Appear before us? we'll enlarge that man,
Though Cambridge, Scroop and Gray, in their dear care
And tender prefervation of our person,

Would have him punish'd. Now to our French causes;
Who are the late commiffioners?

Cam. I one, my Lord,

Your Highness bad me ask for it to-day.
Scroop. So did you me, my Liege,

Gray. And I, my Sovereign.

K. Henry. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is

yours:

There yours, Lord Scroop of Mafham; and Sir Knight,
Gray of Northumberland, this fame is yours;
Read them, and know I know your worthiness.
My Lord of Westmorland, and uncle Exeter,

We will aboard to-night. Why, how now, gentlemen?
What fee you in those papers that you lofe

So much complexion! look ye how they change!
Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there
That hath fo cowarded and chas'd your blood

Out of appearance?

Cam. I confefs my fault,

And do submit to your Highness' mercy.

Gray. Scroop. To which we all appeal.

K. Henry. The mercy that was quick in us but late,
By your own counfel is fupprefs'd and kill'd:
You must not dare for fhame to talk of mercy;
For your own reasons turn upon your bosoms,
As dogs upon their masters, worrying you.
See you, my Princes and my noble Peers,
Thefe English monfters! my Lord Cambridge here,
You know how apt our love was to accord
To furnish him with all appertinents
Belonging to his honour; and this man
Hath for a few light crowns lightly confpir'd,
And fworn unto the practices of France
To kill us here in Hampton. To the which,
This Knight no lefs for bounty bound to us
Than Cambridge is, hath likewife fworn. But O!
What shall I fay to thee, Lord Scroop, thou cruel,

Ingrateful,

Ingrateful, favage, and inhuman creature!
Thou that didft bear the key of all my counfels,
That knew'ft the very bottom of my foul,
That almoft might'ft have coin'd me into gold,
Would't thou have practis'd on me for thy ufe?
May it be poffible, that foreign hire

Could out of thee extract one spark of evil
That might annoy my finger? 'tis so strange,
That though the truth of it ftand off as grofs
As black and white, my eye will scarcely fee it.
Treafon and murder ever kept together,
As two yoak-devils fworn to either's purpose ;
Working fo clofely in a natural cause,
That admiration did not whoop at them,
But thou 'gainft all proportion didst bring in
Wonder to wait on treason, and on murther:
And whatsoever cunning fiend it was
That wrought upon thee so prepoft'roufly,
Hath got the voice in hell for excellence:
All other devils that fuggeft by-treasons
Do botch and bungle up damnation,
With patches, colours, and with forms being fetcht
From glift'ring femblances of piety:

But he that temper'd thee bad thee stand up,
Gave thee no inftance why thou shouldst do treason,
Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor.
If that fame Dæmon that hath gull'd thee thus,
Should with his Lion-gate walk the whole world,
He might return to vafty Tartar back,
And tell the legions, I can never win
A foul fo eafy as that Englishman's.

Oh, how haft thou with jealoufie infected

The sweetness of affiance! Shew men dutiful?
Why fo didst thou: or feem they grave and learned?
Why fo didft thou: come they of noble family?
Why fo didft thou: seem they religious?
Why fo didst thou: or are they fpare in diet,
Free from grofs paffion or of mirth or anger,
Conftant in fpirit, nor fwerving with the blood,
Garnish'd and deck'd in modeft compliment,
R 2

Not

Not working with the eye without the ear,
And but in purged judgment trusting neither ?
Such, and fo finely boulted didft thou seem.
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,
To mark the full-fraught man, the best-endu'd,
With fome fufpicion. I will weep for thee.
For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like

Another fall of man

Their faults are open,

Arreft them to the answer of the law,

And God acquit them of their practices !

Exe. I arreft thee of high treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambridge.

I arreft thee of high treafon, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Mafbam.

I arreft thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Gray, Knight of Northumberland.

Scroop. Our purposes God justly hath discover'd,
And I repent my fault more than my death;
Which I beseech your Highness to forgive,
Although my body pay the price of it.

