Puslapio vaizdai

the half moon, or fo. But, Ned, to drive away time 'till Falstaff come, I pr'ythee, do thou ftand in fome byeroom, while I queftion my puny drawer, to what end he gave me the fugar: and do never leave calling Francis, that his tale to me may be nothing but, anon. Step afide, and I'll fhew thee a precedent. [Poins retires.

Poins. Francis!

P. Henry. Thou art perfect.
Poins. Francis!


Enter Francis the Drawer.

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir; look down into the pomigranet, Ralph.

P. Henry. Come hither, Francis.

Fran. My Lord.

P. Henry. How long haft thou to ferve, Francis?
Fran. Forfooth, five years, and as much as to-
Poins. Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. Five years; by'rlady, a long leafe for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, dareft thou be fo valiant, as to play the coward with thy indenture, and fhew it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?

Fran. O Lord, Sir, I'll be fworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart

Poins. Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. How old art thou, Francis?

Fran. Let me fee, about Michaelmas next I fhall bePoins. Francis!

Fran. Anon, Sir; pray you ftay a little, my Lord. P. Henry. Nay, but hark you, Francis, for the fugar thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not? Fran. O Lord, I would it had been two.

P. Henry. I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask ue when thou wilt, and thou fhalt have it.


Poins. Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon.

P. Henry. Anon, Francis? no, Francis, but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, on Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis!

Fran. My Lord.

P. Henry. Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, chryftalbutton, knot-pated, agat-ring, puke-ftocking, caddicegarter, fmooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch?

Fran. O Lord, Sir, who do you mean?

P. Henry. Why then your brown baftard is your only drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will fully. In Barbary, Sir, it cannot come to fo much. Fran. What, Sir?

Poins. Francis!

P. Henry. Away, you rogue, doft thou not hear them call?

[Here they both call; the Drawer ftands amazed, not knowing which way to go.

Enter Vintner.

Vin. What, ftand'st thou ftill, and hear'ft fuch a calling? Look to the guests within. My Lord, old Sir John with half a dozen more are at the door; fhall I let them in? P. Henry. Let them alone a while, and then open the door. Poins! [Exit Vintner.

Enter Poins.

Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. Sirrah, Falstaff and the reft of the thieves are at the door; fhall we be merry?

Poins. As merry as Crickets, my lad. But hark ye, what cunning match have you made with this jeft of the drawer? come, what's the iffue?

P. Henry. I am now of all humours, that have fhew'd themselves humours, fince the old days of goodman Adam, to the pupil age of this present twelve a clock at midnight. What's a clock, Francis?

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

U 3

P. Henry.

P. Henry. That ever this fellow fhould have fewer words than a Parrot, and yet the fon of a Woman! His industry is up ftairs and down ftairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the hot-fpur of the north; he that kills me fome fix or feven dozen of Scots at a breakfaft, washes his hands and fays to his wife, Fie upon this quiet life! I want work. O my fweet Harry, fays fhe, how many haft thou kill'd to-day? Give my roan horse a drench, fays he, and answers, fome fourteen, an hour after; a trifle, a trifle. I pr'ythee, call in Falstaff, I'll play Percy, and that damn'd brawn shall play dame Mortimer his wife. 'Ribi! fays the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.


[blocks in formation]

Enter Falstaff, Gads-hill, Bardolph, and Peto. Poins. Welcome, Jack, where haft thou been ? Fal. A plague of all cowards, I fay, and a vengeance too, marry and Amen! Give me a cup of fack, boyEre I lead this life long, I'll fow nether focks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of fack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks.


P. Henry. Didft thou never fee Titan kifs a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted butter, that melted at the sweet 3 'face of the fun? if thou didft, then behold that compound.

Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this fack too; there is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man; yet a coward is worse than a cup of fack with lime in it. A villainous coward-Go thy ways, old Jack, die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a fhotten herring: there live not three good men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, God help the while, a bad

1 Rice!

Titan,... old edit. Theob. emend.

a bad world I fay. I would I were a weaver, I could fing pfalms, and all manner of fongs. A plague of all cowards, I fay ftill.

P. Henry. How now, Woolfack, what mutter you?

Fal. A King's fon? if I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy fubjects afore thee like a flock of wild geefe, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales?

P. Henry. Why, you whorfon round man! what's the matter?

Fal. Are you not a coward? anfwer me to that, and Poins there?

P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll ftab thee.

Fal. I call thee coward! I'll fee thee damn'd ere I'll call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as faft as thou canft. You are ftrait enough in the shoulders, you care not who fees your back: call you that backing of your friends? a plague upon fuch backing! give me them that will face me-Give me a cup of fack, I am a rogue if I drunk to-day.

P. Henry. O villain, thy lips are scarce wip'd fince thou drunk'st laft.

Fal. All's one for that.

A plague of all cowards, ftill, fay I.

P. Henry. What's the matter!

[He drinks.

Fal. What's the matter! here be four of us, have ta’en

a thousand pound this morning.

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Fal. Where is it! taken from us, it is; a hundred upon poor four of us.

P. Henry. What, a hundred, man?

Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half fword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have escap'd by miracle. I am eight times thruft through the doublet, four through the hofe, my buckler cut through and through, my fword hack'd like a hand-faw, ecce fignum. I never dealt better fince I was a man; all would not do. A plague

of all cowards

let them fpeak; if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the fons of darknefs.

P. Henry. Speak, Sirs, how was it?
Gads. We four fet upon fome dozen.
Fal. Sixteen, at least, my Lord.
Gads. And bound them.

Peto. No, no, they were not bound.

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them, or I am a few elfe, an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were fharing, fome fix or seven fresh men fet upon us.

Fal. And unbound the reft, and then came in the other.
P. Henry. What, fought ye with them all?

Fal. All! I know not what ye call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legg'd creature.

Poins. Pray heav'n you have not murthered some of them.

Fal. Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two I am fure I have pay'd, two rogues in buckram fuits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, fpit in my face, call me horfe; thou know'ft my old ward; here I lay, and thus I bore my point; four rogues in buckram let drive at me.

P. Henry. What, four? thou faidft but two, even now.
Fal. Four, Hal, I told thee four.

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.

Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me; I made no more ado, but took all their feven points in my target, thus.

P. Henry. Seven? why there were but four, even now. Fal. In buckram.

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram fuits.

Fal. Seven, by thefe hilts, or I am a villain else.

P. Henry. Pr'ythee let him alone, we fhall have more



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