These promises are faire, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Lord Mortimer, and Cousin Glendower, Will you sit downe?

And Vnckle Worcester; a plague vpon it,

I haue forgot the Mappe.

No, here it is:

Sit Cousin Percy, sit good Cousin Hotspurre:

For by that Name, as oft as Lancaster doth speake of you,

His Cheekes looke pale, and with a rising sigh,

He wisheth you in Heauen.

And you in Hell,

as oft as he heares Owen Glendower spoke of.

I cannot blame him: At my Natiuitie,

The front of Heauen was full of fierie shapes,

Of burning Cressets: and at my Birth,

The frame and foundation of the Earth

Shak'd like a Coward.

Why so it would haue done

at the same season, if your Mothers Cat

had but kitten'd, though your selfe had neuer beene borne.

I say the Earth did shake when I was borne.

And I say the Earth was not of my minde,

If you suppose, as fearing you, it shooke.

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

Oh, then the Earth shooke To see the Heauens on fire,

And not in feare of your Natiuitie.

Diseased Nature oftentimes breakes forth

In strange eruptions; and the teeming Earth

Is with a kinde of Collick pincht and vext,

By the imprisoning of vnruly Winde

Within her Wombe: which for enlargement striuing,

Shakes the old Beldame Earth, and tombles downe

Steeples, and mosse-growne Towers. At your Birth,

Our Grandam Earth, hauing this distemperature,

In passion shooke.

Cousin: of many men

I doe not beare these Crossings: Giue me leaue

To tell you once againe, that at my Birth

The front of Heauen was full of fierie shapes,

The Goates ranne from the Mountaines, and the Heards

Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields:

These signes haue markt me extraordinarie,

And all the courses of my Life doe shew,

I am not in the Roll of common men.

Where is the Liuing, clipt in with the Sea,

That chides the Bankes of England, Scotland, and Wales,

Which calls me Pupill, or hath read to me?

And bring him out, that is but Womans Sonne,

Can trace me in the tedious wayes of Art,

And hold me pace in deepe experiments.

I thinke there's no man speakes better Welsh:

Ile to Dinner.

Peace cousin Percy, you will make him mad.

I can call Spirits from the vastie Deepe.

Why so can I, or so can any man:

But will they come, when you doe call for them?

Why, I can teach thee, Cousin, to command the Deuill.

And I can teach thee, Cousin, to shame the Deuil,

By telling truth. Tell truth, and shame the Deuill.

If thou haue power to rayse him, bring him hither,

And Ile be sworne, I haue power to shame him hence.

Oh, while you liue, tell truth, and shame the Deuill.

Come, come, no more of this vnprofitable Chat.

Three times hath Henry Bullingbrooke made head

Against my Power: thrice from the Banks of Wye,

And sandy-bottom'd Seuerne, haue I hent him

Bootlesse home, and Weather-beaten backe.

Home without Bootes, / And in foule Weather too,

How scapes he Agues in the Deuils name?

Come, heere's the Mappe: / Shall wee diuide our Right,

According to our three-fold order ta'ne?

The Arch-Deacon hath diuided it

Into three Limits, very equally:

England, from Trent, and Seuerne. hitherto,

By South and East, is to my part assign'd:

All Westward, Wales, beyond the Seuerne shore,

And all the fertile Land within that bound,

To Owen Glendower: And deare Couze, to you

The remnant Northward, lying off from Trent.

And our Indentures Tripartite are drawne:

Which being sealed enterchangeably,

(A Businesse that this Night may execute)

To morrow, Cousin Percy, you and I,

And my good Lord of Worcester, will set forth,

To meete your Father, and the Scottish Power,

As is appointed vs at Shrewsbury.

My Father Glendower is not readie yet,

Nor shall wee neede his helpe these foureteene dayes:

Within that space, you may haue drawne together

Your Tenants, Friends, and neighbouring Gentlemen.

A shorter time shall send me to you, Lords:

And in my Conduct shall your Ladies come,

From whom you now must steale, and take no leaue,

For there will be a World of Water shed,

Vpon the parting of your Wiues and you.

Me thinks my Moity, North from Burton here,

In quantitie equals not one of yours:

See, how this Riuer comes me cranking in,

And cuts me from the best of all my Land,

A huge halfe Moone, a monstrous Cantle out.

Ile haue the Currant in this place damn'd vp,

And here the smug and Siluer Trent shall runne,

In a new Channell, faire and euenly:

It shall not winde with such a deepe indent,

To rob me of so rich a Bottome here.

Not winde? it shall, it must, you see it doth.

Yea, but marke how he beares his course,

And runnes me vp, with like aduantage on the other side,

Gelding the opposed Continent as much,

As on the other side it takes from you.

Yea, but a little Charge will trench him here,

And on this North side winne this Cape of Land,

And then he runnes straight and euen.

Ile haue it so, a little Charge will doe it.

Ile not haue it alter'd.

Will not you?

No, nor you shall not.

Who shall say me nay?

Why, that will I.

Let me not vnderstand you then, speake it in Welsh.

I can speake English, Lord, as well as you:

For I was trayn'd vp in the English Court;

Where, being but young, I framed to the Harpe

Many an English Dittie, louely well,

And gaue the Tongue a helpefull Ornament;

A Vertue that was neuer seene in you.

Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart,

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew,

Then one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers:

I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd,

Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree,

And that would set my teeth nothing an edge,

Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie;

'Tis like the forc't gate of a shuffling Nagge.

Come, you shall haue Trent turn'd.

I doe not care: Ile giue thrice so much Land

To any well-deseruing friend;

But in the way of Bargaine, marke ye me,

Ile cauill on the ninth part of a hayre.

Are the Indentures drawne? shall we be gone?

The Moone shines faire, / You may away by Night:

Ile haste the Writer; and withall,

Breake with your Wiues, of your departure hence:

I am afraid my Daughter will runne madde,

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

Fie, Cousin Percy, how you crosse my Father.

I cannot chuse: sometime he angers me,

With telling me of the Moldwarpe and the Ant,

Of the Dreamer Merlin, and his Prophecies;

And of a Dragon, and a finne-lesse Fish,

A clip-wing'd Griffin, and a moulten Rauen,

A couching Lyon, and a ramping Cat,

And such a deale of skimble-skamble Stuffe,

As puts me from my Faith. I tell you what,

He held me last Night, at least, nine howres,

In reckning vp the seuerall Deuils Names,

That were his Lacqueyes: / I cry'd hum, and well, goe too,

But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious

As a tyred Horse, a rayling Wife,

Worse then a smoakie House. I had rather liue

With Cheese and Garlick in a Windmill farre,

Then feede on Cates, and haue him talke to me,

In any Summer-House in Christendome.

In faith he was a worthy Gentleman,

Exceeding well read, and profited,

In strange Concealements: / Valiant as a Lyon,

and wondrous affable, / And as Bountifull,

as Mynes of India. / Shall I tell you, Cousin,

He holds your temper in a high respect,

And curbes himselfe, euen of his naturall scope,

When you doe crosse his humor: 'faith he does.

I warrant you, that man is not aliue,

Might so haue tempted him, as you haue done,

Without the taste of danger, and reproofe:

But doe not vse it oft, let me entreat you.

In faith, my Lord, you are too wilfull blame,

And since your comming hither, haue done enough,

To put him quite besides his patience.

You must needes learne, Lord, to amend this fault:

Though sometimes it shew Greatnesse, Courage, Blood,

And that's the dearest grace it renders you;

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh Rage,

Defect of Manners, want of Gouernment,

Pride, Haughtinesse, Opinion, and Disdaine:

The least of which, haunting a Nobleman,

Loseth mens hearts, and leaues behinde a stayne

Vpon the beautie of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation.

Well, I am school'd: / Good-manners be your speede;

Heere come your Wiues, and let vs take our leaue.

This is the deadly spight, that angers me,

My Wife can speake no English, I no Welsh.

My Daughter weepes, shee'le not part with you,

Shee'le be a Souldier too, shee'le to the Warres.

Good Father tell her, that she and my Aunt Percy

Shall follow in your Conduct speedily.

Shee is desperate heere: / A peeuish selfe-will'd

Harlotry, / One that no perswasion can doe good vpon.

I vnderstand thy Lookes: that pretty Welsh

Which thou powr'st down from these swelling Heauens,

I am too perfect in: and but for shame,

In such a parley should I answere thee.

The Lady againe in welsh.

I vnderstand thy Kisses, and thou mine,

And that's a feeling disputation:

But I will neuer be a Truant, Loue,

Till I haue learn'd thy Language: for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as Ditties highly penn'd,

Sung by a faire Queene in a Summers Bowre,

With rauishing Diuision to her Lute.

Nay, if thou melt, then will she runne madde.

O, I am Ignorance it selfe in this.

She bids you,

On the wanton Rushes lay you downe,

And rest your gentle Head vpon her Lappe,

And she will sing the Song that pleaseth you, And on your Eye-lids Crowne the God of Sleepe,

Charming your blood with pleasing heauinesse;

Making such difference betwixt Wake and Sleepe,

As is the difference betwixt Day and Night,

The houre before the Heauenly Harneis'd Teeme

Begins his Golden Progresse in the East.

With all my heart Ile sit, and heare her sing:

By that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne.

Doe so: / And those Musitians that shall play to you,

Hang in the Ayre a thousand Leagues from thence;

And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.

Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying downe:

Come, quicke, quicke, that I may lay my Head in thy / Lappe.

Goe, ye giddy-Goose.

Now I perceiue the Deuill vnderstands Welsh,

And 'tis no maruell he is so humorous:

Byrlady hee's a good Musitian.

Then would you be nothing but Musicall,

For you are altogether gouerned by humors:

Lye still ye Theefe, and heare the Lady sing in Welsh.

I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in / Irish.

Would'st haue thy Head broken?

No.

Then be still.

Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault.

Now God helpe thee.

To the Welsh Ladies Bed.

What's that?

Peace, shee sings.

Come, Ile haue your Song too.

Not mine, in good sooth.

Not yours, in good sooth? You sweare like

a Comfit-makers Wife: / Not you, in good sooth; and,

as true as I liue; / And, as God shall mend me; and,

as sure as day:

And giuest such Sarcenet suretie for thy Oathes,

As if thou neuer walk'st further then Finsbury.

Sweare me, Kate, like a Lady, as thou art,

A good mouth-filling Oath: and leaue in sooth,

And such protest of Pepper Ginger-bread,

To Veluet-Guards, and Sunday-Citizens.

