ACT I. SCENE I.

SCENE II.

Now Hal, what time of day is it, Lad?

Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old Sack and unbut­toning thee after Supper, and sleeping upon Benches in the afternoon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly, which thou wouldst truly know. What a Devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? unless Hours were Cups of Sack, and Minutes Capons, and Clocks the Tongues of Bawds. I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous, to de­mand the time of the day.

Indeed you came near me now, Hal. For we that take Purses, go by the Moon and seven Stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that wan­dring Knight so fair. And I pray thee sweet Wag, when thou art King, as God save thy Grace, Majesty I should say, for Grace thou wilt have none.

What! none?

No, not so much as will serve to be Prologue to an Egg and Butter.

Well, how then? Come roundly, roundly.

Marry then, sweet Wag, when thou art King, let not us that are Squires of the Nights body, be call'd Thieves of the Days 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 chast Mistress the Moon, under whose countenance we steal.

Thou say'st well, and it holds well too: for the Fortune of us that are the Moons 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 snatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing, Laid by: And spent with crying, [Page 4] 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 ride of the Gallows.

Thou say'st true, Lad: And is not my Hostess of the Tavern a most sweet Wench?

As is the Honey, my old Lad of the Castle: and is not a Buff Jerkin a most sweet Robe of durance?

How, how? how now mad Wag? What in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a Plague have I to do with a Buff Jerkin?

Why, what a Pox have I to do with my Hostess of the Ta­vern?

Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

Did I ever call thee for to pay thy part?

No, I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

Yea and elsewhere, so far as my Coyn would stretch, and where it would not. I have us'd my Credit.

Yea, and so us'd it, that were it here apparent, that thou art Heir apparent. But I prythee sweet Wag, shall there be Gallows stand­ing in England when thou art King? and Resolution thus fobb'd as it is, with the rusty curb of old Father Antick the Law? Do not thou when thou art a King, hang a Thief.

No, thou shalt.

Shall I? O rare! I'll be a brave Judge.

Thou judgest false already. I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the Thieves, and so become a rare Hangman.

Well, Hal, well: and in some sort it jumps with my humour, as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you.

For obtaining of Suits?

Yea, for obtaining of Suits, whereof the Hangman hath no lean Wardrobe. I am as melancholy as a Gyb-Cat, or a lugg'd Bear.

Or an old Lion, or a Lovers Lute.

Yea, or the Drone of a Lingcolnshire Bagpipe.

What say'st thou to a Hare, or the Melancholly of Moor-Ditch?

Thou hast the most unsavoury Similes, and art indeed the most comparative rascallest sweet young Prince. But, Hal, I prythee trou­ble me no more with vanity, I would 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 mark'd him not, and yet he talk'd very wisely, but I regarded him not, and yet he talkt wisely, and in the street too.

Thou didst well: for no man regards it.

O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harm unto me, Hal, God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing: and now I am (if a Man should speak truly) little better than one of the wicked. I must give [Page 5] over this life, and I will give it over: and I do not, I am a Villain. I'le be damn'd for never a King's Son in Christendom.

Where shall we take a Purse to morrow, Jack?

Where thou wilt, Lad, I'll make one: and I do not, call me Villain, and baffle me.

I see a good amendment of life in thee: From Praying, to Purse taking.

Why, Hal, 'tis my Vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a Man to la­bour in his Vocation.

Good morrow, Ned.

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 Madera, and a cold Capons leg?

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.

Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the Devil.

Else he had been damn'd for cozening the Devil.

But, my Lads, my Lads, to morrow morning, by four a Clock early at Gods-hill, there are Pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich Of­ferings, and Traders riding to London with fat Purses. I have Vizards for you all; you have Horses for your selves: Gads-hill lies to night in Rochester, I have bespoke Supper to morrow in Eastcheap; we may do it as secure as sleep: If you will go, I will stuff your Purses full of Crowns: If you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd.

Hear ye Yedward, if I tarry at home, and go not, I'll hang you for going.

You will, Chops.

Hal, Wilt thou make one?

Who, I rob? I a Thief? not I.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellow-ship in thee, nor thou cam'st not of the Blood Royal, if thou dar'st not bid stand for ten Shillings.

Well then, once in my days I'll be a Mad cap.

Why, that's well said.

Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

I'le be a Traitor then, when thou art King.

I care not.

Sir John, I prethee leave the Prince and me a-lone, I will lay him down such Reasons for this Adventure, that he shall go.

Well, may'st thou have the spirit of Perswasion; and he the Ears of profiting, that what thou speakest, may move; and what he hears [Page 6] may be believed, that the true Prince may for (recreation sake) prove a false Thief; for the poor abuses of the time, want countenance. Fare­well; you shall find me in East-cheap.

Farewel the latter Spring. Farewel Allhollown Summer.

Now, my good sweet honey Lord, ride with us to morrow. I have a jeast to execute, that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Harvey, Rossil, and Gads-hill, shall rob those men that we have already way-laid; your self and I will not be there: and when they have the Booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this Head from my Shoulders.

But how shall we part with them in setting forth?

Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they venture upon the Exploit themselves, which they have no sooner atchieved, but we'll set upon them.

I, but 'tis like that they will know us by our Horses, by our Ha­bits, and by every other Appointment to be our selves.

Tut, our Horses they shall not see, I'le tye them in the wood; our Vizards we will change after we leave them: and, Sarrah, I have Cases of Buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward Garments.

But I doubt they will be too hard for us.

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred Cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees Reason, I'le forswear Arms. The vertue of this jeast will be, the incomprehensible lies that this sat Rogue will tell us, when we meet at Supper; how thirty at least he fought with, what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this, lies the Jeast.

