And hollow-pamper'd jades of Afia, And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with Shall we fall foul for toys? Hoft. By my troth, captain, thefe are very bitter words. Bard. Be gone, good Ancient: this will grow to a brawl anon. Pift. Die men, like dogs; give crowns like pins: (20) have We not Hiren here? Hoft. O' my word, captain, there's none fuch here. What the good-jer? do you think, I would deny her? pray, be quiet. I Pift. Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis; come, and expofe the Fuftian of fome contemporary Pieces. In the 2d Part of an old Play, call'd, Tamburlaine's Conquefts, Or The Scythian Shepherd, Tamburlaine appears in his Chariot, drawn by the Kings of Trebizond and Saria, with Bits in their Mouths. He, holding the Reins in his left hand, and a Whip in his right, fcourges them; and thus begins the Scene. Holla! ye pamper'd Jades of Afia, What! can ye draw but twenty Miles a day, And fuch a Coachman as great Tamburlaine? This Paffage was in fo ftrong Ridicule, that I find it again parodied in a Comedy call'd, The Sun's Darling; as alfo in the Coxcomb, by Beaumont and Fletcher. (20) Have we not Hiren here? Hoft. O' my Word, Captain, there's none fuch here.] i. e. Shall I fear," that have this trufty and invincible Sword by my Side? For, as King Arthur's Swords were call'd Caliburne and Ron; as Edward the Confeffor's, Curtana; as Charlemagne's, Joyeuse; Orlando's, Durindana; Rinaldo's, Fusberta; and Rogero's, Balifarda; fo Piftol, in Imitation of thefe Heroes, calls his Sword Hiren. I have been told, Amadis du Gaul had a Sword of this Name. It seems to belong to fome Spanish Romance, and we may, perhaps, gather the Reafon of the Name from that Language. LA CRUSCA explains hiriendo, (the Gerund from hirir, to ftrike;) en frappant, battendo, percotendo: From hence it seems probable that Hiren may be deriv'd; and fo fignify, a fwashing, cutting Sword.But what wonderful Humour is there in the good Hoftefs fo innocently miftaking Piftol's Drift, fancying that he meant to fight for a Whore in the Houfe, and therefore telling him, On my Word, Captain, there's none fuch here; what the good jer! do you think, I would deny her? give me some fack. Si fortuna me tormente, fperato me contente. Fear we broad fides? no, let the fiend give fire: Give me fome fack: and, fweet-heart, lye thou there: Come we to full points here; and are & cætera's nothing? Fal. Piftol, I would be quiet. Pift. (21) Sweet knight, I kifs thy neif: what! we have feen the feven ftars. Dol. Thruft him down ftairs, I cannot endure fuch a fuftian rafcal. Pift. Thruft him down ftairs? know we not galloway nags? Fal, Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a fhove-groat fhilling: nay, if he do nothing but fpeak nothing, he fhall be nothing here. Bard. Come, get you down ftairs. Pift. What shall we have incifion? fhall we embrew? then Death rock me afleep, abridge my doleful days: why, then let grievous, ghaftly, gaping wounds untwine the fifters three: come, Atropos, I fay. [Drawing his fword. (21) Sweet Knight, I kifs thy Neif.] i. e. I kifs thy Fift. Mr. Pope will have it, that neif here is from nativa. i. e. a Woman-Slave that is born in one's houfe; and that Piftol would kifs Falstaff's domeftick Miftrefs Dol Tearsheet. But I appeal to every One that fhall but read the Scene over, whether This could poffibly be the Poet's Meaning. There is a perfect Fray betwixt Dol and Piftol; She calls him an hundred the worst Names She can think of: He threatens to murder her Ruff, and fays, He could tear her. Bardolph would have him be gone; but He fays, he'll fee her damn'd first: and Dol, on the other hand, wants him to be thrust down Stairs, and fays, She can't endure fuch a Fuftian Rafcal. I fhould very little expect, that these Parties, in fuch a Ferment, fhould come to kiffing. And I am perfuaded, Shakespeare thought of no Reconciliation: For the Brawl is kept on, till it rifes to drawing Swords; and Pifiol, among 'em, is huftled down Stairs. I can't think, any more is intended by the Poet than This: that Falstaff, weary of Pistol's wrang ling, tells him, He would be quiet: and that Piftol, who had no Quarrel with Sir John, but a fort of Dependance on him, fpeaks the Knight fair and tells him, that he kiffes his Fift: for fo the Word Neif fignifies in our Northern Counties. So, before, in Midfummer Night's Dream; Bott. Give me thy Neif, Monfieur Mustard-feed. And fo in B. Fonfon's Poetafter; Iwu'net, my good two penny Rafcal; reach me thy Neife. Hoft. Hoft. Here's goodly stuff toward. Fal. Give me my rapier, boy. Dol. I pr'ythee, Jack, I pr'ythee, do not draw; [Drawing, and driving Pistol out. Hoft. Here's a goodly tumult; I'll forfwear keeping houfe, before I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So murther, I warrant now. Alas, alas, put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons. - Dol. I pr'ythee, Jack, be quiet, the rafcal is gone: ah, you whorfon, little valiant villain, you! Hoft. Are you not hurt i'th groin? methought, he made a fhrewd thruft at your belly. Fal. Have you turn'd him out of doors? Bard. Yes, Sir, the rafcal's drunk: you have hurt him, Sir, in the fhoulder. Fal. A rafcal, to brave me! Dol. Ah, you fweet little rogue, you: alas, poor ape, how thou fweat' it? come, let me wipe thy facecome on, you whorfon chops-ah, rogue! I love theethou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon; and ten times better than the nine Wor thies: a villain! Fal. A rafcally flave! I will tofs the ket. rogue in a blan Dol. Do, if thou dar'ft for thy heart: if thou do'st, I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets. Enter Mufick. Page. The mufick is come, Sir. Fal. Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my knee, Dol. A rafcal, bragging flave! the rogue fled from me like quick-filver. Dol. I'faith, and thou followd'ft him like a church: thou whorfon little tydie Bartholomew Boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting on days, and foyning on nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven? Enter Enter Prince Henry and Poins difguis'd. Fal. Peace, good Dol, do not speak like a death'shead: do not bid me remember mine end. Dol. Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of? Fal. A good fhallow young fellow: he would have made a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd bread welt. Dol. They fay, Poins hath a good wit. Fal. He a good wit? hang him, baboon!- his wit is as thick as Tewksbury muftard: there is no more conceit in him, than is in a mallet. Dol. Why doth the Prince love him fo then? Fal. Because their legs are both of a bigness: and he plays at quoits well, and cats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint ftools, and fwears with a good grace, and wears his boot very smooth like unto the fign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and fuch other gambol faculties he hath, that fhew a weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him: for the Prince himself is fuch another: the weight of an hair will turn the fcales between their Averdupois. P. Henry. Would not this Nave of a wheel have his ears cut off? Poins. Let us beat him before his whore. P. Henry. Look, if the wither'd Elder hath not his poll claw'd like a Parrot. Poins. Is it not strange, that defire fhould fo many years out-live performance? Fal. Kifs me, Dol. P. Henry. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! what fays the almanack to that? Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon his man be not lifping to his mafter's old Tables, his note-book, his counfel-keeper? Fal. Thou dost give me flattering buffes. Dol. By my troth, I kifs thee with a moft conftant heart. Fal. I am old, I am old. Del. Dol. I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them all. A Fal. What ftuff wilt thou have a kirtle of? I fhall receive mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a cap to morrow. A merry fong, come: it grows late, we will to bed. Thou wilt forget me, when I am gone. Dol. By my troth, thou wilt fet me a weeping if thou fay'ft fo: prove, that ever I drefs my felf handfom till thy return Well, hearken the end, Fal. Some fack, Francis. P. Henry. Poins, Anon, anon, Sir. Fal. Ha! a baftard fon of the King's! and 'art not thou Poins his brother? P. Henry. Why, thou globe of finful continents, what a life doft thou lead? Fal. A better than thou: I am a gentleman, thou art a drawer. P. Henry. Very true, Sir; and I come to draw you out by the ears. Hoft. Oh, the lord preférve thy good Grace! Welcome to London. Now heav'n blefs that sweet face of thine: what, are you come from Wales? in bas Fal. Thou whorfon-mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome. [Leaning his hand upon Dol. Dol. How! you fat fool, I fcorn you. Poins. My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge, and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat. P. Henry. You whorfon candle-myne, you, how viledid you speak of me even now, before this honeft, virtuous, civil gentlewoman? ly Hoft. 'Bleffing on your good heart, and fo fhe is, by my troth. Fal. Didft thou hear me? P. Henry. Yes; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gads-bill; you knew, I was at your back, and fpoke it on purpose to try my patience. Fal. No, no, no; not fo; I did not think, thou waft within hearing. VÓL. III. I i P. Henry. |