Cam. For me, the gold of France did not feduce,
Although I did admit it as a motive
The fooner to effect what I intended;
But God be thanked for prevention.
Which I in fuff'rance heartily rejoice for,
Befeeching God and you to pardon me.
Gray. Never did faithful fubject more rejoice
At the difcovery of most dangerous treason,
Than I do at this hour joy o'er my self,
Prevented from a damned enterprize:

My fault, but not my body, pardon, Sovereign!

K. Henry. God quit you in his mercy! hear your sen

tence;

You have confpir'd against our royal person,
Join'd with an enemy, and from his coffers
Receiv'd the golden earneft of our death;
Wherein you would have fold your King to flaughter,
His Princes and his Peers to fervitude,
His fubjects to oppreffion and contempt,
And his whole kingdom into defolation.

Touching

Touching our perfon, feek we no revenge,
But we our kingdom's fafety must so tender,
Whose ruin you three fought, that to her laws
We do deliver you. Go therefore hence,

Poor miferable wretches, to
your death ;
The taste whereof God of his mercy give
You patience to endure, and true repentance
Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence,
Now, Lords, for France, the enterprize whereof
Shall be to you, as us, like glorious.
We doubt not of a fair and lucky war,
Since God fo graciously hath brought to light
This dangerous treafon lurking in our way,
To hinder our beginning. Now we doubt not
But every rub is smoothed in our way:
Then forth, dear countrymen; let us deliver
Our puiffance into the hand of God,
Putting it ftrait in expedition.

Chearly to fee the figns of war advance;
No King of England, if not King of France.

[Exeunt.

[Exeunt. SCENE III. Changes again to London. Enter Piftol, Nym, Bardolph, Boy, and Hoftefs. Hoft. Pr'ythee, honey, fweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

Pift. No, for my manly heart doth yern.

Bardolph, be blith: Nym, rouze thy vaunting veins :
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yern therefore.

Bard. Would I were with him wherefome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell.

Hoft. Nay, fure he's not in hell; he's in Arthur's bofom, if ever man went to Arthur's bofom. He made a finer end, and went away an it had been any chriftom child; a' parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' th' tide: For after I faw him fumble with the fheets, and play with flowers, and fmile upon his finger's end, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as fharp as a pen, and a' babled of green fields. How now, Sir John? quoth I: what, man? be o' good cheer: fo a' cried out, God, God, God, three or four times. Now

I, to comfort him, bid him a' should not think of God; I hop'd there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet: fo a' bad me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as a stone: then I felt to his knees, and fo upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.

Nym. They fay he cried out of fack.

Hoft. Ay that a' did.

Bard. And of women.

Hoft. Nay, that a' did not.

Boy. Yes that he did, and said they were devils incarnate. Hoft. A' could never abide carnation, 'twas a colour he never lik'd.

Boy. He faid once, the deule would have him about

women.

Hoft. He did in fome fort indeed handle women; but then he was rheumatick and talk'd of the whore of Babylon.

Boy. Do you not remember he saw a Flea stick upon Bardolph's nofe, and said it was a black soul burning in hell?

Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintain'd that fire: that's all the riches I got in his fervice.

Nym. Shall we fhogg? the King will be gone from Southhampton.

Pif. Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips: Look to my chattels, and my moveables ;

Let fenfes rule; the word is pitch and pay;

[cakes,

Truft none, for oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer

And hold-faft is the only dog, my Duck,
Therefore Caveto be thy counfellor.

Go, clear thy cryftals. Yoke-fellows in arms,
Let us to France, like horfe-leeches, my boys,
To fuck, to fuck, the very blood to fuck.

Boy. And that is but unwholfome food, they say.
Pift. Touch her soft mouth and march. Come!
Bard. Farewel, hoftefs.

Nym. I cannot kifs, that is the humour of it; but adieu ! Pift. Let housewifery appear; keep close, I thee command,