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North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith. K. Rich. Doubly divorced?-Bad man, ye violate A twofold marriage,-'twixt my crown and me, And then, betwixt me and my married wife.— Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me; And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north, Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; My wife to France, from whence, set forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas, or short'st of day.

Queen. And must we be divided? must we part? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen. Banish us both, and send the king with me. North. That were some love, but little policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off, than-near, be ne'er the near'. Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans. Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans. K. Rich. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being And piece the way out with a heavy heart. Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief. One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart. [They kiss. Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part, To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart. [Kiss again. So, now I have mine own again, begone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan.


K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.


SCENE II.-The same. A Room in the DUKE OF YORK'S


Enter YORK and his DUCHESS.

Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude misgovern'd hands, from windows' tops, Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,-
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

While all tongues cried "God save thee, Bolingbroke!"
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had said at once,-
"Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!"
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus,-"I thank you, countrymen:"
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even so, or with much more contempt. men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,-
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,-

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heaven hath a hand in these events;

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

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Yea, look'st thou pale? let me see the writing.
Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing.

York. No matter then who sees it:

I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me;
It is a matter of small consequence,

Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
York Which for some reasons, Sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,-

Duch. What should you fear?

'Tis nothing but some bond that he is enter'd into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.

York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not shew it.
York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.
[Snatches it, and reads.
Treason! foul treason!-villain! traitor! slave!
Duch. What is the matter, my lord?
York. Ho! who is within there?-[Enter a Servant.]
Saddle my horse.

God for his mercy! what treachery is here!
Duch. Why, what is it, my lord?

York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.Now by mine honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Duch. What's the matter?

York. Peace, foolish woman.

[Exit Servant.

Duch. I will not peace.-What is the matter, son? Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer.

Duch. Thy life answer!

Re-enter Servant with boots.

York. Bring me my boots; I will unto the king. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed.

Hence, villain; never more come in my sight.-
[To the Servant.

York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?

Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch. He shall be none;

We'll keep him here: then what is that to him?
York. Away,

Fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.

Duch. Hadst thou groan'd for him,

As I have done, thou 'dst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect

That I have been disloyal to thy bed,

And that he is a bastard, not thy son:

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be,

Not like to me, or any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

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SCENE III.-WINDSOR. A Room in the Castle. Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; PERCY, and other Lords. Boling. Can no man tell of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three months since I did see him last:

If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found:
Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions;

Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour to support
So dissolute a crew.

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the prince, And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling. And what said the gallant?

Percy. His answer was,-he would unto the stews, And from the common'st creature pluck a glove, And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Boling. As dissolute as desperate; yet, through both I see some sparkles of a better hope,

Which elder days may happily bring forth.-
But who comes here?

Enter AUMERLE, hastily.

Aum. Where is the king?

Boling. What means

Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?

Aum. God save your grace. I do beseech your maTo have some conference with your grace alone. [jesty Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.[Exeunt PERCY and Lords. What is the matter with our cousin now? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth,

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon, ere I rise or speak.


Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault?
If but the first, how heinous e'er it be,
To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key, That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling. Have thy desire. [AUMERLE locks the door. York. [Within.] My liege, beware; look to thyself; Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. Boling. Villain, I'll make thee safe.

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand;

Thou hast no cause to fear.


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Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak; Recover breath; tell us how near is danger, That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know The treason that my haste forbids me shew.

Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise past:

I do repent me; read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York. 'Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.

I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king;
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence:
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove

A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy !— O loyal father of a treacherous son! Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain, From whence this stream through muddy passages Hath held his current, and defiled himself! Thy overflow of good converts to bad; And thy abundant goodness shall excuse This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd; And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies: Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man's put to death. Duch. [Within.] What ho, my liege! for God's sake

let me in.

Boling. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king; 'tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door; A beggar begs that never begg'd before.

Boling. Our scene is alter'd, from a serious thing, And now changed to "The Beggar and the King."— My dangerous cousin, let your mother in;

I know she's come to pray for your foul sin.

York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,

More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may. This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rests sound; This, let alone, will all the rest confound. Enter DJCHESS.

Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted man; Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here! Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? Duch. Sweet York, be patient.-[Kneels.] Hear me, Boling. Rise up, good aunt.. Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech:

[gentle liege


For ever will I kneel upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
Aum. [Kneels.] Unto my mother's prayers, I bend my
York. [Kneels. Against them both, my true joints
Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace! [bendedbe.
Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest ;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly, and would be denied;

We pray with heart and soul, and all beside:

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;

Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
That mercy which true prayers ought to have.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Duch. Nay, do not say-stand up;

But, pardon first; and afterwards, stand up.
And if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon-should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
Say-pardon, king; let pity teach thee how:
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like pardon, for kings' mouths so meet.
York. Speak it in French, king; say, pardonnez moy
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That sett'st the word itself against the word!-
Speak pardon as 'tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there:
Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear;
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Boling. Good aunt, stand up.

Duch. I do not sue to stand;

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Boling. I pardon him, as God shali pardon me.

Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!

Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;

Twice saying pardon, doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.

Boling. With all my heart

I pardon him.

Duch. A god on earth thou art.

Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, and the With all the rest of that consorted crew, [abbot, Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. Good uncle, help to order several powers To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are: They shall not live within this world, I swear, But I will have them, if I once know where. Uncle, farewell,-and cousin too, adieu: Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true. Duch. Come, my old son-I pray God make thee new. [Exeunt.

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And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget

A generation of still-breeding thoughts,

And these same thoughts people this little world;

In humours, like the people of this world,

For no thought is contented. The better sort-
As thoughts of things divine--are intermix'd
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word:

As thus,-"Come, little ones;" and then again,-
"It is as hard to come, as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye."
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,
Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,
That many have, and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endured the like.
Thus play I, in one person, many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again; and by and by
Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing:--but whate'er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased
With being nothing.-Music do I hear?
Ha ha! keep time:-how sour sweet music is
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear,


To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and, with sighs, they jar
Their watches on to mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the sounds that tell what hour it is
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, times, and hours:-but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
This music mads me; let it sound no more;
For though it have nolp madmen to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Enter Groom

Groom. Hail, royal prince!
K. Rich. Thanks, noble peer;

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food to make misfortune live?

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes master's face.
Q, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation-day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid;
That horse that I so carefully have dress'd!

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly, as if he disdain'd the ground. K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down, (Since pride must have a fall,) and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back? Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee.

Since thou, created to be awed by man,
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall'd, and tired, by jauncing Bolingbros 2.
Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. [To the Groom. K. Rich. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. [Eart

Keep. My lord, will't please you to fall to? K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not; Sir Pierce of Exton, who Lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the Keeper. Keep. Help, help, help!

Enter EXTON, and Servants, armed.

K. Rich. How now? what means death in this rude [assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon, and killing one. Go thou, and fill another room in hell.

[He kills another, then ESTON strikes him down. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person.-Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward here to die. [Dies. Exton. As full of valour, as of royal blood: Both have I spilt; 0, would the deed were good! For now the devil, that told me I did well,

Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.

This dead king to the living king I'll bear ;-
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt

SOENE VI.-WINDSOE. A Room in the Castle. Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with Lords and Attendants.

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is-that the rebels have consumed with fire

Our town of Cicester in Glostershire;

But whether they be ta'en, or slain, we hear not.


Welcome, my lord: what is the news?

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is,-I have to London sent

The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent:
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursèd in this paper here.

[Presenting a paper. Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.


Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous consorted traitors, That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter PEROY, with the BISHOP OF CARLISLE. Percy. The grand conspirator, abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

But here is Carlisle living, to abide

Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom :-

Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a coffin.
Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

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MRS QUICKLY, Hostess of a Tavern in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.


SCENE I.-LONDON. A Room in the Palace.

BLUNT, and others.

K. Hen. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in stronds afar remote.
No more the thirsty Erinnys of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which,-like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more opposed
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,
(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engaged to fight,)
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb
To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet,
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose is a twelvemonth old,
And bootless 'tis to tell you-we will go;
Therefore we meet not now.-Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.

West. My liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was,--that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,
And a thousand of his people butchered:
Upon whose dead corse there was such misuse,
Such beastly, shameless transformation,
By those Welshwomen done, as may not be
Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

K. Hen. It seems, then, that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

West. This, match'd with other, did, my gracious For more uneven and unwelcome news


Came from the north, and thus it did import.
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;
As by discharge of their artillery,

And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse,
Uncertain of the issue any way.