Come, sing.

I will not sing.

'Tis the next way to turne Taylor, or be Red-brest

teacher: and the Indentures be drawne, Ile away within

these two howres: and so come in, when yee will.

Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as slow,

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to goe.

By this our Booke is drawne: wee'le but seale,

And then to Horse immediately.

With all my heart.

Lords, giue vs leaue: / The Prince of Wales, and I,

Must haue some priuate conference: . But be neere at hand,

For wee shall presently haue neede of you.

I know not whether Heauen will haue it so,

For some displeasing seruice I haue done;

That in his secret Doome, out of my Blood,

Hee'le breede Reuengement, and a Scourge for me:

But thou do'st in thy passages of Life,

Make me beleeue, that thou art onely mark'd

For the hot vengeance, and the Rod of heauen

To punish my Mistreadings. Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires,

Such poore, such bare, such lewd, such meane attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude societie,

As thou art matcht withall, and grafted too,

Accompanie the greatnesse of thy blood,

And hold their leuell with thy Princely heart?

So please your Maiesty, I would I could

Quit all offences with as cleare excuse,

As well as I am doubtlesse I can purge

My selfe of many I am charg'd withall:

Yet such extenuation let me begge,

As in reproofe of many Tales deuis'd,

Which oft the Eare of Greatnesse needes must heare,

By smiling Pick-thankes, and base Newes-mongers;

I may for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faultie wandred, and irregular,

Finde pardon on my true submission.

Heauen pardon thee: / Yet let me wonder, Harry,

At thy affections, which doe hold a Wing

Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.

Thy place in Councell thou hast rudely lost,

Which by thy younger Brother is supply'de;

And art almost an alien to the hearts

Of all the Court and Princes of my blood.

The hope and expectation of thy time

Is ruin'd, and the Soule of euery man

Prophetically doe fore-thinke thy fall.

Had I so lauish of my presence beene,

So common hackney'd in the eyes of men,

So stale and cheape to vulgar Company;

Opinion, that did helpe me to the Crowne,

Had still kept loyall to possession,

And left me in reputelesse banishment,

A fellow of no marke, nor likelyhood.

By being seldome seene, I could not stirre,

But like a Comet, I was wondred at,

That men would tell their Children, This is hee:

Others would say; Where, Which is Bullingbrooke.

And then I stole all Courtesie from Heauen,

And drest my selfe in such Humilitie,

That I did plucke Allegeance from mens hearts,

Lowd Showts and Salutations from their mouthes,

Euen in the presence of the Crowned King.

Thus I did keepe my Person fresh and new,

My Presence like a Robe Pontificall,

Ne're seene, but wondred at: and so my State,

Seldome but sumptuous, shewed like a Feast,

And wonne by rarenesse such Solemnitie.

The skipping King hee ambled vp and downe,

With shallow Iesters, and rash Bauin Wits,

Soone kindled, and soone burnt, carded his state,

Mingled his Royaltie with Carping Fooles,

Had his great Name prophaned with their Scornes,

And gaue his Countenance, against his Name,

To laugh at gybing Boyes, and stand the push

Of euery Beardlesse vaine Comparatiue;

Grew a Companion to the common Streetes,

Enfeoff'd himselfe to Popularitie:

That being dayly swallowed by mens Eyes,

They surfeted with Honey, and began to loathe

The taste of Sweetnesse, whereof a little

More then a little, is by much too much.

So when he had occasion to be seene,

He was but as the Cuckow is in Iune,

Heard, not regarded: seene but with such Eyes,

As sicke and blunted with Communitie,

Affoord no extraordinarie Gaze,

Such as is bent on Sunne-like Maiestie,

When it shines seldome in admiring Eyes:

But rather drowz'd, and hung their eye-lids downe,

Slept in his Face, and rendred such aspect

As Cloudie men vse to doe to their aduersaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.

And in that very Line, Harry, standest thou:

For thou hast lost thy Princely Priuiledge,

With vile participation. Not an Eye

But is awearie of thy common sight,

Saue mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more:

Which now doth that I would not haue it doe,

Make blinde it selfe with foolish tendernesse.

I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious Lord,

Be more my selfe.

For all the World,

As thou art to this houre, was Richard then,

When I from France set foot at Rauenspurgh;

And euen as I was then, is Percy now:

Now by my Scepter, and my Soule to boot,

He hath more worthy interest to the State

Then thou, the shadow of Succession;

For of no Right, nor colour like to Right.

He doth fill fields with Harneis in the Realme,

Turnes head against the Lyons armed Iawes;

And being no more in debt to yeeres, then thou,

Leades ancient Lords, and reuerent Bishops on

To bloody Battailes, and to brusing Armes.

What neuer-dying Honor hath he got,

Against renowned Dowglas? whose high Deedes,

Whose hot Incursions, and great Name in Armes,

Holds from all Souldiers chiefe Maioritie,

And Militarie Title Capitall.

Through all the Kingdomes that acknowledge Christ,

Thrice hath the Hotspur Mars, in swathing Clothes,

This Infant Warrior, in his Enterprises,

Discomfited great Dowglas, ta'ne him once,

Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,

To fill the mouth of deepe Defiance vp,

And shake the peace and safetie of our Throne.