Well, I'le go with thee, provide us all things necessary, and meet me to morrow night in Eastcheap, there I'le sup. Farewel.

Farewel, my Lord.

SCENE III.

ACT. II. SCENE. I.

HEigh ho, an't be not four by the day I'll be hang'd. Charles wain is over the new Chimney, and yet our Horse not pack't. What, Ostler?

Anon, anon.

I prethee Tom, beat Cuts Saddle, put a few Flocks in the point: The poor Jade is wrung in the Withers, out of all cess.

Pease and Beans are as dank here as a Dog, and this is the next way to give poor Jades the Bots: This House is turn'd upside down since Robin the Ostler died.

Poor fellow never joy'd since the price of Oats rose, it was the death of him.

I think this House is the most Villanous House in all London road for Fleas: I am stung like a Tench.

Like a Tench? There's ne're a King in Christendom, could be better bit, than I have been since the first Cock.

Why, you will allow us ne're a Jourden, and then we leak in your Chimney: And your Chamber-lye breeds Fleas like a Loach.

What Ostler, come away, and be hang'd, come away.

I have Gammon of Bacon, and two razes of Ginger, to be deliver'd as far as Charing-Cross.

The Turkies in my Panniers are quite starv'd. What Ostler? a plague on thee, hast thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? and 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to break the pate of thee, I am a very Villain. Come and be hang'd, hast no faith in thee?

Cood morrow, Carriers. What's a Clock?

I think it be two a Clock.

I prethee lend me thy Lanthorn to see my Gelding in the Stable.

Nay, soft I pray ye, I know a trick worth two of that.

I prethee lend me thine.

I, when, canst tell? lend me thy Lanthorn (quoth-a) marry I'll see the hang'd first.

Sirrah, Carrier: what time do you mean to come to London?

Time enough to go to bed with a Candle, I warrant thee. Come Neighbour Mugges, we'll call up the Gentlemen, they will along with company, for they have a great charge.

What ho, Chamberlain?

At hand quoth Pick-purse.

That's even as fair, as at hand quoth the Chamberlain: For thou variest no more from picking of Purses, than giving direction doth from labouring. Thou lay'st the plot, how.

Good morrow Master Gads-hill, it holds current that I told you yesternight. There's a Franklin in the wild of Kent, hath brought three hundred Marks with him in Gold: I heard him tell it to one of his Com­pany last night at Supper; a kind of Auditor, one that hath abundance of Charge too, (God knows what) they are up already, and call for Eggs and Butter. They will away presently.

Sirrah, if they meet not with S. Nicholas Clarks, I'll give thee this neck.

No, I'll none of it: I prethee keep that for the Hangman, for I know thou worship'st S. Nicholas as truely as a man of falshood may.

What talkest thou to me of the Hangman? If I hang I'll make a fat pair of Gollows. For if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know'st he is no Starveling. I am joyn'd with no Foot-Land-Ra­kers, no Long-staff six penny strikers, such as will strike sooner than speak; and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray; and yet I lye, for they pray continually unto their Saint the Common-wealth; or rather, not to pray to her, but prey on her: for they ride up and down on her; and make her their Boots.

What, the Common-wealth their Boots? Will she hold out wa­ter in foul way?

She will, she will; Justice hath liquor'd her. We steal, as in a Castle, Cock-sure: we have the receit of Fern seed, we walk invisible.

Nay, I think rather, you are more beholding to the Night, than the Fern-seed, for your walking invisible.

Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have a share in our purpose, As I am a true man.

Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false Thief.

Go to: Homo is a common name to all men. Bid the Ostler bring the Gelding out of the Stable. Farewell, ye muddy knave.

SCENE. II.

Come shelter, shelter, I have remov'd Falstaff's-Horse, and he frets like a gumm'd Velvet.

Stand close.

Poynes, Poynes, and be hang'd, Poynes.

Peace ye fat kidney'd Rascal, what a bawling dost thou keep?

What Poynes, Hal?

He is walk'd up to the top of the Hill, I'll go seek him.

I am accurst to rob in that Thiefs Company: that Rascal hath remov'd my Horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the square further a-foot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I escape hanging for killing that Rogue. I have forsworn his Company hourly any time this two and twenty year, and yet I am bewitcht with the Rogues compa­ny. If the Rascal have not given me Medicines to make me love him, I'll be hang'd, it could not be else: I have drunk Medicines. Poynes, Hall, a Plague upon you both. Bardolph, Peto: I'll starve e're I rob a foot further. And 'twere not as good a deed as to drink, to turn True man, and to leave these Rogues, I am the veriest Varlet that ever chew­ed with a Tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground, is threescore and ten miles a foot with me: And the stony-hearted Villains know it well e­nough. A plague upon't, when Thieves cannot be true one to another.

Whew, a plague light upon you all. Give me my Horse, you Rogues: give me my Horse, and be hang'd.

Peace ye Fat-guts, lie down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou can hear the tread of Travellers.

Have you any Leavers to lift me up again being down? I'll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot again, for all the Coyn in thy Fathers Exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

Thou liest, thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

I prethee good Prince Hal help me to my Horse, good Kings Son.

Out you Rogue, shall I be your Ostler?

Go hang thy self in thy own heir-apparent Garters: If I be ta'ne, I'll peach for this: and I have not Ballads made on all, and sung to fil­thy tunes, let a Cup of Sack be my Poyson: when a rest is so forward, and a-foot too, I hate it,

Stand.

So I do against my will.

O 'tis our Setter, I know his voice: Bardolf, what News?

Case ye, case ye; on with your Vizards, there's Money of the Kings coming down the Hill, 'tis going to the Kings Exchequer.

You lie, you Rogue, 'tis going to the Kings Tavern.

There's enough to make us all.

