drive at me; (for it was fo dark, Hal, that thou couldst not fee thy hand.)

P. Henry. Thefe lies are like the father that begets them, grofs as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whorfon obfcene greafie tallow-catch

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?

P. Henry. Why, how could't thou know thefe men in Kendal green, when it was fo dark, thou could'st not fee thy hand? come, tell us your reafon: what fay'ft thou to this?

Poins. Come, your reafon, Jack, your reafon.

Fal. What, upon compulfion? no; were I at the ftrappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulfion. Give you a reafon on compulfion! if reafons were as plenty as black-berries, I would give no man a reafon upon compulfion, I.

P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this fin. This fanguine coward, this bed-preffer, this horfeback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,

Fal. Away, you ftarveling, you elf-skin, you dry'd neats-tongue, bull's pizzel, you flock-fifh: O for breath to utter! What is like thee? You taylor's yard, you theath, you bow-cafe, you vile ftanding tuck,

P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou haft tir'd thy felf in base comparisons, hear me fpeak but this.

Poins. Mark, Jack.

P. Henry. We two faw you four fet on four, you bound them, and were mafters of their wealth: mark now, how a plain tale fhall put you down. Then did we two fet on you four, and with a word, outfac'd you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can fhew it you here in the houfe. And, Falstaff, you carry'd your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and ftill ran and roar'd, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a flave art thou, to hack thy fword as thou hast done, and then fay it was in fight What trick? what device? what ftarting hole, canft thou now

find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent fhame?

Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack: what trick haft thou now?

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my mafters; was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true Prince? Why, thou knoweft, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware inftinct, the Lion will not touch the true Prince: inftinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct: I fhall think the better of my self, and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant Lion, and thou for a true Prince. But, by the lord, lads, I am glad you have the mony. Hoftefs, clap to the doors; watch to night, pray to morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, fhall we be merry? fhall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content ;- and the argument fhall be, thy running away.

Fal. Ah! no more of that, Hal, if thou loveft me.

Enter Hoftefs.

Hoft. O Jefu! my lord the Prince!

P. Henry. How now, my lady the hoftefs, what Say'st thou to me?

Hoft. Marry, my lord, there is a Nobleman of the Court at door would fpeak with you; he fays, he comes from your father.

P. Henry. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and fend him back again to my mother.

Fal. What manner of man is he?

Hoft. An old man.

Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his anfwer?

P. Henry. Pr'ythee, do, Jack.

Fal. Faith, and I'll fend him packing.

[Exit.

P. Henry. Now, Sirs, by'r lady you fought fair; fo did you, Peto; fo did you, Bardolph: you are Lions too, you

ran

ran away upon inftinct; you will not touch the true Prince; no, fie!

Bard. 'Faith, I ran when I faw others run.

P. Henry. Tell me now in carneft; how came Falfaff's fword fo hackt?

Peto. Why, he hackt it with his dagger, and faid, he would fwear truth out of England, but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and perfuaded us to do the like.

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our nofes with fpear-grafs, to make them bleed, and then beflubber our garments with it, and fwear it was the blood of true men. I did That I did not thefe feven years before, I blush'd to hear his monstrous devices.

P. Henry. O villain, thou ftolleft a cup of fack eighteen years ago, and wert taken in the manner, and ever fince thou haft blush'd extempore; thou hadft fire and fword on thy fide, and yet thou ranneft away; what inftinct hadft thou for it?

Bard. My lord, do you fee these meteors? do you behold thefe exhalations?

P. Henry. I do.

Bard. What think you they portend?
P. Henry. Hot livers, and cold purses.
Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.
P. Henry. No, if rightly taken, halter.

Re-enter Falstaff.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now, my fweet creature of bombaft, how long is't ago, Jack, fince thou faw'ft thy own knee?

Fal. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's talon in the wafte; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of fighing and grief, it blows a man up like a bladder. There's villainous news abroad: here was Sir John Braby from your father; you must go to the Court in the morning. That fame mad fellow of the north, Percy and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the baftinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and fwore the devil

his true Liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh-hook: what a plague call you him

-Poins. O, Glendower.

Fal. Owen, Owen; the fame; and his fon-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that fprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglas, that runs a horfeback up a hill perpendicular

P. Henry. He that rides at high speed, and with a piftal kills a Sparrow flying.

Fal. You have hit it.

P. Henry. So did he never the Sparrow.

Fal. Well, that rafcal hath good mettle in him, he will not run.

P. Henry. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise him fo for running?

Fal. A horfeback, ye cuckow, but afoot, he will not budge a foot.

P. Henry. Yes, Jack, upon inftinct.

Fal. I grant ye, upon inftinet: well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcefter is ftoln away by night: thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as ftinking mackerel.

P. Henry. Then 'tis like, if there come a hot June, and this civil Buffeting hold, we fhall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundred.

Fal. By the mafs, lad, thou fay't true; it is like, we fhall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horribly afeard? thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three fuch enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that fpirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it?

P. Henry. Not a whit, i'faith; I lack fome of thy inftinct.

Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to morrow, when thou com'ft to thy father: if thou do love me, practise an answer.

P. Henry. Do thou ftand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life. VOL. III,

Сс

Fal.

Fal. Shall 1? content: this Chair fhall be my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my Crown. P. Henry. Thy ftate is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald crown.

Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now fhalt thou be moved-Give me a cup of Sack to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I muft fpeak in paffion, (17) and I will do it in King Cambyfes' vein.

P. Henry. Well, here is my leg.

Fal. And here is my fpeech- Stand afide, Nobility

Hoft. This is excellent fport, i'faith.

Fal. Weep not, sweet Queen, for trickling tears are

vain.

Hoft. O the father! how he holds his countenance? Fal. For God's fake, lords, convey my triftful Queen, For tears do ftop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Hoft. O rare, he doth it as like one of those harlotry Players, as I ever see.

Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brainHarry, I do not only marvel, where thou fpendeft thy time; but also, how thou art accompany'd: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the fafter it grows: yet youth, the more it is wafted, the fooner it wears. Thou art my fon; I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be fon to me, here lyeth the point; why, being fon to me, art thou fo pointed at? Shall the bleffed Son of heav'n

(17) and I will do it in King Cambyfes's Fein.] The Banter here is upon a Play written in old-fashion'd Metre, call'd, a Lamentable Tragedy, mix'd full of pleasant Mirth, containing the Life of Cambyfes King of Perfia, &c. If the whole were writ in that Meafure with the Specimen given us by Mr. Langbaine in his Account of the Dramatic Poets; it is in Eight and Six, as Quince calls it in Midfummer Night's Dream. This was the Verfification chiefly in Vogue, in the 14th and 15th Centuries: and most of the Plays of that Date, in black Letter, are in that Meafure.