And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,

The Arch-bishops Grace of Yorke, Dowglas, Mortimer,

Capitulate against vs, and are vp.

But wherefore doe I tell these Newes to thee?

Why, Harry, doe I tell thee of my Foes,

Which art my neer'st and dearest Enemie?

Thou, that art like enough, through vassall Feare,

Base Inclination, and the start of Spleene,

To fight against me vnder Percies pay,

To dogge his heeles, and curtsie at his frownes,

To shew how much thou art degenerate.

Doe not thinke so, you shall not finde it so:

And Heauen forgiue them, that so much haue sway'd

Your Maiesties good thoughts away from me:

I will redeeme all this on Percies head,

And in the closing of some glorious day,

Be bold to tell you, that I am your Sonne,

When I will weare a Garment all of Blood,

And staine my fauours in a bloody Maske:

Which washt away, shall scowre my shame with it.

And that shall be the day, when ere it lights,

That this same Child of Honor and Renowne.

This gallant Hotspur, this all-praysed Knight.

And your vnthought-of Harry chance to meet:

For euery Honor sitting on his Helme,

Would they were multitudes, and on my head

My shames redoubled. For the time will come,

That I shall make this Northerne Youth exchange

His glorious Deedes for my Indignities:

Percy is but my Factor, good my Lord,

To engrosse vp glorious Deedes on my behalfe:

And I will call him to so strict account,

That he shall render euery Glory vp,

Yea, euen the sleightest worship of his time,

Or I will teare the Reckoning from his Heart.

This, in the Name of Heauen, I promise here:

The which, if I performe, and doe suruiue,

I doe beseech your Maiestie, may salue

The long-growne Wounds of my intemperature:

If not, the end of Life cancells all Bands,

And I will dye a hundred thousand Deaths,

Ere breake the smallest parcell of this Vow.

A hundred thousand Rebels dye in this:

Thou shalt haue Charge, and soueraigne trust herein.

How now good Blunt? thy Lookes are full of speed.

So hath the Businesse that I come to speake of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word,

That Dowglas and the English Rebels met

The eleuenth of this moneth, at Shrewsbury:

A mightie and a fearefull Head they are,

(If Promises be kept on euery hand)

As euer offered foule play in a State.

The earle of Westmerland set forth to day:

With him my sonne, Lord Iohn of Lancaster,

For this aduertisement is fiue dayes old.

On Wednesday next, Harry thou shalt set forward:

On thursday, wee our selues will march.

Our meeting is Bridgenorth: and Harry, you

shall march / Through Glocestershire: by which account,

Our Businesse valued some twelue dayes hence,

Our generall Forces at Bridgenorth shall meete.

Our Hands are full of Businesse: let's away,

Aduantage feedes him fat, while men delay.

Exeunt.

Bardolph, am I not falne away vilely, since this

last action? doe I not bate? doe I not dwindle? Why my

skinne hangs about me like an olde Ladies loose Gowne: I am

withered like an olde Apple Iohn. Well, Ile repent, and

that suddenly, while I am in some liking: I shall be out

of heart shortly, and then I shall haue no strength to

repent. And I haue not forgotten what the in-side of a

Church is made of, I am a Pepper-Corne, a Brewers Horse,

the in-side of a Church. Company, villanous Company

hath beene the spoyle of me.

Sir Iohn, you are so fretfull, you cannot liue

long.

Why there is it: Come, sing me a bawdy Song,

make me merry; I was as vertuously giuen, as a Gentle-man

need to be; vertuous enough, swore little, dic'd

not aboue seuen times a weeke, went to a Bawdy-house

not aboue once in a quarter of an houre, payd Money

that I borrowed, three or foure times; liued well, and in

good compasse: and now I liue out of all order, out of

compasse.

Why, you are so fat, Sir Iohn, that you must

needes bee out of of all compasse; out all reasonable

compasse, Sir Iohn.

Doe thou amend thy Face, and Ile amend thy

Life: Thou art our Admirall, thou bearest the Lanterne in

the Poope, but 'tis in the Nose of thee; thou art the

Knight of the burning Lampe.

Why, Sir Iohn, my Face does you no harme.

No, Ile be sworne: I make as good vse of it, as

many a man doth of a Deaths-Head, or a Memento Mori.

I neuer see thy Face, but I thinke vpon Hell fire, and Diues

that liued in Purple; for there he is in his Robes burning,

burning. If thou wert any way giuen to vertue, I would

sweare by thy Face; my Oath should bee, By this Fire:

But thou art altogether giuen ouer; and

wert indeede, but for the Light in thy Face, the Sunne of

vtter Darkenesse. When thou ran'st vp Gads-Hill in the

Night, to catch my Horse, if I did not thinke that thou hadst

beene an Ignis fatuus, or a Ball of Wild-fire, there's no

Purchase in Money. O, thou art a perpetuall Triumph, an

euer-lasting Bone-fire-Light: thou hast saued me a thousand

Markes in Linkes and Torches, walking with thee in the

Night betwixt Tauerne and Tauerne: But the Sack that thou

hast drunke me, would haue bought me Lights as good

cheape, as the dearest Chandlers in Europe. I haue

maintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time

this two and thirtie yeeres, Heauen 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 Partlet the Hen, haue you enquir'd yet

who pick'd my Pocket?

