Fal. Pay the Musicians, Sirrah: Farewel Hoftess, fare. wel Dol. You see, my good Wenches, how Men of Merit are sought after; the Undeserver may sleep, when the Man of Action is call’d on. Farewel, good Wenches; if I be not sent away poft, I will see you again, ere I go.

Dal. I cannot speak; if my Heart be not ready to burstWell, sweet 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 Pescod.time; but an honester, and truer-hearted Man Well, fare chee well,


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X. Henry But ere they come, bid them o'er-read these

Bard. Mistress Tear-sheet.
Hoft. What's the matter ?
Bard. Bid Mistress Tear feet come to my Master..
Hos. O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol. 43. [Exeunt.

Enter King Henry with a Page.

And well confider of them: Make good speed. [Exit Page.
How many thousands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's soft Nurse, how have i frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And steep my Senses in Forgetfulness?
Why ratheri Sleep, lyeft thou in smoaky Cribs,
Upón uneafie Pallads ftretching thee,
And hufht with buzzing Night Flies to thy flumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of coftly State,
And lulld with sounds of sweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathsom Beds, and leav'lt the Kingly Couch
A, or a common Larum-Bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Mast,
Seal up the Ship-boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the Visitation of the Winds,
Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafʼning Clamours in the Nip’ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it self awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repose
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour fo rude ?


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