To be hang'd.

You four shall front them in the narrow Lane: Ned and I [Page 17] will walk lower; if they escape from your encounter, then they light on us.

But how many be of them?

Some eight or ten.

Will they not rob us?

What, a Coward, Sir John Paunch?

Indeed I am not John of Gaunt your Grandfather: but yet no Coward, Hal.

We'll leave that to the Proof.

Sirrah Jack, thy Horse stands behind the Hedge, when thou need'st him, there shalt thou find him, farewel, and stand fast.

Now I cannot strike him if I should be hang'd.

Ned, where are our Disguises?

Here hard by: Stand close.

Now my Masters, happy Man be his dole, say I: every Man to his business.

Come, Neighbour: The Boy shall lead our Horses down the Hill: We'll a foot a while, and ease our Legs.

Stay.

Jesu bless us.

Strike; down with them, cut the Villains throats; a whorson Ca­terpillars: Bacon-fed Knaves, they hate us Youth; down with them, fleece them.

O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever,

Hang ye gorbellied Knaves, are you undone? No ye Fat Chuffs, I would your store were here. On Bacons on, what ye Knaves? Young men must live, you are Grand Jurors? We'll jure ye i faith.

The Thieves have bound the True-men: Now could thou and I rob the Thieves and go merrily to London, it would be Argument for a Week, Laughter for a Month, and a good Jeast for ever.

Stand close, I hear them coming.

Come my Masters, let us share, and then to Horse before day; and the Prince and Poynes be not two arrand Cowards, there's no equi­ty stirring. There's no more Valour in that Poynes, than in a wild Duck.

Your Money.

Villains.

Got with much ease. Now merrily to Horse: The Thieves are scattered, and possest with fear so strongly, that they dare not meet each other: each takes his Fellow for an Officer. Away good Ned, Fal­staff sweats to death, and lards the lean earth as he walks along; wer't not for laughing, I should pity him.

How the Rogue roar'd.

SCENE III.

But for mine own part, my Lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your House. He could be contented: Why is he not then? in respect of the love he bears our House. He shews in this, he loves his own Barn better than he loves our House. Let me see some more, The purpose you undertake is dangerous. Why that's certain: 'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink: but I tell you (my Lord Fool) out of this Nettle, Danger; we pluck this Flow­er, Safety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the Friends you have named uncertain, the Time it self unsorted, and your whole Plot too light, for the counterpoize so great an Opposition. Say you so, say you so: I say unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly Hind, and you lye. What a Lack brain is this? I protest, our Plot is as good a Plot as ever was laid? our Friends true and constant: A good Plot, good Friends, and full of Expectation: An excellent Plot, very good Friends. What a Frosty-spirited Rogue is this? Why, my Lord of York commends the Plot, and the general course of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this Rascal, I could brain him with his Ladies Fan. Is there not my Father, my Uncle, and my self, Lord Edmond Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides, the Dowglas? Have I not all their Letters, to meet me in Arms by the ninth of the next Month? and are there not some of them set forward already? What a Pagan Ras­cal is this? An Infidel. Ha, you shall see now in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our Proceedings. O, I could divide my self, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skim'd Milk with so Honourable an Action. Hang him, let him tell the King we are prepared. I will set forwards to night.

How now, Kate, I must leave you within these two hours.

What ho; Is Gilliams with the Packet gone?

He is, my Lord, an hour agone.

Hath Butler brought those Horses from the Sheriff?

One Horse, my Lord, he brought even now.

What Horse? a Roan, a Crop-ear, is it not?

It is, my Lord.

That Roan shall be my Throne. Well, I will back him streight. Esperance, bid Butler lead him forth into the Park.

But hear you, my Lord.

What say'st thou, my Lady?

What is it that carries you away?

Why, my Horse (my Love) my Horse.

Out you mad-headed Ape, a Weazel hath not such a deal of Spleen, as you are tost with. In sooth I'll know your business, Harry, that I will. I fear my Brother Mortimer doth stir about his Title, and hath sent for you to line his Enterprise. But if you go—

So far a foot, I shall be weary, Love.

Come, come, you Paraquito, answer me directly unto this Que­stion, that I shall ask. Indeed I'll break thy little Finger, Harry, if thou wilt not tell me true.

SCENE IV.

Ned, prethee come out of that fat Room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

Where hast been, Hall?

With three or four Logegerheads, amongst three or fourscore Hogsheads. I have founded the very base string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn Brother to a lesh of Drawers, and can call them by their Names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. To conclude, I am so good a pro­ficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any Tinker in his own Language: but sweet Ned, to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this penniworth of Sugar, clapt even now into my hand by an un­der Skiner, one that never speak other English in his Life, then Eight shilling and six pence, and, You are welcome: with this shrill addition, Anon Sir, Anon Sir, Score a pint of Bastard in the Half Moon, or so. But Ned, to drive away time till Falstaff come, I prethee do thou stand in some by-room, while I question 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 aside, and I'll shew thee a Pre­sident. Poyn. Francis.

Thou art perfect. Poyn. Francis.

Anon, anon Sir; look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralf.

Come hither, Francis. Fran. My Lord.

Hoa long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Forsooth five years, and as much as to—

Francis. Fran. Anon, anon Sir.

Five years; Berlady a long Lease for the clinking of Pewter? But Francis, darest thou be so valiant, as to play the Coward with thy Indenture, and shew it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?

O Lord, Sir, I'll be sworn upon all the Books in England, I could find in my Heart.

Francis. Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

How old art thou, Francis?

Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shall be—

Francis.

Anon Sir, pray you stay a little, my Lord.

Nay but hark you Francis, for the Sugar thou gavest me, 'twas a penniworth, was't not?

O Lord Sir, I would it had been two.