Why Sir Iohn, what doe you thinke, Sir Iohn? doe

you thinke I keepe Theeues in my House? I haue search'd, I

haue enquired, so haz my Husband, Man by Man, Boy by

Boy, Seruant by Seruant: the tight of a hayre was neuer

lost in my house before.

Ye lye Hostesse: Bardolph was shau'd, and lost

many a hayre; and Ile be sworne my Pocket was pick'd:

goe to, you are a Woman, goe.

Who I? I defie thee: I was

neuer call'd so in mine owne house before.

Goe to, I know you well enough.

No, sir Iohn, you doe not know me, Sir Iohn: I

know you, Sir Iohn: you owe me Money, Sir Iohn, and

now you picke a quarrell, to beguile me of it: I bought you

a dozen of Shirts to your Backe.

Doulas, filthy Doulas: I haue giuen them away

to Bakers Wiues, and they haue made Boulters of them.

Now as I am a true Woman, Holland of eight

shillings an Ell: You owe Money here besides, Sir Iohn,

for your Dyet, and by-Drinkings, and Money lent you,

foure and twentie pounds.

Hee had his part of it, let him pay.

Hee? alas hee is poore, hee hath no-thing.

How? Poore? Looke vpon his Face: What call

you Rich? Let them coyne his Nose, let them coyne his

Cheekes, Ile not pay a Denier. What, will you make a

Younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine Inne,

but I shall haue my Pocket pick'd? I haue lost a Seale-Ring

of my Grand-fathers, worth fortie marke.

I haue heard the Prince tell him, I know

not how oft, that that Ring was Copper.

How? the Prince is a Iacke, a Sneake-Cuppe:

and if hee were heere, I would cudgell him like a Dogge,

if hee would say so.

How now Lad? is the Winde in that Doore? Must

we all march?

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

My Lord, I pray you heare me.

What say'st thou, Mistresse Quickly? How

does thy Husband? I loue him well, hee is an honest man.

Good, my Lord, heare mee.

Prethee let her alone, and list to mee.

What say'st thou, Iacke?

The other Night I fell asleepe heere behind the

Arras, and had my Pocket pickt: this House is turn'd

Bawdy-house, they picke Pockets.

What didst thou lose, Iacke?

Wilt thou beleeue me, Hal? Three or foure Bonds

of fortie pound apeece, and a Seale-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) hee speakes most vilely of you,

like a foule-mouth'd man as hee is, and said, hee would

cudgell you.

What hee did not?

There's neyther Faith, Truth, nor Woman-hood in

me else.

There's no more faith in thee then a stu'de

Prune; nor no more truth in thee, then in a drawne Fox:

and for Wooman-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 thanke heauen on.

I am no thing to thanke heauen on, I wold thou

shouldst know it: I am an honest mans wife: and setting

thy Knighthood aside, thou art a knaue to call me so.

Setting thy woman-hood aside, thou art a beast

to say otherwise.

Say, what beast, thou knaue thou?

What beast? Why an Otter.

An Otter, sir Iohn? Why an Otter?

Why? She's neither fish nor flesh; a man knowes

not where to haue her.

Thou art vniust man in saying so; thou, or

anie man knowes where to haue me, thou knaue thou.

Thou say'st true Hostesse, and he slanders

thee most grossely.

So he doth you, my Lord, and sayde this other day,

You ought him a thousand pound.

Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

A thousand pound Hal? A Million. Thy loue is

worth a Million: thou ow'st me thy loue.

Nay my Lord, he call'd you Iacke, and said hee

would cudgell you.

Did I, Bardolph?

Indeed Sir Iohn, you said so.

Yea, if he said my Ring was Copper.

I say 'tis Copper. Dar'st thou bee 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 feare thee, as I feare the

roaring of the Lyons Whelpe.

And why not as the Lyon?

The King himselfe is to bee feared as the Lyon:

Do'st thou thinke Ile feare thee, as I feare thy Father? nay

if I do, let my Girdle breake.

O, if it should, how would thy guttes fall

about thy knees. But sirra: There's no roome for Faith,

Truth, nor Honesty, in this bosome of thine: it is all fill'd

vppe with Guttes and Midriffe. Charge an honest Woman with

picking thy pocket? Why thou horson impudent

imbost Rascall, if there were any thing in thy Pocket

but Tauerne Recknings, Memorandums of Bawdie-houses,

and one poore peny-worth of Sugar-candie to

make thee long-winded: if thy pocket were enrich'd

with anie other iniuries but these, I am a Villaine: And yet

you will stand to it, you will not Pocket vp wrong. Art

thou not asham'd?

Do'st thou heare Hal? Thou know'st in the

state of Innocency, Adam fell: and what should poore

Iacke Falstaffe do, in the dayes of Villany? Thou seest, I

haue more flesh then another man, and therefore more

frailty. You confesse then you pickt my Pocket?

It appeares so by the Story.

Hostesse, I forgiue thee: / Go make ready

Breakfast, loue thy Husband, / Looke to thy Seruants,

and cherish thy Guests: / Thou shalt find me tractable to any

honest reason: / Thou seest, I am pacified still. Nay,

I prethee be gone.

Now Hal, to the newes at Court for the Robbery, Lad?

How is that answered?

O my sweet Beefe: / I must still be good Angell

to thee. The Monie is paid backe againe.

