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Flu. Ay, leeks is goot:-Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate.
Pist. Me a groat!
Flu. Yes, verily, and in truth, you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.
Pist. I take thy groat, in earnest of revenge,
Flu, If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in cudgels; you shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. Got be wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate.
[Exit. Pist. All hell shall stir for this.
Gow. Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition,begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceas'd valour,-and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel : you find it otherwise; and, henceforth, let a Welch correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well.
[Erit69. Pist. Doth fortune play the huswife with me now! News have I, that my Nell is dead i'the spittal Of malady of France; And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs
Honour is cudgell'd. Well, bawd will I turn,
Troyes in Champagne. An Apartment in the French
Enter, at one door, King Henry,BEDFORD, GLOSTER,
Exeter, WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and other
Fr. King. Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met: So are you, princes English, every one.
Q. Isa. So happy be the issue, brother England, Of this good day, and of this gracious meeting,
As we are now glad to behold your eyes;
K. Hen. To cry amen to that, thus we appear.
Bur. My duty to you both, on equal love,
bour'd With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours, To bring your most imperial majesties Unto this bar and royal interview, Your mightiness on both parts best can witness. Since then my office hath so far prevailid, That, face to face, and royal eye to eye, You have congreeted; let it not disgrace me, If I demand, before this royal view, What rub, or what impediment, there is, Why that the naked, poor, and mangled peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births, Should not, in this best garden of the world, Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage? Alas! she hath from France too long been chas'd; And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps, Corrupting in its own fertility. Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, Unpruned dies: her hedges even-pleach'd,
Like prisoners wildly over-grown with hair,
savages, -as soldiers will,