Thrice hath this Hotspur Mars in swathing clothes, And shake the peace and safety of our throne. And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland, The Archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer, and are up. Capitulate against us, ? But wherefore do I tell these news to thee? P. Hen. Do not think so, you shall not find it so: And God forgive them, that so much have sway'd it. And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights, That this same child of honour and renown, This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet; For every honour sitting on his helm, Would they were multitudes; and on my head My shames redoubled! for the time will come, K. Hen. A hundred thousand rebels die in this: Thou shalt have charge, and sovereign trust, herein. Enter BLUNT. How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed. Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of. Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word,- As ever offer'd foul play in a state. K. Hen. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to day; With him my son, lord Johu of Lancaster; For this advertisement is five days old: count, Our business valued, some twelve days hence SCENE III, Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's Head Tavern. Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH. Fal. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown; I am wither'd like an old apple-John. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what' the inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a church Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me. Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long. Fal. Why, there is it:-come, sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given, as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough: swore little; diced, not above seyen times : week went to a bawdy-house, not above once in a quarter of an hour; paid money that I borrow'd, three or four times; lived well, and in good compass and now I live out of all order, out of all compass, Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass; out of all reasonable compass, Sir John. Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life: Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop, -but 'tis in the nose of thee; thou art the knight of the burning lamp. Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal, No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death's head, or ą memento mori: I never see thy face, but I think on hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, buruing. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be, By this fire: but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran'st up Gads-hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hast been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfirelight! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk me, would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years; Heaven reward me for it! Bard. 'Slood, I would my face were in your belly! Fal. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd. Enter Hostess. How now, dame Partlet the hen? have you inquired yet, who pick'd my pocket? Host. Why, Sir John! what do you think, Sir John? Do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have inquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servaut : the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before. Fal. You lie, hostess; Bardolph was shaved, and lost many a hair: and I'll be sworn, my pocket was pick'd: Go to, you are a woman, go. Host. Who I? I defy thee: I was never call'd so in mine own house before. Fal. Go to, I know you well enough, Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me”, Sir John: I know you, Sir John: you owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back. Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers' wives, and they have. anade bolters of them. Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here. besides, Sir John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four and twenty pound. Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay. |