O, I do not like that paying backe, 'tis a double

Labour.

I am good Friends with my Father, and may

do anything.

Rob me the Exchequer the first thing thou

do'st, and do it with vnwash'd hands too.

Do my Lord.

I haue procured thee Iacke, A Charge of Foot.

I would it had beene of Horse. Where shal I /

finde one that can steale well? O, for a fine theefe

of two and twentie, or thereabout: I am heynously

vnprouided. Wel God be thanked for these Rebels, they

offend none but the Vertuous. I laud them, I praise them.

Bardolph.

My Lord.

Go beare this Letter to Lord Iohn of Lancaster

To my Brother Iohn. This to my Lord of Westmerland,

Go Peto, to horse: for thou, and I,

Haue thirtie miles to ride yet ere dinner time.

Iacke, meet me tomorrow in the Temple Hall

At two a clocke in the afternoone,

There shalt thou know thy Charge, and there receiue

Money and Order for their Furniture.

The Land is burning, Percie stands on hye,

And either they, or we must lower lye.

Rare words! braue world. Hostesse, my breakfast, come:

Oh, I could wish this Tauerne were my drumme.

These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, will you sit 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 cheek looks pale, and with a rising sigh

He wisheth you in heaven.

And you in hell,

As oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

I cannot blame him. At my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets, and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the earth

Shaked like a coward.

Why, so it would have done

At the same season if your mother's cat

Had but kittened, though yourself 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 –

O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,

And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth

In strange eruptions, oft the teeming earth

Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed

By the imprisoning of unruly wind

Within her womb, which for enlargement striving

Shakes the old beldam earth, and topples down

Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth

Our grandam earth, having this distemperature,

In passion shook.

Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave

To tell you once again that at my birth

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds

Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.

These signs have marked me extraordinary,

And all the courses of my life do show

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipped in with the sea

That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,

Which calls me pupil or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman's son

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

I think there's no man speaks better Welsh.

I'll to dinner.

Peace, cousin Percy, you will make him mad.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Why, so can I, or so can any man:

But will they come when you do call for them?

Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil

By telling truth. Tell truth, and shame the devil.

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,

And I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil!

Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power, thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottomed Severn have I sent him

Bootless home, and weather-beaten back.

Home without boots, and in foul weather too!

How scapes he agues, in the devil's name?

Come, here is the map, shall we divide our right

According to our threefold order taken?

The Archdeacon hath divided it

Into three limits very equally.

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,

By south and east is to my part assigned.

All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,

And all the fertile land within that bound,

To Owen Glendower. And, dear coz, to you

The remnant northward lying off from Trent.

And our indentures tripartite are drawn,

Which being sealed interchangeably –

A business that this night may execute –

Tomorrow, cousin Percy, you and I

And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth

To meet your father and the Scottish power,

As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.

My father Glendower is not ready yet,

Not shall we need his help these fourteen days.

(To Glendower) Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

A shorter time shall send me to you, lords,

And in my conduct shall your ladies come,

From whom you now must steal and take no leave,

For there will be a world of water shed

Upon the parting of your wives and you.

Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,

In quantity equals not one of yours.

See how this river comes me cranking in,

And cuts me from the best of all my land

A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I'll have the current in this place dammed up,

And here the smug and silver Trent shall run

In a new channel fair and evenly.

It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Not wind? It shall, it must – you see it doth.

Yea,

But mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side,

Gelding the opposed continent as much

As on the other side it takes from you.

Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,

And on this north side win this cape of land,

And then he runs straight and even.

I'll have it so, a little charge will do it.

I'll not have it altered.

Will not you?

No, nor you shall not.

Who shall say me nay?

Why, that will I.

Let me not understand you then, speak it in Welsh.

I can speak English, lord, as well as you,

For I was trained up in the English court,

Where being but young I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament –

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Marry and I am glad of it with all my heart!

I had rather be a kitten and cry ‘ mew ’

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers.

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree,

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,

Nothing so much as mincing poetry.

'Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.

Come, you shall have Trent turned.

I do not care, I'll give thrice so much land

To any well-deserving friend.

But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,

I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be gone?

The moon shines fair, you may away by night.

I'll haste the writer, and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence.

I am afraid my daughter will run mad,

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

Fie, cousin Percy, how you cross my father!

I cannot choose. Sometime he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,

And of a dragon and a finless fish,

A clip-winged griffin and a moulten raven,

A couching lion and a ramping cat,

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I tell you what –

He held me last night at least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils' names

That were his lackeys. I cried ‘ Hum,’ and ‘ Well, go to!’

But marked him not a word. O, he is as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife,

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far,

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me

In any summer house in Christendom.

In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,

Exceedingly well read, and profited

In strange concealments, valiant as a lion,

And wondrous affable, and as bountiful

As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?

He holds your temper in a high respect

And curbs himself even of his natural scope

When you come 'cross his humour, faith he does.

I warrant you that man is not alive

Might so have tempted him as you have done

Without the taste of danger and reproof.

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame,

And since your coming hither have done enough

To put him quite besides his patience.

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault.

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood –

And that's the dearest grace it renders you –

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,

Defect of manners, want of government,

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain,

The least of which haunting a nobleman

Loseth men's hearts and leaves behind a stain

Upon the beauty of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation.

