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A naked fubject to the weeping clouds,
And wafte for churlish winter's tyranny.

Mow. Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,
Should be ftill-born, and that we now poffefs'd
The utmost numbers of our expectation;
Truft me, we are a body strong enough
To combat with the forces of the King.

York. What! is the King but five and twenty thousand?

Mow. Fewer to us. One pow'r against the

French,

And one against Glendow'r; thus a third only
Can be oppos'd to us.
So is the King

In three divided, and his coffers found

With hollow poverty.

York. That he should draw

His pow'rs together, and advance against us,

Need not be dreaded.

Hast. If he should do this,

To French and Welfh he leaves his rear unarm'd, Fear you not that.

York. Who leads his forces hither?

Hast. Prince John of Lancaster and Weftmoreland.

Against the Welsh, the King and Harry Mon

mouth.

But

But who opposes the invading French

I have no certain notice.

York. Let us on;

And publish the occafion of our arms.

1

The commonwealth is fick of her own choice.
An habitation giddy and unfure

Has he, who builds it on the vulgar heart!

O thou fond many, with what loud applaufe
Didst thou beat heav'n with bleffing Bolingbroke,
Before he was what thou would't have him be!
And being now trimm'd in thy own desires,
Thou fpurn'ft him from thee! Who can trust
these times?

They who, when Richard liv'd, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd on his
grave.
They that threw duft upon his goodly head,
When thro' proud London he came fighing on,
After the applauded heels of Bolingbroke,
Cry now: O earth, give us that King again,
And take thou this!-O thoughts of men accurft!
Past and to come feem beft; things prefent, worst.

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ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Street in London.

Enter HOSTESS QUICKLY, and FANG.

Hostess.

MASTER Fang, have you entered the action?

Fang. It is entered.

Host. Where is your yeoman? Is he a trufty yeoman? Will he ftand to it?

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Fang. Sirrah! Snare!

Enter SNARE.

Snare. Here! here!

Fang. Snare, we must arreft Sir J. Falstaff.

Host. Ay, good Master Snare; I have entered him and all.

Snare. It may chance coft fome of us our lives: he will stab.

Host. Alas, the day! Take heed of him. He cares not what mischief he does, if his weapon be out: he will spare neither man, woman, nor child.

Fang.

Fang. If I can clofe with him, I care not for his thrust.

Snare. No, nor I neither: I'll be at your elbow.

Fang. An I but fift him once; an he come but within my vice

Host. I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he is an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him fure! Good Master Snare, let him not 'fcape! I pray you, fince my action is entered, and my cafe fo openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a great fum for a poor lone woman to bear; and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and have been fub'd off, and fub'd off, from this day to that day, that it is a fhame to be thought on. There is no honefty in fuch dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass, and a beast, to bear the ill-treatment of every knave.-Yonder he comes, and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, Master Fang, and Master Snare, do your offices.

Enter FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, and PAGE. Fal. How now! what is the matter?

Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the fuit of Mrs. Quickly.

Fal. Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph! Cut

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me off the villain's head! throw the quean in

the kennel.

Host. Throw me in the kennel! I'll throw thee in the kennel. Murder! Murder! O thou honeyfuckle villain! wilt thou kill the King's officers? O thou honey-feed rogue!

Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph.

Fang. A rescue! a rescue!

Fal. Away, you fcullion! you fuftilarian! away! Enter CHIEF JUSTICE, and ATTENDANT. Ch. Just. What's the matter? keep the peace there! ho!

Host. Good my Lord! be kind to me! I beTeech you, protect me!

Ch. Just. How now, Sir John! what are you brawling here?

Does this become your place, your time, and bufinefs?

You should have been well on your way to York. Stand from him, fellow! wherefore hang'ft thou

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on him?

Host. O my moft worshipful Lord, an't please your Grace, I am a poor widow of Eaftcheap, and he is arrested at my fuit.

Ch. Just. For what fum ?

Host.

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