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Enter Mufick.

Page. The Mufick is come, Sir.

Fal. Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol. A Rafcal, bragging Slave? The Rogue fled from me like Quick-filver.

Dol. And thou follow'dft him like a Church: Thou whorfon little tydie Bartholomew Boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting on Days, and foyning on Nights, and begin to patch up thine old Body for Heaven?

Enter Prince Henry and Poins difguis'd.

Fal. Peace, good Dol, do not fpeak like a Deaths-head: Do not bid me remember mine End.

Dol. Sirrah, what Humour is the Prince of?

Fal. A good fhallow young Fellow: He would have made a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd Bread well. Del. They fay Poins hath a good Wit.

Fal. He a good Wit? hang him, Baboon, his Wit is as thick as Tewksbury Muftard: There is no more Conceit in him, than is in a Mallet.

Dol. Why doth the Prince love him so then?

Fal. Because their Legs are both of a bignefs: And he plays at Quoits well, and eats Conger and Fennel, and drinks off Candles ends for Flap-dragons, and rides the wild Mare with the Boys, and jumps upon joint Stools, and fwears with a good Grace, and wears his Boot very smooth, like unto the Sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet Stories; and fuch other Gambol faculties he hath that fhew a weak Mind and an able Body, for the which the Prince admits him: For the Prince himself is fuch another: The weight of an Hair will turn the Scales between their Ha berde-pois.

P. Henry. Would not this Nave of a Wheel have his Ears cut off?

Poins. Let us beat him before his Whore.

P.Henry. Look, if the wither'd Elder hath not his Poll claw'd like a Parrot.

Poins. Is it not strange that Defire fhould fo many Years out-live Performance?

Fal. Kifs me, Dol.

P. Henry

P. Henry. Saturn and Venus this Year in Conjunction! What fays the Almanack to that?

Poins. And look, whether the fiery Trigon his Man be not ifping to his Master's old Tables, his Note-Book, his Counfel-keeper?

Fal. Thou doft give me fatt'ring Buffes.

Deli Nay, truly, I kifs thee with a most conftant Heart. Fal. I am old, I am old.

Dol. I love thee better than I love e'er a fcurvy young Boy of them all.

Fal. What Stuff wilt thou have a Kirtle of? I fhall receive Mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a Cap to morrow: A merry Song, come: It grows late, we will to Bed. Thou wilt forget me when I am gone.

Dol. Thou wilt fet me a weeping if thou fay'ft so: Prove that ever I drefs my felf handsom 'till thy return--Well, hearken the end.

Fal. Some Sack, Fancis.

P. Henry. Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.

Fal. Ha! a Baftard Son of the King's! And art not thou Poins his Brother?

P. Henry. Why, thou Globe of finful Continents, what a Life doft thou lead?

Fal. A better than thou: I am a Gentleman, thou art a Drawer.

P. Henry. Very true, Sir: And I come to draw you out. by the Ears.

Hoft. Oh, the Lord preferve thy good Grace. Welcome to London. Now Heav'n blefs that fweet Face of thine: What, are you come from Wales?

Fal. Thou whorfon made compound of Majefty, by this light Flesh and corrupt Blood thou art welcome.

[Leaning bis Hand upon Dol. Dol. How! you fat Fool, I fcorn you.

Peins. My Lord, he will drive you out of your revenge, and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the Heat. P.Henry. You whorfon Candle-myne you, how vilely did you speak of me even now, before this honeft, virtu ous, civil Gentlewoman?

Hoft

Hoft. 'Bleffing on your good Heart, and fo fhe is by my

troth.

Fal. Didft thou hear me?

P. Henry. Yes; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gads-hill, you knew I was at your back, and fpoke it on purpose, to try my patience.

Fal. No, no, no; not fo: I did not think thou wast within hearing.

P.Henry. I fhall drive you then to confefs the wilful abufe, and then I know how to handle you.

Fal. No abuse, Hal, on my Honour, no abuse.