I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

Francis. Fran. Anon, anon.

Anon, Francis? No, Francis, but to morrow Francis: or Fran­cis, on Thursday: or indeed Francis, when thou wilt. But Francis.

My Lord.

Away you Rogue, dost thou hear them call?

What stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Look to the Guest within: My Lord, old Sir John with half a dozen more, are at the Door: shall I let them in?

Let them alone a while, and then open the Door, Poynes.

Anon, anon Sir.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the Thieves are at the Door, shall we be merry?

As merry as Crickets my Lad. But hark ye, what cunning match have you made with this jeast of the Drawer? Come, what's the issue?

I am now of all humours, that have shewed themselves humors, since the old days of goodman Adam, to the pupil Age of this present twelve a Clock at midnight. What's a clock Francis?

Anon, anon Sir.

That ever this Fellow should have fewer Words then a Parret, and yet the Son of a Woman. His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percies mind, the Hotspur of the North, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a Breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his Wife: Fie up on this quiet Life, I want work. O my sweet Harry, says she, how ma­ny hast thou kill'd to Day? Give my Roan Horse a dranch (says he,) and answers, some fourteen, an hour after: a trifle, a trifle. I prethee call in Falstaff, I'll play Percy, and that damn'd Brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his Wife. Rivo, says the Drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow.

Welcome Jack, where hast thou been?

A plague of all Cowards I say, and a vengeance too, marry and Amen. Give me a cup of Sack, Boy. E're I lead this life long, I'le sow nether stocks, and mend them too. A plague of all Cowards. Give me a Cup of Sack, Rogue. Is there no virtue extant?

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of Butter, pitiful hearted Titan that melted at the sweet Tale of the Sun? If thou didst, then behold that compound.

You Rogue, here's Lime in this Sack too: there is nothing but Roguery to be found in Villanous Man; yet a Coward is worse than a Cup of Sack with Lime. A villanous 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 shotten Herring: there lives not three good Men unhang'd in England, and one of them is sat, and grows old, God help the while, a bad World I say. I would I were a Weaver, I could sing all manner of Songs. A plague of all Cowards, I say still.

How now Woolsack, what mutter you?

A Kings 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-geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales?

Why you horson round man? what's the matter?

Are you not a Coward? answer me to that, and Poynes there?

Ye fat Paunch, and ye call me Coward, I'll stab thee.

I call thee Coward? I'll see thee damn'd e're I call thee Coward: but I would give a thousand Pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are streight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back: Call you that backing of your Friends? a Plague upon such back­ing: give me them that will face me. Give me a Cup of Sack, I am a Rogue if I drunk to day.

O Villain, thy Lips are scarce wip'd, since thou drunk'st last.

All's one for that. A plague of all Cowards still, say I.

What's the matter?

What's the matter? here be four of us, have ta'ne a thousand pound this Morning.

Where is it, Jack? where is it!

Where is it? taken from us, it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

What, a hundred, man?

I am a Rogue, if I were not at half Sword with a dozen of them two hours together; I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the Doublet, four through the Hose, my Buckler cut through, my Sword hack'd like a Hand saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A Plague of all Cowards: let them speak; if they speak more or less than truth, they are Villains, and the Sons of darkness.

Speak Sirs, how was it?

We four set upon some dozen.

Sixteen, at least, my Lord.

And bound them.

No, no, they were not bound.

You Rogue they were bound, every man of them, or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.

And unbound the rest, and then came in the other.

What, fought ye with them all?

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

Pray Heaven, you have not murthered some of them.

Nay, that's past Praying for. I have pepper'd, two of them: Two I am sure I have payed, two Rogues in Buckrom Sutes. I tell thee what, Hall, if I tell thee a Lye, spit in my face, call me Horse: thou [Page 23] knowest my old word: here I lay, and thus I bore my point; four Rogues in Buckrom let drive at me.

What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.

Four Hal, I told thee four.

I, I, he said four.

These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me; I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my Target, thus.

Seven? why there were but four, even now.

In Buckrom.

I, four, in Buckrom Sutes.

Seven, by these Hilts, or I am a Villain else.

Prithee let him alone; we shall have more anon

Doest thou hear me, Hal?

I, and mark thee too, Jack.

Do so, for it is worth the listning too: these nine in Buckrom that I told thee of.

So, two more already.

Their Points being broken.

Down fell his Hose.

Began to give me ground: but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of the eleven I pay'd.

O monstrous! eleven Buckrom men grown out of two?

But as the Devil would have it, three mis-begotten Knaves, in Kendal Green, came at my Back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou could'st not see thy Hand.

These Lyes are like the Father that begets them, gross as a Moun­tain, open, palpable. Why thou Clay-brain'd Guts; thou Knotty-paited Fool, thou Horson obscene greasie Tallow Catch.

What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?

Why, how could'st thou know these men in Kendal Green, when it was so dark, thou could'st not see thy hand? Come, tell us your Reason; what say'st thou to this?

Come, your Reason Jack, your Reason.

What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the Strappado, or all the Racks in the World, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a Reason on compulsion? If Reasons were as plenty as Black-berries; I would give no man a Reason upon compulsion, I.

I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine Coward, this Bed-presser, this Horse-back-breaker, this huge Hill of Flesh.

Away you Starveling, you Elf-skin, you dried Neats-tongue, Bulls-pissel, you Stock-fish: O for breath to utter. What is like thee? You Tailors Yard, you Sheath, you Bow-case, you vile standing Tuck.

Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou hast tyr'd thy self in base Comparisons, hear me speak but thus.

Mark Jack.