Well, I am schooled – good manners be your speed!

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

This is the deadly spite that angers me,

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

My daughter weeps, she'll not part with you;

She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.

Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy

Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

She is desperate here, a peevish self-willed

harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon.

I understand thy looks, that pretty Welsh

Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in, and but for shame

In such a parley should I answer thee.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,

And that's a feeling disputation,

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learnt thy language, for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penned,

Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower

With ravishing division to her lute.

Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

O, I am ignorance itself in this!

She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,

And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,

And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,

Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep

As is the difference betwixt day and night,

The hour before the heavenly-harnessed team

Begins his golden progress in the east.

With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing,

By that time will our book I think be drawn

Do so, and those musicians that shall play to you

Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,

And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend.

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down.

Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Go, ye giddy goose.

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh,

And 'tis no marvel he is so humorous,

By'r lady, he is a good musician.

Then should you be nothing but musical,

For you are altogether governed by humours.

Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

I had rather hear Lady my brach howl in Irish.

Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

No.

Then be still.

Neither, 'tis a woman's fault.

Now, God help thee!

To the Welsh lady's bed.

What's that?

Peace, she sings.

Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.

Not mine, in good sooth.

Not yours, in good sooth! Heart! you swear like

a comfit-maker's wife – ‘ Not you, in good sooth!’, and

‘ As true as I live!’, and ‘ As God shall mend me!’, and

‘ As sure as day!’ –

And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths

As if thou never walkest further than Finsbury.

Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath, and leave ‘ In sooth,’

And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,

To velvet-guards, and Sunday citizens.

Come, sing.

I will not sing.

'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast

teacher. An the indentures be drawn I'll away within

these two hours. And so, come in when ye will.

Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book is drawn – we'll but seal,

And then to horse immediately.

With all my heart.

Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and I

Must have some private conference – but be near at hand,

For we shall presently have need of you.

I know not whether God will have it so

For some displeasing service I have done,

That in his secret doom out of my blood

He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me.

But thou dost in thy passages of life

Make me believe that thou art only marked

For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven,

To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires,

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art matched withal, and grafted to,

Accompany the greatness of thy blood

And hold their level with thy princely heart?

So please your majesty, I would I could

Quit all offences with as clear excuse

As well as I am doubtless I can purge

Myself of many I am charged withal.

Yet such extenuation let me beg

As, in reproof of many tales devised,

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,

By smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,

I may for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wandered and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.

God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,

At thy affections, which do hold a wing

Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.

Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,

Which by thy younger brother is supplied,

And art almost an alien to the hearts

Of all the court and princes of my blood.

The hope and expectation of thy time

Is ruined, and the soul of every man

Prophetically do forethink thy fall.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

So common-hackneyed in the eyes of men,

So stale and cheap to vulgar company,

Opinion, that did help me to the crown,

Had still kept loyal to possession,

And left me in reputeless banishment,

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir

But like a comet I was wondered at,

That men would tell their children ‘ This is he!’

Others would say, ‘ Where, which is Bolingbroke?’

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dressed myself in such humility

That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,

Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,

Even in the presence of the crowned King.

Thus did I keep my person fresh and new,

My presence, like a robe pontifical,

Ne'er seen but wondered at, and so my state,

Seldom, but sumptuous, showed like a feast,

And won by rareness such solemnity.

The skipping King, he ambled up and down,

With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits,

Soon kindled and soon burnt, carded his state,

Mingled his royalty with capering fools,

Had his great name profaned with their scorns,

And gave his countenance against his name

To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative,

Grew a companion to the common streets,

Enfeoffed himself to popularity,

That, being daily swallowed by men's eyes,

They surfeited with honey, and began

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little

More than a little is by much too much.

So, when he had occasion to be seen,

He was but as the cuckoo is in June,

Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes

As, sick and blunted with community,

Afford no extraordinary gaze,

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes,

But rather drowsed and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face, and rendered such aspect

As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full.

And in that very line, Harry, standest thou,

For thou has lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation. Not an eye

But is aweary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more,

Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,

Be more myself.

For all the world

As thou art to this hour was Richard then

When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh,

And even as I was then is Percy now.

Now by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,

He hath more worthy interest to the state

Than thou the shadow of succession.

For of no right, nor colour like to right,

He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,

Turns head against the lion's armed jaws,

And being no more in debt to years than thou

Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on

To bloody battles, and to bruising arms.

What never-dying honour hath he got

Against renowned Douglas! Whose high deeds,

Whose hot incursions and great name in arms,

Holds from all soldiers chief majority

And military title capital

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swaddling clothes,

This infant warrior, in his enterprises

Discomfited great Douglas, taken him once,

Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,

To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,

And shake the peace and safety of our throne.

And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,

The Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,

Capitulate against us and are up.

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?

Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,

Which art my nearest and dearest enemy?

Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,

Base inclination, and the start of spleen,

To fight against me under Percy's pay,

To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate.

Do not think so, you shall not find it so;

And God forgive them that so much have swayed

Your majesty's good thoughts away from me!

I will redeem all this on Percy's head,

And in the closing of some glorious day

Be bold to tell you that I am your son,

When I will wear a garment all of blood,

And stain my favours in a bloody mask,

Which, washed away, shall scour my shame with it.

And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,

That this same child of honour and renown,

This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,

And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.

