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And hollow-pamper'd jades of Asia,
Which cannot go but thirty miles a day,
Compare with Cæfars, and wish Cannibals,
And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with
King Cerberus, and let the welkin roar:
Shall we fall foul for toys?
Hoft. By my troth, captain, these are very bitter

Bard. Be gone, good Ancient : this will grow to a
brawl anon.

Pift. Die men, like dogs ; give crowns like pins : (20) have We nor Hiren here?

Hoft. O' my word, captain, there's none such here. What the good-jer? do you think, I would deny her? I


Pift. Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis; come, and expose the Fuftian of some contemporary Pieces. In the 2d Part of an old Play, call'd, Tamburlaine’s Conquests, 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 Asia,
What! can ye draw but twenty Miles a day,
And have so proud a Chariot at your Heels,

And such a Coachman as great Tamburlaine ?
This Paslage was in so itrong Ridicule, that I find it again parodied in a
Comedy callid, The Sun's Darling ; as also in the Coxcomb, by Beaumont
and Fletcher,

(20) Have we not Hiren here?

. Oomy Word, Captain, there's none such here.] i. e. Shall I fear, that have this trusty and invincible Sword by my side? For, as King Arthur's Swords were callid Caliburne and Ron; as Edward the Confeffor’s, Curtana; as Charlemagne's, Joyeuse; Orlando's, Durindana; Rinaldo's, Fusberta; and Rogero's, Balisarda; fo Piflol, in Imitation of these Heroes, calls his Sword Hiren. I have been told, Amadis du Gauh had a Sword of this Name. It seems to belong to some Spanish Romance, and we may, perhaps, gather the Reason of the Name from that Language. LA CRUSCA explains hiriendo, (the Gerund from hirir, to îtrike;) en frappant, battendo, percotendo: From hence it seems probable that Hiren may be deriv'd; and so fignify, a swashing, cutting Sword. -But what wonderful Humour is there in the good Hostess so innocently mistaking Pistol's Drift, fancying that he meant to fight for a Whore in the House, and therefore telling him, On my Word, Captain, there's none such here; what the good-jer! do you think, I would deny ber?


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give me some fack. Si fortuna me tormente, sperato me contente. Fear we broad sides? no, let the fiend give fire: Give me some façk: and, sweet-heart, lye thou there: Come we to full points here, and are & cetera's no

thing? - Fal. Piftol, I would be quiet.

Pift. (21) Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif: what! we have seen the seven stars.

Dol. Thrust him down ftairs, I cannot endure such a fuftian rascal.

Pist. Thrust him down stairs? know we not galloway nags?

Fal. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat fhilling: nay, if he do nothing but speak nothing, he Thall be nothing here.

Bard. Come, get you down stairs.

Pit. What shall we have incision? Thall we embrew? then Death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days: why, then let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds untwine the fifters three: come, Atropos, I say.

[Drawing his sword. (21) Sweet Knight, I kiss thy Neif.] i.e. I kiss thy Fift. Mr. Pope will have it, that neif here is from nativa. i. e. a Woman-Slave that is born in one's house; and that Pistol would kiss Falstaff's domestick Mifress Dol Tearsheet. But I appeal to every one that Thall but read the Scene over, whether This could possibly be the Poet's Meaning. There is a perfect Fray betwixt Dol and Pistol; She calls him an hundred the worit 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 see 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 should very little expect, that these Parties, in such a Ferment, fould come to kissing. And I am perfuaded, Shakespeare thought of no Reconciliation: For the Brawl is kept on, till it rises to drawing Swords; and Piftol, among 'em, is huftled down Stairs. I can't think, any more is intended by the Poet than This: that Falstaff, weary of Piftof's wrangling, 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 kisses his Fift: for fo the Word Neiff fignifies in our Northern Counties. So, before, in Midsummer Night's Dream;

Bott. Give me thy Neif, Monsieur Mustard-feed.
And fo in B. Jonson's Poetaster;
I wu'net, my good tovo penny Rafcal; reach me thy Neife.


Hoft. Here's goodly stuff toward.
Fal. Give me my rapier, boy.
Dol. I pr’ythee, Jack, I prythee, do not draw;
Fal. Get you down stairs.

[Drawing, and driving Pistol out. Hoft. Here's a goodly tumulo; I'll forswear keeping house, before I'll be in these cirrits and frights. So; murther, I warrant now. Alas, alas, put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons.

Dol. I prythee, Jack, be quiet, the rascal is gone : ah, you whorson, little valiant villain, you!

Hoft. Are you not hurt i'th? groin? 'methought, he made a fhrewd thrust at your belly:

Fal. Have you turn'd him out of doors?

Bard. Yes, Sir, the rascal's drunk: you have hurt him, Sir, in the fhoulder.

Fal. A rascal, to brave me!

Dol. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you: alas, poor ape, how thou sweat'tt? come, let me wipe thy face come on, you whorson chops--- ah, rogue! I love thee thou art as valorous as Hector of Tray, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the nine Worthies : a villain !

Fal. A rascally Nave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket.

Dol. Do, if thou dar'ít for thy heart: if thou do'st, I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

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Enter Musick.

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Page. The musick is come, Sir.
Fal. Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my knee,
Dol. A rascal, bragging slave! the rogue fled from
me like quick-silver.

Dol. I'faith, and thou followd'ft him like a church: thou whorson 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

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Enter Prince Henry and Poins disguis'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 shallow young fellow: he would have made a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd bread welt.

Dol. They say, Poins hath a good wit.

Fal. He a good wit? hang him, baboon!- his wit is as thick as Tewksbury mustard: there is no more conceit in him, than is in a mallet. Dola Why doth the Prince love him so 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 Aap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint ftools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boot very smooth like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other gambol faculties he hath, that shew a weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him: for the Prince himself is such another : the weight of an hair will turn the scales between their. Averdupois.

P. Henry. Would not this Nave of a wheel have his cars 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 desire should so many years out-live performance?

Fal. Kiss 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 lisping to his master's old Tables, his note-book, bis counsel-keeper?

Fal. Thou dost give me flattering busses. - Dol. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most conftant heart. Fal. I am old, I am old.


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Dol. I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them all.

Fal. What stuff wilç thou have a kirtle of? I shall receive mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a cap to morrow. A merry song, come: it grows late, we will: to bed. Thou wilt forget me, when I am gone.

Del. By my troth, thou wilt set me a weeping if thou say'st so: prove, that ever I dress my self handfom till thy return? Well, hearken the end,

Fal. Some fack, Francis. ;
P. Henry, Poins. Anon, anon, Sir.

Fal. Ha! a baltard son of the King's! and are not thou Poins his brother?

P. Henry. Why, thou globe of finful continents, what a life dost 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 preserye thy good Grace! Welcome to London. Now heav'n bless that sweet face of thine: what, are you come from Wales? ci

Fal. Thou whorson-mad compound of majesty, by this light flelk and corrupt blood, thou are welcome.

[Leaning his hand upon Dol. Dol. How! you fat fool, I scorn 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 whorson candle-myne, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now, before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman?

Hoft. 'Blessing on your good heart, and so she is, by

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Fal. Didst thou hear me?

P. Henry. Yes; and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gads-hill; you knew, I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.

Fal. No, no, no; not fo; I did not think, thou waft within hearing Vol. III.

I i

P. Henry.

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