K. Hen. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain'd with the variation of each soil

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.
The earl of Douglas is discomfited;

Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood, did Sir Walter see

On Holmedon's plains of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake the earl of Fife, and eldest son

To beaten Douglas; and the earls of Athol,

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

And is not this an honourable spoil?
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?
West. In faith,

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

K. Hen. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st
In envy that my lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so blest a son:

A son, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet fortune's minion, and her pride:
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow

[me sin

Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved,
That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged
In cradle clothes our children where they lay,
And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet!
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.
But let him from my thoughts.-What think you, coz
Of this young Percy's pride? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surprised,

To his own use he keeps; and sends me word,

I shall have none but Mordake earl of Fife.

West. This is his uncle's teaching, this is Worcester Malevolent to you in all aspects;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up

The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Hen. But I have sent for him to answer this: And, for this cause, a while we must neglect

Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we
Will hold at Windsor, so inform the lords:
But come yourself with speed to us again;
For more is to be said. and to be done.

Than out of anger can be uttered. West. I will, my liege.

SCENE II.-The same.

[Exeunt. Another Room in the Palace. Enter HENRY, Prince of Wales, and FALSTAFF. Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? P. Hen. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou 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, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colour'd taffeta, -I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Fal. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the moon and seven stars; and not by Phoebus,-he, "that wandering 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,)

P. Hen. What, none?

Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

P. Hen. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly. Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us, that are squires of the night's body, be called thieves of the day's beauty; let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon: and let men say, we be men of good government: being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

P. Hen. Thou say'st well; and it holds well too: for the fortune of us, that are the moon's men, doth ebb and flow like the sea; being governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing"lay by;" and spent with crying-"bring in:" now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows. Fal. By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench? P. Hen. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of


Fal. How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips, and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

P. Hen. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Fal. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

P. Hen. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part? Fal. No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

P. Hen. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and, where it would not, I have used my credit.

Fal. Yea, and so used it, that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent,-but, I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed, as it is, with the rusty curb of old father antic, the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

P. Hen. No; thou sbalt.

Fal. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge.

F. Hen. Thou judgest false already; I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

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

P. Hen. For obtaining of suits?

Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits: whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat, or a lugged bear.

P. Hen. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. P. Hen. What sayest thou to a hare, or the melantholy of Moor-ditch?

Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest,-sweet young prince; but, Hal, I pr'ythee, trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God, thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street

about you, Sir; but I marked him not: and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.

P. Hen. Thou 'didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

Fal. O thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,-God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am 1, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain; I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

P. Hen. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?

Fal. Where thou wilt, lad, I'll make one; an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.

P. Hen. I see a good amendment of life in thee: from praying to purse-taking.

Enter POINS, at a distance.

Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. Poins!-Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried "Stand!" to a true man.

P. Hen. Good morrow, Ned.

Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal.-What says monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack-and-Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last, for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?

P. Hen. Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs-he will give the devil his due.

Poins. Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.

P. Hen. Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.

Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock, early at Gadshill! There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have visors for you all, you have horses for yourselves; Gadshill lies tonight in Rochester; I have bespoke supper to-morrow night 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 hanged. Fal. Hear me, Yedward; if I tarry at home, and go not, I'll hang you for going.

Poins. You will, chops?

Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one?

P. Hen. Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith. Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the bloodroyal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

P. Hen. Well, then once in my days I'll be a madcap. Fal. Why, that's well said.

P. Hen. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home. Fal. By the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king.

P. Hen. I care not.

Poins. Sir John, I pr'ythee, leave the prince and me alone; I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.

Fal. Well, mayst thou have the spirit of persuasion. and he the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he hears 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 Eastcheap. P. Hen. Farewell, thou latter spring! Farewell, Allhallown summer! [Exit FALSTAFF.

Porns. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow; I have a jest to execute, that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill, shall rob those men that we have already waylaid; yourself and I will not be there: and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head from Y shoulders.

P. Hen. But how shall we part with them in setting forth?

Poins. 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 adventure upon the exploit themselves: which they shall have no sooner achieved, but we'll set upon them.

P. Hen. Ay, but 'tis like that they will know us, by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appoinsment, to be ourselves.

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