For every honour sitting on his helm,

Would they were multitudes, and on my head

My shames redoubled. For the time will come

That I shall make this northern youth exchange

His glorious deeds for my indignities.

Percy is but my factor, good my lord,

To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf,

And I will call him to so strict account

That he shall render every glory up,

Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,

Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.

This in the name of God I promise here,

The which if He be pleased I shall perform,

I do beseech your majesty may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.

If not, the end of life cancels all bonds,

And I will die a hundred thousand deaths

Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

A hundred thousand rebels die in this.

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.

So hath the business that I come to speak of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word

That Douglas and the English rebels met

The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.

A mighty and a fearful head they are,

If promises be kept on every hand,

As ever offered foul play in a state.

The Earl of Westmorland set forth today,

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster,

For this advertisement is five days old.

On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward.

On Thursday we ourselves will march.

Our meeting is Bridgnorth, and, Harry, you

Shall march through Gloucestershire, by which account,

Our business valued, some twelve days hence

Our general forces at Bridgnorth shall meet.

Our hands are full of business, let's away,

Advantage feeds him fat while men delay.

Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this

last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my

skin hangs about me like an old lady's 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. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a

church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse.

The inside of a church! Company, villainous company,

hath been the spoil of me.

Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live

long.

Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy song,

make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman

need to be. Virtuous enough. Swore little. Diced

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 of four times. Lived well, and in

good compass: and now I live out of all order, out of all

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 death's-head, or a memento mori.

I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives

that lived in purple: for there he is in his robes, burning,

burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would

swear by thy face. My oath should be ‘By this fire, that's

God's angel!' But thou art altogether given over, and

wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of

utter darkness. When thou rannest up Gad's Hill in the

night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst

been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wildfire, there's no

purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an

everlasting bonfire-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 lights as good

cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have

maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time

this two-and-thirty years, God reward me for it!

'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!

God-a-mercy! So should I be sure to be

heart-burnt.

How now, Dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired yet

who picked my pocket?

Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do

you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I

have enquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by

boy, servant by servant – the tithe of a hair was never

lost in my house before.

Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shaved and lost

many a hair, and I'll be sworn my pocket was picked.

Go to, you are a woman, go!

Who, I? No, I defy thee! God's light, I was

never called 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. They have made bolters of them.

Now as I am a true woman, holland of eight

shillings an ell! You owe money here besides, Sir John,

for your diet, and by-drinkings, and money lent you,

four-and-twenty pound.

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 them coin his nose, let them coin his

cheeks, I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a

younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn

but I shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring

of my grandfather's worth forty mark.

O Jesu, 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.

'Sblood, an he were here I would cudgel him like a dog

if he would say so.

How now, lad? Is the wind in that door, i'faith, must

we all march?

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

My lord, I pray you hear me.

What sayest thou, Mistress Quickly? How

doth thy husband? I love him well, he is an honest man.

Good my lord, hear me.

Prithee let her alone, and list to me.

What sayest thou, Jack?

The other night I fell asleep here, behind the

arras, and had my pocket picked. This house is turned

bawdy-house, they pick pockets.

What didst thou lose, Jack?

Wilt thou believe me, Hal, three or four bonds

of forty pound apiece, and a seal-ring of my

grandfather's.

A trifle, some eightpenny 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-mouthed man as he is, and said he would

cudgel you.

What! He did not?

There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in

me else.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed

prune, nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox –

and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the deputy's

wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go!

Say, what thing? what thing?

What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on.

I am no thing to thank God 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 sayest true, Hostess, and he slanders

thee most grossly.

So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day

you owed 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 owest me thy love.

Nay, my lord, he called 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, darest thou be as good as

thy word now?

Why Hal, thou knowest as thou art but man I

dare, but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the

roaring of the lion's whelp.

And why not as the lion?

The King himself is to be feared as the lion.

Dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay,

an I do, I pray God my girdle break.

O, if it should, how would thy guts fall

about thy knees! But sirrah, there's no room for faith,

truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine. It is all filled

up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with

picking thy pocket? Why, thou whoreson impudent

embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket

but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses,

and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to

make thee long-winded, if thy pocket were enriched

with any other injuries but these, I am a villain. And yet

you will stand to it, you will not pocket up wrong! Art

thou not ashamed?

Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the

state of innocency Adam fell, and what should poor

Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou seest I

have more flesh than another man, and therefore more

frailty. You confess then, you picked my pocket?

It appears so by the story.

Hostess, I forgive thee, go make ready

breakfast, love thy husband, look to thy servants,

cherish thy guests, thou shalt find me tractable to any

honest reason, thou seest I am pacified still – nay

prithee be gone.

Now, Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery, lad,

how is that answered?

O my sweet beef, I must still be good angel

to thee – the money is paid back again.

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

labour.

I am good friends with my father and may

do anything.

Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou

doest, and do it with unwashed 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 the age

of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously

unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels, they

offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.

Bardolph!

My lord?

Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

To my brother John, this to my Lord of Westmorland.

Go, Peto, to horse, to horse; for thou and I

Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.

Jack, meet me tomorrow in the Temple hall

At two o'clock in the afternoon.

There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive

Money and order for their furniture.

The land is burning, Percy stands on high,

And either we or they must lower lie.

Rare words! Brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come!

O, I could wish this tavern were my drum.