In any summer house in Christendom). Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, Exceedingly well read, and profited In strange concealments, valiant as a lion, And wondrous affable, and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come 'cross his humour. Faith, he does. I warrant you that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done Without the taste of danger and reproof. But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame, And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite besides his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault. Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood- And that's the dearest grace it renders you- Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain; The least of which haunting a nobleman Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation. Hot. Well, I am school'd. Good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. Enter Glendower with the Ladies. Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me- My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with you; She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars. Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily. Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same. Glend. She is desperate here. A peevish self-will'd harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon. The Lady speaks in Welsh. Mort. I understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, In such a Barley should I answer thee. The Lady again in Welsh. I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation. But I will never be a truant, love, Till I have learnt thy language: for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bow'r, With ravishing division, to her lute. Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. The Lady speaks again in Welsh. Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this! Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team Begins his golden progress in the East. Mort. With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing. By that time will our book, I think, be drawn. Glend. Do so, And those musicians that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend. Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down. Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap. Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose. The music plays. Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh; And 'tis no marvel, be is so humorous. By'r Lady, he is a good musician. Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are altogether govern'd by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh. Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish. Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head broken? Hot. No. Lady P. Then be still. Hot. Neither! 'Tis a woman's fault. Lady P. Now God help thee! Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed. Lady P. What's that? Hot. Peace! she sings. Here the Lady sings a Welsh song. Come, Kate, I'll have your song too. Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth. Hot. Not yours, in good sooth? Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth!' and 'as true as I live!' and 'as God shall mend me!' and 'as sure as day!' And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths As if thou ne'er walk'st further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth' And such protest of pepper gingerbread To velvet guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing. Lady P. I will not sing. Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor or be redbreast-teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so come in when ye will. Exit. Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer. You are as slow As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this our book is drawn; we'll but seal, And then to horse immediately. Mort. With all my heart. Exeunt. Scene II. London. The Palace. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others. King. Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and I Must have some private conference; but be near at hand, For we shall presently have need of you. Exeunt Lords. I know not whether God will have it so, For some displeasing service I have done, That, in his secret doom, out of my blood He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me; But thou dost in thy passages of life Make me believe that thou art only mark'd For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else, Could such inordinate and low desires, Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts, Such barren pleasures, rude society, As thou art match'd withal and grafted to, Accompany the greatness of thy blood And hold their level with thy princely heart? Prince. So please your Majesty, I would I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse As well as I am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal. Yet such extenuation let me beg As, in reproof of many tales devis'd, Which oft the ear of greatness needs must bear By, smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers, I may, for some things true wherein my youth Hath faulty wand'red and irregular, And pardon on lily true submission. King. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing, Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors. Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost, Which by thy younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the court and princes of my blood. The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man Prophetically do forethink thy fall. Had I so lavish of my presence been, So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men, So stale and cheap to vulgar company, Opinion, that did help me to the crown, Had still kept loyal to possession And left me in reputeless banishment, A fellow of no mark nor likelihood. By being seldom seen, I could not stir But, like a comet, I Was wond'red at; That men would tell their children, 'This is he!' Others would say, 'Where? Which is Bolingbroke?' And then I stole all courtesy from heaven, And dress'd myself in such humility That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts, Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths Even in the presence of the crowned King. Thus did I keep my person fresh and new, My presence, like a robe pontifical, Ne'er seen but wond'red at; and so my state, Seldom but sumptuous, show'd like a feast And won by rareness such solemnity. The skipping King, he ambled up and down With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits, Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state; Mingled his royalty with cap'ring fools; Had his great name profaned with their scorns And gave his countenance, against his name, To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push Of every beardless vain comparative; Grew a companion to the common streets, Enfeoff'd himself to popularity; That, being dally swallowed by men's eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded- seen, but with such eyes As, sick and blunted with community, Afford no extraordinary gaze, Such as is bent on unlike majesty When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; But rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down, Slept in his face, and rend'red such aspect As cloudy men use to their adversaries, Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full. And in that very line, Harry, standest thou; For thou hast lost thy princely privilege With vile participation. Not an eye But is aweary of thy common sight, Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more; Which now doth that I would not have it do- Make blind itself with foolish tenderness. Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, Be more myself. King. For all the world, As thou art to this hour, was Richard then When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh; And even as I was then is Percy now. Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy interest to the state Than thou, the shadow of succession; For of no right, nor colour like to right, He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, Turns head against the lion's armed jaws, And, Being no more in debt to years than thou, Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on To bloody battles and to bruising arms. What never-dying honour hath he got Against renowmed Douglas! whose high deeds, Whose hot incursions and great name in arms Holds from all soldiers chief majority And military title capital Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ. Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes, This infant warrior, in his enterprises Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once, Enlarged him, and made a friend of him, To fill the mouth of deep defiance up 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 Capitulate against us and are up. But wherefore do I tell these news to thee Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, Which art my nearest and dearest enemy' Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear, Base inclination, and the start of spleen, To fight against me under Percy's pay, To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns, To show how much thou art degenerate. Prince. Do not think so. You shall not find it so. And God forgive them that so much have sway'd Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me! I will redeem all this on Percy's head And, in the closing of some glorious day, Be bold to tell you that I am your son, When I will wear a garment all of blood, And stain my favours in a bloody mask, Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with 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 That I shall make this Northern youth exchange His glorious deeds for my indignities. Percy is but my factor, good my lord, To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; And I will call hall to so strict account That he shall render every glory up, Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart. This in the name of God I promise here; The which if he be pleas'd I shall perform, I do beseech your Majesty may salve The long-grown wounds of my intemperance. If not, the end of life cancels all bands, And I will die a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow. King. 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 That Douglas and the English rebels met The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury. A mighty and a fearful head they are, If promises be kept oil every hand, As ever off'red foul play in a state. King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day; With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster; For this advertisement is five days old. On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward; On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting Is Bridgenorth; and, Harry, you shall march Through Gloucestershire; by which account, Our business valued, some twelve days hence Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet. Our hands are full of business. Let's away. Advantage feeds him fat while men delay. Exeunt. Scene III. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, am I not fall'n 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 withered 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 peppercorn, a brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company, villanous 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, dic'd not above seven times a week, went to a bawdy house not above once in a quarter- of an hour, paid money that I borrowed- 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 a memento mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. if thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be 'By this fire, that's God's angel.' 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 Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! 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. God reward me for it! Bard. 'Sblood, 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 enquir'd 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 enquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before. Fal. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shav'd 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? No; I defy thee! God's light, 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; they have made 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. Host. He? Alas, he is poor; he hath nothing. Fal. How? Poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks. I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark. Host. O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper! Fal. How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup. 'Sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so. Enter the Prince [and Poins], marching; and Falstaff meets them, playing upon his truncheon like a fife. How now, lad? Is the wind in that door, i' faith? Must we all march? Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion. Host. My lord, I pray you hear me. Prince. What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man. Host. Good my lord, hear me. Fal. Prithee let her alone and list to me. Prince. What say'st thou, Jack? Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and had my pocket pick'd. This house is turn'd bawdy house; they pick pockets. Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack? Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? Three or four bonds of forty pound apiece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's. Prince. A trifle, some eightpenny matter. Host. So I told him, my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say so; and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd man as he is, and said he would cudgel you. Prince. What! he did not? Host. There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else. Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for woman-hood, Maid Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go! Host. Say, what thing? what thing? Fal. What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on. Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it! I am an honest man's wife, and, setting thy knight-hood aside, thou art a knave to call me so. Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise. Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou? Fal. What beast? Why, an otter. Prince. An otter, Sir John? Why an otter? Fal. Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her. Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou! Prince. Thou say'st true, hostess, and he slanders thee most grossly. Host. So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day you ought him a thousand pound. Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound? Fal. A thousand pound, Hal? A million! Thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy love. Host. Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack and said he would cudgel you. Fal. Did I, Bardolph? Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. Fal. Yea. if he said my ring was copper. Prince. I say, 'tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word now? Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare; but as thou art Prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp. Prince. And why not as the lion? Fal. The King himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break. Prince. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But, sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine. It is all fill'd up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou whoreson, impudent, emboss'd rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy houses, and one poor pennyworth of sugar candy to make thee long-winded- if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but these, I am a villain. And yet you will stand to it; you will not pocket up wrong. Art thou not ashamed? Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confess then, you pick'd my pocket? Prince. It appears so by the story. Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast. Love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am pacified. -Still?- Nay, prithee be gone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the robbery, lad- how is that answered? Prince. O my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee. The money is paid back again. Fal. O, I do not like that paying back! 'Tis a double labour. Prince. I am good friends with my father, and may do anything. Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with unwash'd hands too. Bard. Do, my lord. Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot. Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels. They offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them. Prince. Bardolph! Bard. My lord? Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland. [Exit Bardolph.] Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time. [Exit Poins.] Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple Hall At two o'clock in the afternoon. There shalt thou know thy charge. and there receive Money and order for their furniture. The land is burning; Percy stands on high; And either they or we must lower lie. [Exit.] Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come. O, I could wish this tavern were my drum! Exit. ACT IV. Scene I. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. Enter Harry Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas. Hot. Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking truth In this fine age were not thought flattery, Such attribution should the Douglas have As not a soldier of this season's stamp Should go so general current through the world. By God, I cannot flatter, I defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord. Doug. Thou art the king of honour. No man so potent breathes upon the ground But I will beard him. Enter one with letters. Hot. Do so, and 'tis well.- What letters hast thou there?- I can but thank you. Messenger. These letters come from your father. Hot. Letters from him? Why comes he not himself? Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick. Hot. Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time? Who leads his power? Under whose government come they along? Mess. His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord. Wor. I prithee tell me, doth he keep his bed? Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth, And at the time of my departure thence He was much fear'd by his physicians. Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole Ere he by sickness had been visited. His health was never better worth than now. Hot. Sick now? droop now? This sickness doth infect The very lifeblood of our enterprise. 'Tis catching hither, even to our camp. He writes me here that inward sickness- And that his friends by deputation could not So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet To lay so dangerous and dear a trust On any soul remov'd but on his own. Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, That with our small conjunction we should on, To see how fortune is dispos'd to us; For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, Because the King is certainly possess'd Of all our purposes. What say you to it? Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us. Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd off. And yet, in faith, it is not! His present want Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a man On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good; for therein should we read The very bottom and the soul of hope, The very list, the very utmost bound Of all our fortunes. Doug. Faith, and so we should; Where now remains a sweet reversion. We may boldly spend upon the hope of what Is to come in. A comfort of retirement lives in this. Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the devil and mischance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. Wor. But yet I would your father had been here. The quality and hair of our attempt Brooks no division. It will be thought By some that know not why he is away, That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence. And think how such an apprehension May turn the tide of fearful faction And breed a kind of question in our cause. For well you know we of the off'ring side Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence The eye of reason may pry in upon us. This absence of your father's draws a curtain That shows the ignorant a kind of fear Before not dreamt of. Hot. You strain too far. I rather of his absence make this use: It lends a lustre and more great opinion, A larger dare to our great enterprise, Than if the Earl were here; for men must think, If we, without his help, can make a head To push against a kingdom, with his help We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down. Yet all goes well; yet all our joints are whole. Doug. As heart can think. There is not such a word Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear. Enter Sir Richard Vernon. Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul. Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John. Hot. No harm. What more? Ver. And further, I have learn'd The King himself in person is set forth, Or hitherwards intended speedily, With strong and mighty preparation. Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside And bid it pass? Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bath'd; Glittering in golden coats like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry with his beaver on His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus And witch the world with noble horsemanship. Hot. No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March, This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come. They come like sacrifices in their trim, And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war All hot and bleeding Will we offer them. The mailed Mars Shall on his altar sit Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh, And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse, Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales. Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse, Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse. that Glendower were come! Ver. There is more news. I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along, He cannot draw his power this fourteen days. Doug. That's the worst tidings that I hear of yet. Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. Hot. What may the King's whole battle reach unto? Ver. To thirty thousand. Hot. Forty let it be. My father and Glendower being both away, The powers of us may serve so great a day. Come, let us take a muster speedily. Doomsday is near. Die all, die merrily. Doug. Talk not of dying. I am out of fear Of death or death's hand for this one half-year. Exeunt. Scene II. A public road near Coventry. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton Co'fil' to-night. Bard. Will you give me money, Captain? Fal. Lay out, lay out. Bald. This bottle makes an angel. Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town's end. Bard. I Will, Captain. Farewell. Exit. Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a sous'd gurnet. I have misused the King's press damnably. I have got in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the banes- such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lieve hear the devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I press'd me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies- slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to Younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old fac'd ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and press'd the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins tack'd together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stol'n from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on every hedge. Enter the Prince and the Lord of Westmoreland. Prince. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt? Fal. What, Hal? How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury. West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all. We must away all, to-night. Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after? Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals. Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare- too beggarly. Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know, not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am surd they never learn'd that of me. Prince. No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy 's already in the field. Exit. Fal. What, is the King encamp'd? West. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long. [Exit.] Fal. Well, To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. Exit. Scene III. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, Vernon. Hot. We'll fight with him to-night. Wor. It may not be. Doug. You give him then advantage. Ver. Not a whit. Hot. Why say you so? Looks he no for supply? Ver. So do we. Hot. His is certain, ours 's doubtful. Wor. Good cousin, be advis'd; stir not to-night. Ver. Do not, my lord. Doug. You do not counsel well. You speak it out of fear and cold heart. Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas. By my life- And I dare well maintain it with my life- If well-respected honour bid me on I hold as little counsel with weak fear As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives. Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle Which of us fears. Doug. Yea, or to-night. Ver. Content. Hot. To-night, say I. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, Being men of such great leading as you are, That you foresee not what impediments Drag back our expedition. Certain horse Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up. Your uncle Worcester's horse came but to-day; And now their pride and mettle is asleep, Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, That not a horse is half the half of himself. Hot. So are the horses of the enemy, In general journey-bated and brought low. The better part of ours are full of rest. Wor. The number of the King exceedeth ours. For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in. The trumpet sounds a parley. Enter Sir Walter Blunt. Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the King, If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect. Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt, and would to God You were of our determination! Some of us love you well; and even those some Envy your great deservings and good name, Because you are not of our quality, But stand against us like an enemy. Blunt. And God defend but still I should stand so, So long as out of limit and true rule You stand against anointed majesty! But to my charge. The King hath sent to know The nature of your griefs; and whereupon You conjure from the breast of civil peace Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land Audacious cruelty. If that the King Have any way your good deserts forgot, Which he confesseth to be manifold, He bids you name your griefs, and with all speed You shall have your desires with interest, And pardon absolute for yourself and these Herein misled by your suggestion. Hot. The King is kind; and well we know the King Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. My father and my uncle and myself Did give him that same royalty he wears; And when he was not six-and-twenty strong, Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low, A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home, My father gave him welcome to the shore; And when he heard him swear and vow to God He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, To sue his livery and beg his peace, With tears of innocency and terms of zeal, My father, in kind heart and pity mov'd, Swore him assistance, and performed it too. Now, when the lords and barons of the realm Perceiv'd Northumberland did lean to him, The more and less came in with cap and knee; Met him on boroughs, cities, villages, Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, Laid gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths, Give him their heirs as pages, followed him Even at the heels in golden multitudes. He presently, as greatness knows itself, Steps me a little higher than his vow Made to my father, while his blood was poor, Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh; And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform Some certain edicts and some strait decrees That lie too heavy on the commonwealth; Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep Over his country's wrongs; and by this face, This seeming brow of justice, did he win The hearts of all that he did angle for; Proceeded further- cut me off the heads Of all the favourites that the absent King In deputation left behind him here When he was personal in the Irish war. But. Tut! I came not to hear this. Hot. Then to the point. In short time after lie depos'd the King; Soon after that depriv'd him of his life; And in the neck of that task'd the whole state; To make that worse, suff'red his kinsman March (Who is, if every owner were well placid, Indeed his king) to be engag'd in Wales, There without ransom to lie forfeited; Disgrac'd me in my happy victories, Sought to entrap me by intelligence; Rated mine uncle from the Council board; In rage dismiss'd my father from the court; Broke an oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong; And in conclusion drove us to seek out This head of safety, and withal to pry Into his title, the which we find Too indirect for long continuance. Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the King? Hot. Not so, Sir Walter. We'll withdraw awhile. Go to the King; and let there be impawn'd Some surety for a safe return again, And In the morning early shall mine uncle Bring him our purposes; and so farewell. Blunt. I would you would accept of grace and love. Hot. And may be so we shall. Blunt. Pray God you do. Exeunt. Scene IV. York. The Archbishop's Palace. Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael. Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief With winged haste to the Lord Marshal; This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest To whom they are directed. If you knew How much they do import, you would make haste. Sir M. My good lord, I guess their tenour. Arch. Like enough you do. To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly given to understand, The King with mighty and quick-raised power Meets with Lord Harry; and I fear, Sir Michael, What with the sickness of Northumberland, Whose power was in the first proportion,