he fhews in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our House. Let me fee fome more. The purpofe you undertake is dangerous. Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to fleep, to drink: but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, fafety. The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time it felf unforted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoize of fo great an oppofition. Say you fo, fay you fo? I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this? By the lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and conftant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-fpirited rogue is this? Why, my lord of York commends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rafcal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and my felf, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not befides, the Dowglas? have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? and are there not fome of them fet forward already? What a Pagan rascal is this? an infidel. Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide my felf, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a difh of skimm'a milk with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will fet forward to night.

Enter Lady Percy.

How now, Kate! I muft leave you within these two hours.

Lady. O my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed?

Tell me, fweet lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy ftomach, pleasure, and thy golden fleep?

Why

Why doft thou bend thy eyes upon the earth?
And ftart fo often, when thou fitt'ft alone?
Why haft thou loft the fresh blood in thy cheeks?
And given my treasures and my rights of thee,
To thick-ey'd mufing, and curft melancholy!
In thy faint flumbers I by thee have watcht,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars :
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;
Cry, courage! to the field! and thou haft talk'd
Of fallies, and retires; of trenches, tents,
Of palifadoes, frontiers, parapets;
Of bafilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners ranfom, and of foldiers flain,
And all the current of a heady fight.

Thy fpirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so beftir'd thee in thy fleep,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream:

And in thy face ftrange motions have appear'd,
Such as we fee when men restrain their breath
On fome great fudden hafte. O, what portents are
these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it; elfe he loves me not.

Hot. What, ho! is Gilliams with the packet gone? Enter Servant.

Serv. He is, my lord, an hour agone.

Hot. Hath Butler brought thofe horses from theSheriff?
Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought ev'n now.
Hot. What horfe? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
Serv. It is, my lord.

Hot. That roan fhall be my Throne.

Well, I will back him ftrait. O Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the Park,

Lady. But hear you, my lord.

Hot. What fay't thou, my lady?
Lady. What is it carries you away?
Hot. Why, my horfe, my love, my horse.

Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape! A weazel hath

not

Such a deal of fpleen as you are toft with.
In faith, I'll know your business, that I will.
I fear, my brother Mortimer doth ftir
About his Title, and hath fent for you
To line his enterprize: but if you go-
Hot. So far-afoot, I fhall be

weary,

love.

Lady, Come, come, you Paraquito, anfwer me Directly to this question, I fhall ask.

I'll break thy little finger, Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

Hot. Away, away, you trifler: love! I love thee

not,

I care not for thee, Kate; this is no world

To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips.
We must have bloody nofes, and crack'd crowns,
And pass them currant too-gods me! my horse.
What fay't thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with
me?

Lady. Do ye not love me? do you not, indeed?
Well, do not then. For fince you love me not,
I will not love my felf. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me, if you speak in jeft, or no?
Hot. Come, wilt thou fee me ride?
And when I am o' horse-back, I will fwear
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate,
I must not have you henceforth question me,
Whither I go; nor reafon, where about.
Whither I muft, I muft; and to conclude,
This evening muft I leave thee, gentle Kate.
I know you wife; but yet no further wife
Than Harry Percy's wife. Conftant you are,
But yet a woman; and for fecrefie,

No lady clofer. For I well believe,

Thou wilt not utter what thou doft not know;
And fo far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.
Lady. How, so far?

Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate,
Whither I go, thither fhall you go too:

Το

To day will I fet forth, to morrow you.

Lady. It must of force.

[Exeunt.

Will this content you, Kate?

SCENE changes to the Boar's-Head Tavern in East-cheap.

Enter Prince Henry and Poins.

P. Henry. NED, pr'ythee come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

Poins. Where haft been, Hal?

P. Henry. With three or four loggerheads, amongst three or fourscore hogfheads. I have founded the very base string of humility. Sirrah, I am fworn brother to a leafh of drawers, and can call them all by their Chriftian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their confcience, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King of courtefie; telling me flatly, I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy: (by the Lord, fo they call me ;) and when I am King of England, I fhall command all the good lads in Eaft-cheap. They call drinking deep, dying fcarlet; (14) and when you breathe in your watring, they cry, hem! and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am fo good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou haft loft much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action; but, fweet Ned, - (to fweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of fugar, clapt even now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that never spake other English in his

(14) And when you breath in your watering, &c.] This decent way of expreffing an Indecency puts me in mind of the fame Decorum among the Greeks, which is quoted three times by Suidas, and which exactly comes up to this Phrafe quoted by our Author. 'AY, TÒ πέρδεις, ασκημένως λέγω Ασκημονέσερον δὲ, διαπιεῖν καὶ ἀπο @velv. 'ATotope Sic honeftè pedere vocatur: Honeftiùs verò eft, διαπνέν, &ς άποπιει

life, than Eight Shillings and Six Pence, and You are welcome, Sir: with this fhrill addition, Anon, anon, Sir; Score a pint of baftard in the half moon, or fo.) But Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I pr'ythee, do thou ftand in fome bye-room, while I queftion my puny drawer, to what end he gave me the fugar; and do thou 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 pomgranet, 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 so 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

be

Poins. Francis,

Fran. Anon, anon, Sir.

P. Henry. How old art thou, Francis?

Fran. Let me fee, about Michaelmas next I fhall

Poins. 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 me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.