Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old
sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and
sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast
forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst
truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with
the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of
sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues
of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses,
and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in
flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou
shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time
of the day.
What, none?
Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly.
Thou sayest well, and it holds well too, for the
fortune of us that are the moon’s men doth ebb and
flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by
the moon. As for proof now: a purse of gold most
resolutely snatched on Monday night and most
dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning, got with
swearing “Lay by” and spent with crying “Bring
in”; now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder,
and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the
gallows.
As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle.
And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of
durance?
Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess
of the tavern?
Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would
stretch, and where it would not, I have used my
credit.
No, thou shalt.
Thou judgest false already. I mean thou shalt
have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a
rare hangman.
For obtaining of suits?
Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.
What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy
of Moorditch?
Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the
streets and no man regards it.
Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
I see a good amendment of life in thee, from
praying to purse-taking.
Good morrow, Ned.
Sir John stands to his word. The devil shall
have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker of
proverbs. He will give the devil his due.
Else he had been damned for cozening the
devil.
Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith.
Well then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.
Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.
I care not.
Farewell, thou latter spring. Farewell, Allhallown
summer.
How shall we part with them in setting forth?
Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us by our
horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment
to be ourselves.
Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.
Well, I’ll go with thee. Provide us all things
necessary and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap.
There I’ll sup. Farewell.
I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyoked humor of your idleness.
Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wondered at
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapors that did seem to strangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work,
But when they seldom come, they wished-for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
So when this loose behavior I throw off
And pay the debt I never promisèd,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I’ll so offend to make offense a skill,
Redeeming time when men think least I will.
Stand close.
Peace, you fat-kidneyed rascal. What a brawling
dost thou keep!
He is walked up to the top of the hill. I’ll go
seek him.
Peace, you fat guts! Lie down, lay thine ear
close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the
tread of travelers.
Thou liest. Thou art not colted; thou art
uncolted.
Out, you rogue! Shall I be your ostler?
Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow
lane. Ned Poins and I will walk lower. If they ’scape
from your encounter, then they light on us.
What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?
Well, we leave that to the proof.
Ned, where are our disguises?
The thieves have bound the true men. Now
could thou and I rob the thieves and go merrily to
London, it would be argument for a week, laughter
for a month, and a good jest forever.
Your money!
Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse.
The thieves are all scattered, and possessed with fear
So strongly that they dare not meet each other.
Each takes his fellow for an officer.
Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death,
And lards the lean earth as he walks along.
Were ’t not for laughing, I should pity him.
Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room and
lend me thy hand to laugh a little.
With three or four loggerheads amongst three
or fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very
bass string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother
to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their
Christian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They
take it already upon their salvation that though I be
but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy,
and tell me flatly I am no proud jack, like Falstaff,
but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy—by
the Lord, so they call me—and when I am king of
England, I shall command all the good lads in
Eastcheap. They call drinking deep “dyeing scarlet,”
and when you breathe in your watering, they
cry “Hem!” and bid you “Play it off!” To conclude, I
am so 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 hast lost much
honor that thou wert not with me in this action; but,
sweet Ned—to sweeten which name of Ned, I give
thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now
into my hand by an underskinker, one that never
spake other English in his life than “Eight shillings
and sixpence,” and “You are welcome,” with this
shrill addition, “Anon, anon, sir.—Score a pint of
bastard in the Half-moon,” or so. But, Ned, to
drive away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee, do
thou stand in some by-room while I question my
puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar, and
do thou never leave calling “Francis,” that his tale
to me may be nothing but “Anon.” Step aside, and
I’ll show thee a precedent.
Thou art perfect.
Come hither, Francis.
How long hast thou to serve, Francis?
Five year! By ’r Lady, a long lease for the
clinking of pewter! But, Francis, darest thou be
so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture,
and show it a fair pair of heels, and run
from it?
How old art thou, Francis?
Nay, but hark you, Francis, for the sugar thou
gavest me—’twas a pennyworth, was ’t not?
I will give thee for it a thousand pound. Ask
me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.
Anon, Francis? No, Francis. But tomorrow,
Francis; or, Francis, o’ Thursday; or indeed, Francis,
when thou wilt. But, Francis—
Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button,
not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,
smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch—
Why then, your brown bastard is your only
drink, for look you, Francis, your white canvas
doublet will sully. In Barbary, sir, it cannot come to
so much.
Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them
call?
Let them alone awhile, and then open the
door. Poins!
Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are
at the door. Shall we be merry?
I am now of all humors that have showed
themselves humors since the old days of Goodman
Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve
o’clock at midnight.
What’s o’clock, Francis?
That ever this fellow should have fewer words
than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His
industry is upstairs and downstairs, his eloquence
the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s
mind, the Hotspur of the north, he that kills me
some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast,
washes his hands, and says to his wife “Fie upon
this quiet life! I want work.” “O my sweet Harry,”
says she, “how many hast thou killed today?”
“Give my roan horse a drench,” says he, and answers
“Some fourteen,” an hour after. “A trifle, a
trifle.” I prithee, call in Falstaff. I’ll play Percy,
and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer
his wife. “Rivo!” says the drunkard. Call in
Ribs, call in Tallow.
Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of
butter—pitiful-hearted Titan!—that melted at the
sweet tale of the sun’s? If thou didst, then behold
that compound.
How now, woolsack, what mutter you?
Why, you whoreson round man, what’s the
matter?
O villain, thy lips are scarce wiped since thou
drunk’st last.
What’s the matter?
Where is it, Jack, where is it?
What, a hundred, man?
Speak, sirs, how was it?
What, fought you with them all?
Pray God you have not murdered some of
them.
What, four? Thou said’st but two even now.
Seven? Why there were but four even now.
Prithee, let him alone. We shall have
more anon.
Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
So, two more already.
O monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out
of two!
