Hoft. Marry, my lord, there is a Nobleman of the Court at door would 'fpeak with you; he fays, he comes from your father. P. Henry. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and fend him back again to my mother. Fal. What manner of man is he? Hoft. An old man. Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his anfwer? P. Henry. Pr'ythee, do, Jack. Fal. Faith, and I'll fend him packing. [Exit. P. Henry. Now, Sirs, by'r lady, you fought fair; fo did you, Peto; fo did you, Bardolph: you are Lions too, you ran away upon inflinct; you will not touch the true Prince; no, fie! Bard. 'Faith, I ran when I faw others run. P. Henry. Tell me now in earnest, how came FalStaff's fword fo hackt? Peto. Why, he hackt it with his dagger, and faid he would fwear truth out of England, but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and perfuaded us to do the like. Bard. Yea, and to tickle our nofes with fpear-grass, to make them bleed; and then beslubber our garments with it, and fwear it was the blood of true men. I did. That I did not these feven years before, I blush'd to hear his monftrous devices. P. Henry. O villain, thou stoleft a cup of fack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou haft blush'd extempore; thou hadft fire and fword on thy fide, and yet thou rannest away; what inftin&t hadft thou for it? Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold thefe exhalations? P. Henry. I do. Bard. What think you they portend? Bard. Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. SCENE XI. Re-enter Falstaff. How Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. now, my sweet creature of bombaft, how long is't ago, Jack, fince thou faw'ft thy own knee? Fal. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's talon in the wafte; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of fighing and grief, it blows a man up like a bladder. There's villainous news abroad: here was Sir John Braby from your father; you must go to the Court in the morning. That fame mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales, that give Amamon the baftinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and fwore the devil his true Liegeman upon the cross of a Welshhook: what a plague call you him— Poins. O, Glendower. Fal. Owen, Owen; the fame; and his fon-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglas, that runs a horseback up a hill perpendicular P. Henry. He that rides at high speed, and with a piftol kills a Sparrow flying. Fal. You have hit it. P. Henry. So did he never the Sparrow. Fal. Well; that rascal had good mettle in him, he will not run. P. Henry. Why, what a rafcal art thou then, to praise him fo for running? Fal. A horfeback, ye cuckow, but afoot, he will not budge a foot. P. Henry. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. Fal. I grant ye, upon inftinct: well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester Worcester is ftol'n away by night: thy father's beard. is turn'd white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel. P. Henry. Then 'tis like, if there come a hot June, and this civil buffetting hold, we fhall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundred. Fal. By the mafs, lad, thou fay'ft true; it is like, we fhall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horribly afeard? thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three fuch enemies again as that fiend Dowglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it? P. Henry. Not a whit, i'faith; I lack fome of thy inftinct. Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow, when thou com'ft to thy father: if thou do love me, practise an answer. P. Henry. Do thou ftand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life. Fal. Shall I? content: this Chair fhall be my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cufhion my Crown. P. Henry. Thy flate is taken for a joint-ftool, thy golden fcepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald crown. Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now fhalt thou be moved-Give me a cup of Sack to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I muft fpeak in paffion, and I will do it in King Cambyfes' vein. P. Henry. Well, here is my leg. Fal. And here is my speech-Stand afide, Nobi lity. Hoft. This is excellent fport, i'faith. Fal. Weep not, fweet Queen, for trickling tears are vain. Hoft. O the father! how he holds his countenance? Fal. Fal. For God's fake, lords, convey my triftful Queen, For tears do top the flood-gates of her eyes. Hoft. O rare, he doth it as like one of those harlotry Players, as I ever see. Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brainHarry, I do not only marvel, where thou spendeft thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the fafter it grows: yet youth, the more it is wasted, the fooner it wears. Thou art my fon; I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be fon to me, here lieth the point; why, being fon to me, art thou fo pointed at? Shall the bleffed Sun of heav'n prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a question not to be afk'd. Shall the fon of England prove a thief and take purfes? a queftion to be afk'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou haft often heard of, and it is known to many in our Land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; fo doth the company thou keep'ft; for, Harry, now do I not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in paffion; not in words only, but in woes also; and yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name. P. Henry. What manner of man, an it like your Majefty? Fal. A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a chearful look, a pleafing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age fome fifty, or, by'r-lady, inclining to threefcore; and now, I remember me, his name is Falftaff: if that man fhould be lewdly given, he deceives me; for, Harry, I fee virtue in his looks. If then the fruit may be known by the tree, as the tree by the fruit, then peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the reft banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where haft thou been this month? P. Henry. Doft thou speak like a King? do thou ftand for Me, and I'll play my father. Fal. Depofe me?-If thou doft it half fo gravely, fo majeftically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbet-fucker, or a poulterer's hare. P. Henry. Well, here I am fet. Fal. And here I ftand; judge, my masters. P. Henry. The Complaints I hear of thee are grievous. Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false. - Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young Prince. P. Henry. Sweareft thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me; thou art violently carried there's from grace; away a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man: a tun of man is thy companion. Why doft thou converfe with that trunk of humours, that boulting-hutch of beaftlinefs. that fwoln parcel of dropfies, that huge bombard of fack, that ftufft cloak-bag of guts, that roafted Manningtree Ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste fack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing? Fal. I would, your Grace would take me with you: whom means your Grace? P. Henry. That villainous abominable mif-leader of youth, Falfaff, that old white-bearded Satan. Fal. My lord, the man I know. P. Henry. |