We two, saw you four set on four and bound them, and were [Page 24] Masters of their Wealth: mark now, how a plain Tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and with a word, out-fac'd you from your Prize, and have it: yea, and can shew it you in the House. And Falstaff, you carried your Guts away as nimbly, with as quick dex­terity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roar'd, as ever I heard Bull-Call, What a Slave art thou, to hack thy Sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight. What trick? what device? what starting hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Come, let's hear Jack: What trick hast thou now?

I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why hear ye my Ma­sters, was it for me to kill the Heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true Prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but be ware instinct, the Lion will not touch the true Prince: Instinct is a great matter. I was a Coward on Instinct: I shall think the better of my self, and thee, during my life: I, for a valiant Lion, and thou for a true Prince. But Lads, I am glad you have the Money: Hostess, clap to the doors: watch to Night, pray to Morrow. Gallants, Lads, Boys, Hearts of Gold, all the good Titles of Fellowship come to you. What, shall we be merry? shall we have a Play extempore.

Content, and the argument shall be, thy running away.

A, no more of that, Hal, if thou lovest me.

My Lord the Prince?

How now, my Lady the Hostess, what say'st thou to me?

Marry, my Lord, there is a Noble-man of the Court at door would speak with you: he says he comes from your Father.

Give him as much as will make him a Royal man, and send him back again to my Mother.

What manner of man is he?

An old man.

What doth Gravity out of his Bed at Midnight? Shall I give him his answer?

Prethee do, Jack.

Faith, and I'le send him packing.

Now Sirs: you fought fair; so did you Peto, so did you Bar­dol: You are Lions too, you ran away upon instinct: You will not touch the true Prince; no, fie.

'Faith I ran when I saw others run.

Tell me now, in earnest, how came Falstaffs's Sword so hackt?

Why, he hackt it with his Dagger, and said, he would swear truth out of all England: but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and perswaded us to do the like.

Yea, and tickle our Noses with Spear-grass, to make them bleed, and then beslubber our Garments with it, and swear it was the Bloud of true men. I did that I did not these seven years before, I blusht to hear his monstrous devices.

O Villain, thou stolest a Cup of Sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blusht extempore: thou hadst Fire and Sword on thy side, and yet thou rannest away: what instinct hadst thou for it?

My Lord, do you see these Meteors? do you behold these Ex­halations?

I do.

What think you they portend?

Hot Livers, and cold Purses.

Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken.

No, if rightly taken, Halter.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now my sweet Creature of Bombast, how long is't ago, Jack, since thou saw'st thine own Knee?

My own Knee? When I was about thy years, (Hal) I was not an Eagles Talon in the Waste, I could have crept into any Aldermans Thumb-Ring: a plague of sighing and grief, if blows a Man up like a Bladder. There's villanous News abroad: Here was Sir John Braby from your Father; you must go to the Court in the Morning. The same mad fellow of the North, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the Bastinado, and made Lucifer Cuckold, and swore the Devil his true Liege-man upon the Cross of a Welsh-hook; what a Plague call you him?

Owen, Owen; the same, and his Son in Law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and the sprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglas, that runs a Horse-back up a Hill perpendicular.

He that rides at high speed, and with a Pistol kills a Sparrow flying. Falst. You have hit it.

So did he never the Sparrow.

Well, that Rascal hath good metal in him, he will not run.

Why, what a Rascal art thou then, to praise him so for run­ning?

A Horse-back, (ye Cuckow) but a-foot he will not budge a foot.

Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

I grant ye, upon instinct: Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blew-Caps more, Wercester is stoln away by Night: thy Fathers Beard is turn'd white with the News: you may buy Land now as cheap as stinking Mackerel.

Then 'tis like, if there come a hot Sun, and this civil buffetting hold, we shall buy Maindenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds.

By the Mass, Lad, thou say'st true, it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hall, art not thou horrible afear'd? thou being Heir apparent, could the World pick thee out three such Enemies again as that Fiend Dowglas, that Spirit Percy, and that Devil Glendower? Art thou not horrible afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?

Not a whit: I lack some of thy instinct.

Well, thou wilt be horrible chid to morrow, when thou com­est to thy Father: if thou do love me, practise an answer.

Do thou stand for my Father, and examine me upon the parti­culars of my Life.

Shall I? content: This Chair shall be my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my Crown.

Thy State is taken for a Joyn'd-Stool, thy Golden Scepter for a Leaden Dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald Crown.

Well, and the fire of Grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a Cup of Sack to make mine Eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept, for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses vein.

Well, here is my Leg.

And here is my speech: stand aside Nobility.

This is excellent sport, i'faith.

Harry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou are accompanied: For though the Camomil, the more it is trodden, the faster it grows; yet Youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our Land, by the name of Pitch: this Pitch (as ancient Writers do report) doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for Harry, now I do not speak to thee in Drink, but in Tears; not in Pleasure, but in Passion; not in Words only, but in Woes also: and yet there is a vertuous Man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his Name.

What manner of Man, and it like your Majesty?

A goodly portly Man i'faith, and corpulent, of a chearful Look, a pleasing Eye, and a most noble Carriage, and as I think, his Age some fif­ty, or (by'rlady) inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his Name is Falstaff: If that Man should be lewdly given, he deceives me; for Harry, I see Vertue in his Looks. If then the Tree may be known by the Fruit, as the Fruit by the Tree, then peremptorily I speak it, there is Vertue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty Varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this Month?

Do'st thou speak like a King? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my Father.

Depose me: if thou do'st it half so gravely, so majestically, both in Word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a Rabbet-suck­er, or a Poulters Hare.

Well, here I am set.

And here I stand: judge, my Masters.

Now Harry, whence come you?

My Noble Lord, from East-cheap.

The Complaints I hear of thee, are grievous.

I'faith, my Lord, they are false: Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young Prince.

