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welcome to London. Now, the Lord bless that sweet face of thine ! O Jesu, are you come from Wales?

Fal. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome.

[Leaning his hand upon Doll. Dol. How, you fat fool! I scorn you.

Pointz. My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge, and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat.

Prince. You whoreson candle-mine, 41 you, how vilely did you speak of me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!

Host. God's blessing of your good heart! and so she is, by my troth.

Fal. Didst thou hear me?

Prince. 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 so; I did not think thou wast within hearing.

Prince. I shall drive you, then, to confess the wilful abuse ; and then I know how to handle you.

Fal. No abuse, Hal, o' mine honour; no abuse.

Prince. Not, - to dispraise me, and call me pantler, and bread-chipper, and I know not what !

Fal. No abuse, Hal.
Pointz. No abuse !

Fal. No abuse, Ned, i' the world ; honest Ned, none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him ; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal;- none, Ned, none; - no, faith, boys, none.

41 Alluding to the fat, or candle-timber wrapped up in Sir John's establishment.

Prince. See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us? 42 is she of the wicked ? is thine hostess here of the wicked? or is thy boy of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked ?

Pointz. Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

Fal. The fiend hath prick'd down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him ; but the Devil outbids him too.

Prince. For the women?

Fal. For one of them, she is in Hell already, and burns,43 poor soul! For the other, I owe her money; and whether she be damn'd for that, I know not.

Host. No, I warrant you.

Fal. No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law ; 44 for the which I think thou wilt howl.

Host. All victuallers do so : what's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

Prince. You, gentlewoman,-
Dol. What says your Grace?
Fal. His grace says that which his flesh rebels against.45

[Knocking within. Host. Who knocks so loud at door? — Look to the door there, Francis.

42 To "close with us," is to unite, to fall in, or to take part, with us.

43 That is, burns with the lues venerca. “The venereal disease was called, in those times, the brennynge or burning,says Johnson.

44 In the reign of Elizabeth, statutes were made for the observance of fish days, strictly forbidding victuallers to serve up flesh in Lent.

45 A quibble is here intended, I think, between Grace as a title and grace in the theological sense; alluding, probably, to St. Paul's antagonism between the Spirit and the flesh. Galatians v. 17.

Enter PETO.

Prince, Peto, how now! what news?

Peto. The King your father is at Westminster;
And there are twenty weak and wearied posts
Come from the North : and, as I came along,
I met and overtook a dozen captains,
Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

Prince. By Heaven, Pointz, I feel me much to blame,
So idly to profane the precious time;
When tempest of commotion, like the south,
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmèd heads.
Give me my sword and cloak. — Falstaff, good night.

[Exeunt Prince HENRY, POINTZ, PETO, and BARDOLPH. Fal. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpick'd. [Knocking within.] More knocking at the door!

Re-enter BARDOLPH.

How now! what's the matter?

Bard. You must away to Court, sir, presently; A dozen captains stay at door for you.

Fal. [To the Page.] Pay the musicians, sirrah. — Farewell, hostess ; — farewell, Doll. — You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought after : the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is callid on. Farewell, good wenches: if I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I go.

Dol. I cannot speak; — if my heart be not ready to burst, — well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. Fal. Farewell, farewell.

[Excunt FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH. Host. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted man, — well, fare thee well.

Bard. [Within.] Mistress Tearsheet !
Host. What's the matter?

Bard. [Within.] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master.

Host. O, run, Doll, run ; run, good Doll ! [Exeunt.



SCENE I. - Westminster. A Room in the Palace. Enter King HENRY in his nightgown, with a Page. King. Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick; But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters, And well consider of them : make good speed. - [Exit Page. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep!- O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under their canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell? 1

1 The most probable meaning of this obscure passage is, that the kingly couch, when sleep has left it, is as the case or box which shelters the watch

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamour in the slippery shrouds,
That, with the hurly,2 death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy lowly clown !
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.


War. Many good morrows to your Majesty !
King. Is it good morrow, lords?
War. 'Tis one o'clock, and past.

King. Why, then good morrow to you all, my lords. Have


read o'er the letters that I sent you? War. We have, my liege.

King. Then you perceive the body of our kingdom
How foul it is; what rank diseases grow,
And with what danger, near the heart of it.

War. It is but as a body yet distemper'd;
Which to his former strength may be restored
With good advice and little medicine :
My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd.

man; or as the common bell that is to sound the alarm and rouse the sleeping people at the coming of danger.

2 Hurly is noise, tumult, uproar; the same as hurly-burly, which the Poet elsewhere uses. — Shrouds are the ropes extending from the mastheads to the sides of the ship.

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