Prin.
How now my Lady the Hostesse, what say'st thou to me?
Hostesse.
Marry, my Lord, there is a Noble man of the Court at doore would speake with you: hee sayes, hee comes from your Father.
Prin.
Giue him as much as will make him a Royall man, and send him backe againe to my Mother.
Falst.
What manner of man is hee?
Hostesse.
An old man.
Falst.
What doth Grauitie out of his Bed at Midnight? Shall I giue him his answere?
Prin.
Prethee doe Iacke.
Falst.
'Faith, and Ile send him packing. Exit.
Prince.
Now Sirs: you fought faire; so did you Peto, so did you Bardol: you are Lyons too, you ranne away vpon instinct: you will not touch the true Prince; no, fie.
Bard.
'Faith, I ranne when I saw others runne.
Prin.
Tell mee now in earnest, how came Falstaffes Sword so hackt?
Peto.
Why, he hackt it with his Dagger, and said, hee would sweare truth out of England, but hee would make you beleeue it was done in fight, and perswaded vs to doe the like.
Bard.
Yea, and to tickle our Noses with Spear-grasse, to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it, and sweare it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seuen yeeres before, I blusht to heare his monstrous deuices.
Prin.
O Villaine, thou stolest a Cup of Sacke eighteene yeeres agoe, and wert taken with the manner, and euer since thou hast blusht extempore: thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou ranst away; what instinct hadst thou for it?
Bard.
My Lord, doe you see these Meteors? doe you behold these Exhalations?
Prin.
I doe.
Bard.
What thinke you they portend?
Prin.
Hot Liuers, and cold Purses.
Bard.
Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken.
Prin.
No, if rightly taken, Halter.
Enter Falstaffe.
Heere comes leane Iacke, heere comes bare-bone. How now my sweet Creature of Bombast, how long is't agoe, Iacke, since thou saw'st thine owne Knee?
Falst.
My owne Knee? When I was about thy yeeres (Hal) I was not an Eagles Talent in the Waste, I could haue crept into any Aldermans Thumbe-Ring: a plague of sighing and griefe, it blowes a man vp like a Bladder. There's villanous Newes abroad; heere was Sir Iohn Braby from your Father; you must goe to the Court in the Morning. The same mad fellow of the North, Percy; and hee of Wales, that gaue Amamon the Bastinado, and made Lucifer Cuckold, and swore the Deuill his true Liege-man vpon the Crosse of a Welch-hooke; what a plague call you him?
Poin.
O, Glendower.
Falst.
Owen, Owen; the same, and his Sonne in Law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and the sprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglas, that runnes a Horse-backe vp a Hill perpendicular.
Prin.
Hee that rides at high speede, and with a Pistoll kills a Sparrow flying.
Falst.
You haue hit it.
Prin.
So did he neuer the Sparrow.
Falst.
Well, that Rascall hath good mettall in him, hee will not runne.
Prin.
Why, what a Rascall art thou then, to prayse him so for running?
Falst.
A Horse-backe (ye Cuckoe) but a foot hee will not budge a foot.
Prin.
Yes Iacke, vpon instinct.
Falst.
I grant ye, vpon instinct: Well, hee is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blew-Cappes more. Worcester is stolne away by Night: thy Fathers Beard is turn'd white with the Newes; you may buy Land now as cheape as stinking Mackrell.
Prin.
Then 'tis like, if there come a hot Sunne, and this ciuill buffetting hold, wee shall buy Maiden-heads as they buy Hob-nayles, by the Hundreds.
Falst.
By the Masse Lad, thou say'st true, it is like wee shall haue good trading that way. But tell me Hal, art not thou horrible afear'd? thou being Heire apparant, could the World picke thee out three such Enemyes againe, as that Fiend Dowglas, that Spirit Percy, and that Deuill Glendower? Art not thou horrible afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?
Prin.
Not a whit: I lacke some of thy instinct.
Falst.
Well, thou wilt be horrible chidde to morrow, when thou commest to thy Father: if thou doe loue me, practise an answere.
Prin.
Doe thou stand for my Father, and examine mee vpon the particulars of my Life.
Falst.
Shall I? content: This Chayre shall bee my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cushion my Crowne.
Prin.
Thy State is taken for a Ioyn'd-Stoole, thy Golden Scepter for a Leaden Dagger, and thy precious rich Crowne, for a pittifull bald Crowne.
Falst.
Well, and the fire of Grace be not quite out of thee now shalt thou be moued. Giue me a Cup of Sacke to make mine eyes looke redde, that it may be thought I haue wept, for I must speake in passion, and I will doe it in King Cambyses vaine.
Prin.
Well, heere is my Legge.
Falst.
And heere is my speech: stand aside Nobilitie.
Hostesse.
This is excellent sport, yfaith.
Falst.
Weepe not, sweet Queene, for trickling teares are vaine.
Hostesse.
O the Father, how hee holdes his countenance?
Falst.
For Gods sake Lords, conuey my trustfull Queen,
For teares doe stop the floud-gates of her eyes.
Hostesse.
O rare, he doth it as like one of these harlotry Players, as euer I see.
Falst. Peace good Pint-pot, peace good Tickle-braine. Harry, I doe not onely maruell where thou spendest thy time; but also, how thou art accompanied: For though the Camomile, the more it is troden, the faster it growes; yet Youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it weares. Thou art my Sonne: I haue partly thy Mothers Word, partly my Opinion; but chiefely, a villanous tricke of thine Eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether Lippe, that doth warrant me. If then thou be Sonne to mee, heere lyeth the point: why, being Sonne to me, art thou so poynted at? Shall the blessed Sonne of Heauen proue a Micher, and eate Black-berryes? a question not to bee askt. Shall the Sonne of England proue a Theefe, and take Purses? a question to be askt. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is knowne to