Swearest thou, ungracious Boy? henceforth ne're look on me, thou art violently carried away from Grace: there's a Devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man; a Tun of Man is thy Companion: Why, that Reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that Father Ruffian, that Vani­ty in years, wherein is he good, but to taste Sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a Capon and eat it? wherein Cunning, but in Craft? wherein Crafty, but in Villany? wherein Villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

I would your Grace would take me with you: whom means your Grace?

That villanous abominable mis-leader of Youth Falstaff, that old white-bearded Sathan.

My Lord, the man I know.

I know thou do'st.

But to say, I know more harm in him than in my self, were to say more than I know. That he is old (the more's the pity) his white hairs do witness it: But that he is (saying your Reverence) a Whore­master, that I utterly deny. If Sack and Sugar be a fault, Heaven help the wicked: if to be old and merry, be a sin, then many a Host that I know is damn'd: if to be fat, to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean Kine are to be loved. No, my good Lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins: but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company; banish plump Jack, and banish all the World.

I do, I will.

O, my Lord, my Lord, the Sheriff with a most monstrous Watch, is at the door.

Out you Rogue, play out the Play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

O, my Lord, my Lord.

Heigh, heigh, the Devil rides upon a Fiddle-stick: what's the matter?

The Sheriff and all the Watch are at the door: they are come to search the House, shall I let them in?

Do'st thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of Gold a Coun­terfeit: thou art essentially mad, without seeming so.

And thou a natural Coward, without instinct.

I deny your Major; if you will deny the Sheriff, so: if not, let him enter. If I become not a Cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up: I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a Halter, as another

Go hide thee behind the Arras, the rest walk up above. Now my Masters, for a true Face and good Conscience.

Both which I have had: but their date is out, and therefore I'll hide me.

Call in the Sheriff.

Now Master Sheriff, what is your will with me?

First, pardon me, my Lord. A Hue and Cry hath followed cer­tain men unto this House.

What Men?

One of them is well known, my gracious Lord, a gross fat Man.

As fat as Butter.

I will, my Lord: there are two Gentlemen Have in this Robbery lost three hundred Marks.

It may be so: If he have robb'd these Men, He shall be answerable: And so farewel.

Good Night, my Noble Lord.

I think it is Good Morrow, is is not?

Indeed, my Lord, I think it be two a Clock.

This oyly Rascal is known as well as Pauls: go call him forth.

Falstaff! Fast asleep behind the Arras, and snorting like a Horse.

Hark, how hard he fetches his breath: Search his Pockets. He searcheth his Pockets, and findeth certain Papers.

What hast thou found?

Nothing but Papers, my Lord.

Let's see, what be they? read them.

Item, a Capon. ii s. ii d. Item, Sawce. iiii d. Item, Sack, two Gallons. v s. viii d. Item, Anchoves and Sack After Supper. ii s. vi d. Item, Bread. ob.

O monstrous, but one half penny-worth of Bread to this into­lerable deal of Sack? What there is else, keep close, we'll read it at more advantage: there let him sleep till day. I'll to the Court in the Morning: We must all to the Wars, and thy place shall be honorable. I'll procure this fat Rogue a Charge of Foot, and I know his death will be a March of Twelve-score. The Money shall be pay'd back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the Morning: And so good morrow Peto.

Good morrow, good my Lord.

ACT III. SCENE I.

THese Promises are fair, the Parties sure, And our Induction full of prosperous hope.

Lord Mortimer, and Cousin Glendower, Will you fit down? And Uncle Worcester; a plague upon it, I have forgot the Map.

No, here it is; Sit Cousin Percy, sit good Cousin Hotspur: For by that Name, as oft as Lancaster doth speak of you, His Cheeks look pale, and with a rising sigh, He wisheth you in Heaven.

And you in Hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

Why so it would have done at the same Season, if your Mothers Cat had but kitten'd, though your self had never been born.

I say the Earth did shake when I was born.

And I say the Earth was not of my mind: If you suppose, as fearing you, it shook

The Heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

Bardolph, am I not faln away vilely, since this last action? Do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why my skin hangs about me like an old Ladies loose Gown: I am withered like an old Apple John. Well I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking: I shall be out of Heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. And I have not forgotten what the in-side of a Church is made of, I am a Pepper Corn, a Brewers Horse: The in-side of a Church. Company, villanous Company hath been the spoil of me.

Sir John, you are so freful, you cannot live long.

Why there it is: Come, sing me a bawdy Song, make me mer­ry: I was as virtuously given, as a Gentleman need to be; virtuous e­nough, swore little, Dic'd not above seven times a week, went to a Bawdy-house not above once in a quarter of an hour, paid money that I borrowed three or four times: lived well, and in good compass: And now I live out of all order, out of compass.

Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass; out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

Do thou amend thy Face, and I'll amend my Life. Thou art our Admiral, thou bearest the Lantern in the Poop, but 'tis in the Nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the burning Lamp.

Why, Sir John, my Face does you no harm.

No, I'll be sworn: I make as good use of it, as many a Man doth of a Deaths-Head, or a Memento Mori. I never see thy Face, but I think upon Hell Fire, when thou rann'st up Gads-hill in the night to catch my Horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an Ignis fatuus, or a Ball of Wild-fire, there's no purchase in Money. O, thou art a perpe­tual Triumph, an everlasting Bone-fire-light, thou hast saved me a thou­sand Marks in Links and Torches, walking with thee in the night be­twixt Tavern and Tavern: But the Sack that thou hast drunk me, would have bought me light as good cheap, at the dearest Chandlers in Eu­rope. I have maintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years, Heaven reward me for it.

I would my Face were in your belly.

So should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.

How now, Dame Parlet the Hen, have you enquir'd yet who pick'd my Pocket?

Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think I keep Thieves in my House? I have search'd, I have enquir'd, so has my Husband. Man by Man, Boy by Boy, Servant by Servant: The tight of a Hair was never lost in my House before.

Ye lye, Hostess: Bardolph was shav'd, and lost many a Hair; and I'll be sworn my Pocket was pick'd; go to, you are a Woman, go.

Who I? I defie thee. I was never so call'd so in mine own House before.

Go to, I know you well enough.

No, Sir John: You do not know me, Sir John; I know you, Sir John: You owe me Money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of Shirts to your back.

Dowlas, filthy Dowlas: I have given them away to Bakers Wives, and they have made Boulters of them.

Now as I am a true Woman, Holland of eight shillings an Ill: You owe Money here besides, Sir John, for your Diet, and by-Drinkings, and Money lent you, four and twenty pounds.

He had his part of it, let him pay.

He? alas! he is poor, he hath nothing.

How? poor? look upon his face: What call you rich? Let him coyn his Nose, let him coyn his Cheeks, I'll not pay a Denier. What, will you make a Yonker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine Inn, but I shall have my Pocket pick'd? I have lost a Seal-Ring of my Grand­fathers, worth forty Mark.

I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that Ring was Copper.

How? the Prince is a Jack, a Sneak-Cup: and if he were here, I would cudgel him like a Dog, if he would say so.

How now, Lad? is the wind in that Door? Must we all march?

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

My Lord, I pray you hear me.

What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How does thy Husband? I love him well, he is an honest Man.

Good, my Lord, hear me.

Prethee let her alone, and list to me.

What say'st thou, Jack?

The other night I fell asleep here behind the Arras, and had my Pocket pickt: This House is turn'd Bawdy-house, they pick Pockets.

What didst thou lose, Jack?

Wilt thou believe me, Hal? Three or four Bonds of forty pound a piece, and a Seal-Ring of my Grand-fathers.

A trifle, some eight-penny matter.

So I told him, my Lord; and I said, I heard your Grace say so: And (my Lord) he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd Man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.

What, he did not?

There's neither Faith, Truth, nor Woman-hood in me else.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stude Prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn Fox: and for Woman-hood, Maid-Mari­an may be the Deputies Wife of the Ward to thee. Go you nothing, go.

Say, what thing? what thing?

What thing? why a thing to thank Heaven on.

I am nothing to thank Heaven on, I would thou shouldst know it: I am an honest Man's Wife: and setting thy Knighthood aside, thou art a Knave to call me so.

Setting thy Womanhood aside, thou art a Beast to say other­wise.

Say, what Beast, thou Knave thou?

What Beast? Why an Otter.

An Otter, Sir John, why an Otter?

Why? she's neither fish nor flesh, a Man knows not where to have her.

Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou, or any Man knows where to have me, thou Knave thou.

Thou say'st true, Hostess, and he slanders thee most grosly.

So he doth you, my Lord, and said this other day, you ow'd him a thousand pound.

Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

A thousand pound, Hal? a million: thy love is worth a million: thou ow'st me thy love.

Nay, my Lord, he call'd you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.

Did I, Bardolph?

Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

Yea, if he said my Ring was Copper.

I say 'tis Copper. Dar'st thou be as good as thy word now?

Why, Hal? thou know'st, as thou art but a man, I dare; but as thou art a Prince, I fear thee, as I fear the roaring of the Lyons Whelp.

And why not as the Lyon?

The King himself is to be feared as the Lyon: Do'st thou think I'll fear thee, as I fear thy Father? nay if I do, let my Girdle break.

O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees. Why thou horson impudent, imbost Rascal, if there were any thing in thy Pocket but Tavern Recknings, Memorandums of Bawdy-Houses, and one poor penny-worth of Sugar-candy to make thee long-winded: And yet you will stand to it, you will not Pocket up Wrongs. Art thou not asham'd?

Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou know'st in the state of Innocency, Adam fell; and what would poor Jack Falstaff do, in the days of Vil­lany? Thou seest, I have more flesh than another man, and therefore, frailty. You confess then you pickt my Pocket?

It appears so by the Story.

O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double Labour.

I am good Friends with my Father, and may do any thing.

Rob me the Exchequer the first thing thou do'st, and do it with un-wash'd hands too.

Do, my Lord.

I have procured thee, Jack, a Charge of Foot.

I would it had been of Horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine Thief, of two and twenty, or thereabout: I am hainously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these Rebels, they offend none but the Virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.

Bardolph.

My Lord.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Do so, and 'tis well. What Letters hast thou there? I can but thank you.

These Letters come from your Father.

Letters from him? Why comes he not himself?

He cannot come, my Lord, He is griveous sick.

SCENE II.

Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry, fill me a Bottle of Sack, our Souldiers shall march through: we'll to Sutton-cop-hill to Night.

Will you give me Money, Captain?

Lay out, lay out.

This Bottle makes an Angel.

And if it do, take it for thy labour: And if it make twenty, take them all, I'll answer the Coynage. Bid my Lieutenant Peto meet me at the Towns end.

I will Captain: farewell.