P. Henry. Not to difpraise me, and call me Pantler, and Bread-chopper, and I know not what?

Fal. No abuse, Hal.

Poins. No abufe!

Fal. No abuse, Ned, in the World; honeft Ned, none. I difprais'd him before the Wicked, that the Wicked might not fall in love with him; In which doing, I have done the part of a careful Friend, and true Subject, and thy Father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal, none, Ned, none; no Boys, none.

P. Henry. See now whether pure Fear, and entire Cowardife, doth not make thee wrong this virtuous Gentlewoman, to close with us? Is the of the Wicked? Is thine Hoftefs here of the Wicked? Or is the Boy of the Wicked? Or honeft Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his Nose, of the Wicked?

Poins. Anfwer, thou dead Elm, answer.

Fal. The Fiend hath Prickt down Bardolph irrecoverable, and his Face is Lucifer's Privy-Kitchin, where he doth nothing but roaft Mault-Worms: for the Boy, there is a good Angel about him, but the Devil out-bids him

too.

P. Henry. For the Women?

Fal. For one of them, fhe is in Hell already, and burns poor Souls: for the other, I owe her Mony; and whether The be damn'd for that, I know not.

Hoft. No, I warrant you.

Fal. No, I think thou art not: I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another Indictment upon thee,

for

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for fuffering flesh to be eaten in thy Houfe, contrary to the Law, for the which I think thou wilt howl.

Hoft. All Victuallers do fo: What is a Joynt of Mutton or two in a whole Lent?

P. Henry. You, Gentlewoman.

Dol. What fays your Grace?

Fal. His Grace fays that, which his flefh rebels against. Hoft. Who knocks fo loud at Door? Look to the Door there, Francis,

Enter Peto.

P.Henry. Peto, how now? what News?

Peto. The King, your Father, is at Westminster,
And there are twenty weak and wearied Pofts,
Come from the North; and as I came along,
I met, and over-took a dozen Captains,
Bare-headed, fweating, knocking at the Taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

P. Henry. By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,
So idly to prophane the precious time:

When Tempeft of Commotion, like the South

Born with black Vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmed Heads.

Give me my Sword, and Cloak:

Faltaff, good Night.

[Exit

Fal. Now comes in the fweeteft Morfel of the Night, and we must hence, and leave it unpickt. More knocking at the Door? How now? what's the matter?

Bard. You must away to the Court, Sir, prefently,
A dozen Captains ftay at Door for you.

Fal. Pay the Musicians, Sirrah: Farewel Hoftefs, fare wel Dol. You fee, my good Wenches, how Men of Merit are fought after; the Undeferver may fleep, when the Man of Action is call'd on. Farewel, good Wenches; if I be not fent away poft, I will fee you again, ere I go.

Dol. I cannot fpeak; if my Heart be not ready to burft..... Well, fweet Jack, have a care of thy felf.

Fal. Farewel, farewel.

[Exit.

Hoft. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty nine Years, come Pefcod time; but an honester, and truer-hearted Man-Well, fare thee well.

Bard

Bard. Miftrefs Tear-fheet.

Hoft. What's the matter?

Bard. Bid Miftrefs Tear Sheet come to my Mafter.
Hoft. O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol.

[Exeunt.

ACT III. SCENE I.

Enter King Henry with a Page.

K. Henry But ere they come, bid them o'er-read thefe

Letters,

And well confider of them: Make good fpeed. [Exit Page.
How many thousands of my pooreft Subjects
Are at this hour afleep! O Sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's foft Nurfe, how have 1 frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And fteep my Senfes in Forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, lyeft thou in fmoaky Cribs,
Upon uneafie Pallads ftretching thee,

And hufht with buzzing Night Flies to thy flumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of coftly State,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathfom Beds, and leav'ft the Kingly Couch
A watch-cafe, or a common Larum-Bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Maft,
Seal up the Ship-boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the Vifitation of the Winds,

Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning Clamours in the flip'ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it felf awakes?
Canft thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repofe
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour fo rude?

And

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