Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes:- How, in our means, we should advance ourselves Hast. Our present musters grow upon the file Bard. The question then, lord Hastings, standeth thus ; Whether our present five-and-twenty thousand Bard. Arch. "Tis very true, lord Bardolph; for, indeed, It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury. Bard. It was, my lord; who lin❜d himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply, Flattering himself with project of a power Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts: And so, with great imagination, Proper to madmen, led his powers to death, Hast. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt, To lay down likelihoods, and forms of hope. We see the appearing buds; which, to prove fruit, That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build, Then must we rate the cost of the erection: What do we then, but draw anew the model To build at all? Much more, in this great work Question surveyors; know our own estate, Using the names of men, instead of men: Beyond his power to build it; who, half through, And waste for churlish winter's tyranny. Hast. Grant, that our hopes (yet likely of fair birth), Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd The utmost man of expectation; I think, we are a body strong enough, Even as we are, to equal with the king. Bard. What! is the king but five-and-twenty thou sand? Hast. To us, no more; nay, not so much, lord Bardolph. For his divisions, as the times do brawl, Are in three heads: one power against the French, Must take up us: So is the unfirm king In three divided; and his coffers sound With hollow poverty and emptiness. Arch. That he should draw his several strengths together, And come against us in full puissance, Hast. If he should do so, He leaves his back unarm'd, the French and Welsh Bard. Who, is it like, should lead his forces hither? Hust. The duke of Lancaster, and Westmoreland: Against the Welsh, himself, and Harry Monmouth: But who is substituted 'gainst the French, I have no certain notice. And publish the occasion of our arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice, An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he, that buildeth on the vulgar heart. Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke, [Exeunt. SCENE I. LONDON. A Street. Enter HOSTESS; FANG, and his Boy, with her; ana Host. Master Fang, have you entered the action? Host. Where is your yeoman? Is it a lusty yeoman? will a'stand to't? Fang. Sirrah, where's Snare? Host. O lord, ay; good master Snare. Snare. Here, here. Fang. Snare, we must arrest sir John Falstaff. Host. Yea, good master Snare; I have entered him and all. Snare. It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab. Host. Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabbed me in mine own house, and that most beastly: in good faith, a'cares not what mischief he doth, if his weapon be out: he will foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child. Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust. Host. No, nor I neither: I'll be at your elbow. Fang. An I but fist him once; an a'come but within my vice; Host. I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he's an infinitive thing upon my score:-Good master Fang, hold him sure;-good master Snare, let him not 'scape. He comes continually to Pie-corner (saving your manhoods), to buy a saddle; and he's indited to dinner to the Lubbar's Head in Lumbert-street,to master Smooth's the silkman: I pray ye, since my exion is entered, and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long loan for a poor lone woman to bear: and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass, and a beast, to bear every knave's wrong. Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, Page, and BARDOLPH. Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices, master Fang, and master Snare; do me, do me, do me your offices. Fal. How now? whose mare's dead? what's the matter? Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of mistress Quickly. Fal. Away, varlets!-Draw, Bardolph; cut me off the villain's head; throw the quean in the channel. Host. Throw me in the channel? I'll throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue!-Murder, murder! O thou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou kill God's officers, and the king's? O thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a manqueller, and a woman-queller. Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph. Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou |