Gads. Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a fhare in our purchase, as I am a true man.

Chamb. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

Gads. Go to, Homo is a common name to all men.

Bid

the oftler bring my gelding out of the ftable. Farewel, you muddy knave!

SCENE III. The Highway.

Enter Prince Henry, Poins and Peto.

[Exeunt.

Poins. Come, fhelter, fhelter; I have removed Falfaff's horfe, and he frets like a gumm'd velvet.

P. Henry. Stand close.

Enter Falftaff..

Fal. Poins, Poins, and be hang'd, Poins!

P. Henry. Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rascal, what a bawling doft thou keep?

Fal. What, Poins! Hal!

P. Henry. He is walk'd up to the top of the hill, I'll go feek him.

Fal. I am accurft to rob in that thief's company the rafcal hath remov'd my horse, and ty'd him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the fquare further afoot, I fhall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I 'fcape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forfworn his company hourly any time this two and twenty year, and yet I am bewitch'd with the rogue's company. If the rafcal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hang'd; it could not be elfe; I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! a plague upon you both. Bardolph! Peto! I'll ftarve ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as to drink, to turn true-man, and to leave these rogues, I am the verieft varlet that ever chew'd with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threefcore and ten miles afoot with me; and the ftony-hearted villains know it well enough. A plague upon't, when thieves cannot be true one to another. [They whistle.] Whew! a plague upon you all. Give me my horfe, you rogues; give me my horfe, and be hang'd.

P. Henry. Peace, ye fat guts, lye down, lay thine ear

clofe to the ground, and lift if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

Fal. Have you any leavers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh fo far afoot again, for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye, to colt me thus ?

P. Henry. Thou lieft, thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

Fal. I pr'ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good King's fon.

P. Henry. Out, you rogue, fhall I be your oftler?

Fal. Go hang thy felf in thy own heir-apparent garters; if I bé ta'en, I'll peach for this; an I have not ballads made on you all, and fung to filthy tunes, let a cup of fack be my poifon; when a jest is so forward, and afoot too, I hate it.

Enter Gads-hill and Bardolph.

Gads. Stand!

Fal. So I do against my will.

Poins. O, 'tis our fetter, I know his voice: Bardolph, what news?

Bard. Cafe ye, cafe ye; on with your vizards; there's mony of the King's coming down the hill, 'tis going to the King's Exchequer.

Fal. You lie, you rogue, 'tis going to the King's ta

vern.

Gads. There's enough to make us all.

Fal. To be hang'd.

P. Henry. You four fhall front them in the narrow lane: Ned Poins and I will walk lower; if they fcape from your encounter, then they light on us,

Peto. But how many be of them ?

Gads. Some eight or ten.

Fal. Zounds, will they not rob us?

P. Henry. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch ?
Fal. Indeed I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather3

but yet no coward, Hal.

P. Henry. Well, we'll leave that to the proof.

Poins. Sirrah, Jack, thy horfe ftands behind the hedge; VOL. V.

C

when

when thou need'ft him, there fhalt thou find him; fare

wel, and stand faft.

Fal. Now cannot I ftrike him if I fhould be hang'd.
P. Henry, Ned, where are our disguises?

Poins. Here hard by: ftand close.

Fal. Now, my mafters, happy man be his dole fay I; every man to his business.

SCENE IV. Enter Travellers.

Trav. Come, neighbour; the boy fhall lead our horfes down the hill: we'll walk a foot a while, and ease our legs. Thieves. Stand!

Trav. Jefu blefs us!

Fal. Strike; down with them, cut the villains throats ah! whorfon caterpillars; bacon-fed knaves, they hate us youth; down with them, fleece them.

Trav. O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever.

Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are you undone ? no, ye fat chuffs, I would your ftore were here. On, bacons, on! what, ye knaves? young men muft live; you are grand jurors, are ye? we'll jure ye, i'faith.

[Here they rob and bind them: Exeunt.

Enter Prince Henry and Poins.

P. Henry. The thieves have bound the true-men: now could thou and I rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jeft for ever.

Poins. Stand clofe, I hear them coming.

Enter Thieves again.

Fal. Come, my mafters, let us fhare, and then to horfe before day; an the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's no equity ftirring. There's no more valour in that Poins, than in a wild Duck.

P. Henry. Your mony!

Poins. Villains!

[As they are fharing, the Prince and Poins fet upon them. They all run away, and Falstaff after a blow or two runs away too, leaving the booty behind them. P. Henry. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse: The thieves are scatter'd, and poffeft with fear So strongly, that they dare not meet each other ;

Each

Each takes his fellow for an officer.

Away, good Ned. Now Falstaff fweats to death,
And lards the lean earth as he walks along :
Were't not for laughing, I fhould pity him.
Pains. How the rogue roar'd!

SCENE V. Lord Percy's Houfe.
Enter Hot-fpur folus, reading a letter.

[Exeunt.

But for mine oron part, my Lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your houfe. He could be contented to be there; why is he not then? in refpect of the love he bears our boufe: he fhews in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our houfe. Let me

; our

fee fome more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous. Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to fleep, to drink; but I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower fafety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time it felf unforted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoize of fo great an oppofition. Say you fo, fay you fo? I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid friends true and conftant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frofty-fpirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his Lady's fan. Is there not my fa ther, my uncle, and my felf, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not befides, the Douglas? have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are there not fome of them fet forward already? What a Pagan rafcal is this! an infidel. Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide my felf, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a dish of skimm'd milk with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the the King. We are prepared. I will fet forward to-night.

C 2

SCENE

SCENE VI. Enter Lady Percy.

How now, Kate! I muft leave you within these two hours.
Lady. O my good Lord, why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?

Tell me, fweet Lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy ftomach, pleasure, and thy golden fleep?
Why doft thou bend thy eyes upon the earth?
And start fo often when thou fitt'ft alone;
Why haft thou loft the fresh blood in thy cheeks?
And given my treasures and my rights of thee,
To thick-ey'd mufing, and curft melancholy !
In thy faint flumbers I by thee have watcht,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars:
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;
Cry, Courage! to the field! and thou haft talk'
Of fallies, and retires; of trenches, tents,
Of palifadoes, fortins, parapets;
Of bafilifks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prifoners ranfom, and of foldiers flain,
And all the current of a heady fight.
Thy fpirit within thee hath been fo at war,
And thus hath fo beftir'd thee in thy fleep,
That beads of fweat have ftood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-difturbed fream :

And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,
Such as we fee when men reftrain their breath
On fome great fudden hafte. O, what portents are these?
Some heavy bufinefs hath my Lord in hand,

And I must know it; else he loves me not.

Hot. What, ho! is Gilliams with the packet gone?
Enter Servant.

Serv. He is, my Lord, an hour agone.

Hot. Hath Butler brought those horfes from the Sheriff?
Serv. One horfe, my Lord, he brought ev'n now.
Hat. What horfe? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

Serv. It is, my Lord.

Hot. That roan fhall be my throne.

Well, I will back him ftrait. O Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.