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Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
K. Hen. It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil
West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious lord;
K. Hen. Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend,
West. In faith,
K. Hen. Yea, there thou mak’st me sad, and mak'st me sin,
West. This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester,
K. Hen. But I have sent for him to answer this;
Enter HENRY, Prince of Wales, and FALSTAFF.
P. Hen. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly, which thou would'st truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capoos, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of Jeaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colour'd taffeta, I see no reason why thou should'st be so superfluous to demand the time of the day. Fal. Jodeed, you come near me, now, Hal; for we,
that take purses, go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phæbus, – he, “that wandering knight so fair.” Aod, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, when thou art king, - as, God save thy grace, majesty, I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,
P. Hen. What! none?
Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.
P. Hen. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us, that are squires of the night's body, be called thieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon; and let men say, we be men of good government, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.
P. Hen. Thou say'st well, and it holds well, too; for the fortune of us, that are the moon's men, doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed as the sea is, by the moon. As for proof now: a purse of gold most resolutely spatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing — lay by; and spent with crying — bring in; now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
Fal. By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
P. Hen. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
Fal. How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips, and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin ?
P. Hen. Why, what a por have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
Fal. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
P. Hen. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
P. Hen. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and, where it would not, I have used my credit.
Fal. Yea, and so used it, that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent, — But, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king, and resolution thu's fobbed, as it is, with the rusty curb of old father antick, the law? Do not thou, when thou art a king, hang a thief.
P. Hen. No: thou shalt.
P. Hen. Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour, as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
P. Hen. For obtaining of suits ?
Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman bath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat, or a lugged bear.
P. Hen. Or an old lion; or a lover's lute.
P. Hen. What sayest thou to a bare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?
Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes; and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascallest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I pr’ythee, trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God,
thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, Sir; but I marked him not: and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not: and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.
P. Hen. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.
Fal. 0! thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal: God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain: I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom. P. Hen. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow,
Jack? Fal. Zounds! where thou wilt, lad, I'll make one; an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.
P. Hen. I see a good amendment of life in thec; from praying, to purse-taking.
Enter Poins, at a distance. Fal. Why, Hal, 't is my vocation, Hal: 't is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. Poins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. – 0! if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain, that ever cried, Stand! to a true man.
P. Hen. Good morrow, Ned.
Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack-and-Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last, for a cup of Madeira, and a cold capon's leg?
P. Hen, Sir John stands to his word : the devil shall have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs; he will give the devil his due.
Poins. Then, art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil. P. Hen. Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.