If I be not asham'd of my Souldiers, I am a sowc't Gurnet: I have mis-us'd the Kings Press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty Souldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good House-holders, Yeomens Sons: enquire me out con­tracted Batchelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the Banes: such a Commodity of warm Slaves, as had as lieve hear the Devil, as a Drum; such as fear the report of a Caliver, worse than a struck-Fool, or a hurt Wild-Duck. I prest me none but such Tostes and Butter, with hearts in their Bellies no bigger than Pins heads, and they have bought out their Services: And now my whole Charge consists of Ancients, Corpo­rals, Lieutenants, Gentlemen of Companies, Slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the▪ painted Cloth, where the Gluttons Dogs licked his Sores; and such as indeed were never Souldiers, but dis-carded unjust Servingmen, younger Sons to younger Brothers: Revolted Tapsters and Ostlers, Trade­faln, the Cankers of a calm World, and long Peace, ten times more dis­honourable, ragged, than an old-fac'd Ancient; and such have I to fill up the Rooms of them that have bought out their Services: That you would think, that I had a hundred and fifty tatter'd Prodigals, lately come from Swine-keeping, from eating Draff and Husks. A mad fel­low met me on the way, and told me, I had unloaded all the Gibbets, and prest the dead Bodies. No eye hath seen such Skar-Crows: I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the Villains march wide betwixt the Legs, as if they had Gyves on; for indeed, I had the most of them out of Prison. There's not a Shirt and a half in all my Company: and the half Shirt is two Napkins tack'd together, and thrown over the Shoulders like a Heralds Coat, without sleeves: And the Shirt, to say the truth, stoln from my Host of S. Albans; or the Red-Nose Inn-keeper of Dayntry. But that's all one, they'l find Linnen enough on every Hedge.

How now, blown Jack? how now, Quilt?

What, Hal? How now, mad Wag, what a Devil do'st thou in Warwick-shire? My good Lord of Westmerland, I cry you mercy, I thought your Honour had already been at Shrewsbury.

'Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too: But my Powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all: we must away all to Night.

Tut, never fear me, I am as vigilant as a Cat, to steal Cream.

I think to steal Cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee Butter: But tell me, Jack, whose Fellows are these that come after?

Mine, Hal, mine.

I did never see such pitiful Rascals.

Tut, tut, good enough to toss: food for Powder, food for Pow­der: they'll fill a Pit, as well as better: tush Man, mortal Men, mortal Men.

I, but Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly.

Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learn'd that of me.

No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the Ribs, bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy is already in the Field.

What, is the King encamp'd?

He is, John, I fear we shall stay too long.

Well, to the latter end of a Fray, and the beginning of a Feast, fits a dull Fighter, and a keen Guest.

SCENE III.

We'll fight with him to Night.

It may not be.

You give him then advantage.

Not a whit.

Why say you so? looks he not for Supply?

So do we.

His is certain, Ours is doubtful.

Good Cousin be advis'd, stir not to Night.

Do not, my Lord.

You do not counsel well: You speak it out of fear, and cold heart.

ACT V. SCENE I.

'Tis not due yet: I would be loth to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that call's not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honour pricks me on? But now if Honour prick me off when I come on? How then; Can Honour set to a leg? No: or an arm? No: Or take away the grief of a Wound? No: Honour hath no skill in Surgery then? No. What is Honour? a Word. What is that Word Honour? Air: A trim Reckoning. Who hath it? He that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? yea, to the Dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it, therefore I'll none of it. Ho­nour is a meer Scutcheon, and so ends my Catechism.

SCENE II.

Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here: here's no scoring, but upon the pate. Soft, who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt, there's Honour for you: here's no Vanity, I am as hot as moul­ten Lead, and as heavy too; Heaven keep Lead out of me, I need no more weight than mine own Bowels. I have led my Rag of Muffians where they are pepper'd: There's not three of 150 left alive, and they for the Towns end, to beg during Life. But who comes here?

O Hal, I prethee give me leave to breathe a while. Turk Gre­gory never did such deeds in Arms as I have done this day, I have pay'd Percy, I have made him sure.

Nay, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my Sword, but take my Pistol if thou wilt.

Give it me: What, is it in the Case?

If Percy be alive, I'll pierce him: if he do come in my way, so: If he do not, if I come in his (willingly) let him make a Carbo­nado of me, I like not such grinning Honour as Sir Walter hath: Give me life, which if I can save, so: if not, Honour comes unlook'd for, and there's an end.

SCENE III.

If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

Thou speakest as if I would deny my Name.

My Name is Harry Percy.

Well said, Hal, to it Hal. Nay, you shall find no Boys play here, I can tell you.

Imbowelled! if thou imbowel me to day, I'll give you leave to powder me, and eat me too to morrow. 'Twas time to counterfeit, or that hot Termagant Scot had paid me Scot and Lot too. Counter­feit! I am no Counterfeit; to dye is to be a Counterfeit, for he is but the Counterfeit of a Man, who hath not the Life of a Man: But to counterfeit dying, when a Man thereby liveth, is to be no Counterfeit, but the true and perfect Image of Life indeed. The better part of Valour, is Discretion; in the which better part, I have saved my Life. I am afraid of this Gun-powder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should coun­terfeit too, and rise, I am afraid he would prove the better Counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure, yea, and I'll swear I have kill'd him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but Eyes, and no bo­dy sees me. Therefore, Sirrah, with a new Wound in your thigh come you along with me.

Come Brother John, full bravely hast thou flesh'd thy Maiden Sword.

No, that's certain: I am not a Double Man: but if I am not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack: There is Percy, if your Father will do me any Honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look either to be Earl or Duke, I can assure you.

Why, Percy I kill'd my self, and saw thee dead.

Did'st thou? Lord, Lord, how the world is given to Lying? I [Page 54] grant you I was down, and out of Breath, and so was he, but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury Clock if I may be believed, so: if not, let them that should reward Valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I'll take't on my death I gave him this wound in the Thigh: if the man were alive, and would deny it, I would make him eat a piece of my Sword.

This is the strangest tale that e're I heard.

I'll follow as they say, for Reward. He that rewards me, Hea­ven reward him. If I do grow great again, I'll grow less? for I'll purge, and leave Sack, and live cleanly, as a Noble man should do.

SCENE IV.