These lies are like their father that begets
them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why,
thou claybrained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou
whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-catch—
Why, how couldst thou know these men in
Kendal green when it was so dark thou couldst not
see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason. What sayest
thou to this?
I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine
coward, this bed-presser, this horse-backbreaker,
this huge hill of flesh—
Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again, and
when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons,
hear me speak but this.
We two saw you four set on four, and bound
them and were masters of their wealth. Mark now
how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we
two set on you four and, with a word, outfaced you
from your prize, and have it, yea, and can show it
you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried
your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity,
and roared for mercy, and still run and roared, as
ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou to hack
thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in
fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole
canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open
and apparent shame?
Content, and the argument shall be thy running
away.
How now, my lady the hostess, what sayst thou
to me?
Give him as much as will make him a royal
man and send him back again to my mother.
Prithee do, Jack.
Now, sirs. By ’r Lady, you fought
fair.—So did you, Peto.—So did you, Bardolph.—
You are lions too. You ran away upon instinct. You
will not touch the true prince. No, fie!
Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff’s
sword so hacked?
O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen
years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever
since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire
and sword on thy side, and yet thou ran’st away.
What instinct hadst thou for it?
I do.
Hot livers and cold purses.
No. If rightly taken, halter.
Here comes lean Jack. Here comes bare-bone.—
How now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long
is ’t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?
He that rides at high speed, and with his pistol
kills a sparrow flying.
So did he never the sparrow.
Why, what a rascal art thou then to praise him
so for running?
Yes, Jack, upon instinct.
Why then, it is like if there come a hot June,
and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads
as they buy hobnails, by the hundreds.
Not a whit, i’ faith. I lack some of thy instinct.
Do thou stand for my father and examine me
upon the particulars of my life.
Thy state is taken for a joined stool, thy golden
scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich
crown for a pitiful bald crown.
Well, here is my leg.
What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?
Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for
me, and I’ll play my father.
Well, here I am set.
Now, Harry, whence come you?
The complaints I hear of thee are
grievous.
Swearest thou? Ungracious boy,
henceforth ne’er look on me. Thou art violently
carried away from grace. There is a devil haunts
thee in the likeness of an old fat man. A tun of man
is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that
trunk of humors, that bolting-hutch of beastliness,
that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard
of sack, that stuffed cloakbag of guts, that roasted
Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that
reverend Vice, that gray iniquity, that father ruffian,
that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste
sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly but to
carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning but in
craft? Wherein crafty but in villainy? Wherein villainous
but in all things? Wherein worthy but in
nothing?
That villainous abominable misleader
of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.
I know thou dost.
I do, I will.
Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick.
What’s the matter?
And thou a natural coward without instinct.
Go hide thee behind the arras. The
rest walk up above.—Now, my masters, for a true
face and good conscience.
Call in the Sheriff.
Now, Master Sheriff, what is your will with me?
What men?
The man I do assure you is not here,
For I myself at this time have employed him.
And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee
That I will by tomorrow dinner time
Send him to answer thee or any man
For anything he shall be charged withal.
And so let me entreat you leave the house.
It may be so. If he have robbed these men,
He shall be answerable; and so farewell.
I think it is good morrow, is it not?
This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s. Go
call him forth.
Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his
pockets.
What hast thou found?
Let’s see what they be. Read them.
O monstrous! But one halfpennyworth of
bread to this intolerable deal of sack? What there is
else, keep close. We’ll read it at more advantage.
There let him sleep till day. I’ll to the court in the
morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place
shall be honorable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a
charge of foot, and I know his death will be a march
of twelve score. The money shall be paid back again
with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning,
and so good morrow, Peto.
So please your Majesty, I would I could
Quit all offenses with as clear excuse
As well as I am doubtless I can purge
Myself of many I am charged withal.
Yet such extenuation let me beg
As, in reproof of many tales devised,
Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,
By smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,
I may for some things true, wherein my youth
Hath faulty wandered and irregular,
Find pardon on my true submission.
I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord,
Be more myself.
Do not think so. You shall not find it so.
And God forgive them that so much have swayed
Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me.
I will redeem all this on Percy’s head,
And, in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son,
When I will wear a garment all of blood
And stain my favors in a bloody mask,
Which, washed away, shall scour my shame with it.
And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights,
That this same child of honor and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praisèd knight,
And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.
For every honor sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! For the time will come
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf.
And I will call him to so strict account
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This in the name of God I promise here,
The which if He be pleased I shall perform,
I do beseech your Majesty may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.
If not, the end of life cancels all bands,
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.
What say’st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth
thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.
What say’st thou, Jack?
What didst thou lose, Jack?
A trifle, some eightpenny matter.
What, he did not!
An otter, Sir John. Why an otter?
Thou sayst true, hostess, and he slanders thee
most grossly.
Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?
I say ’tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy
word now?
And why not as the lion?
O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about
thy knees! But, sirrah, there’s no room for faith,
truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine. It is all
filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest
woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou whoreson,
impudent, embossed rascal, if there were
anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings,
memorandums of bawdy houses, and one poor
pennyworth of sugar candy to make thee long-winded,
if thy pocket were enriched with any other
injuries but these, I am a villain. And yet you will
stand to it! You will not pocket up wrong! Art thou
not ashamed?
It appears so by the story.
O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to
thee. The money is paid back again.
I am good friends with my father and may do
anything.
I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.
Bardolph.
Go, bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,
To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.
Go, Peto, to horse, to horse, for thou and I
Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.
Jack, meet me tomorrow in the Temple hall
At two o’clock in the afternoon;
There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive
Money and order for their furniture.
The land is burning. Percy stands on high,
And either we or they must lower lie.
How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?
I think to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath
already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose
fellows are these that come after?
I did never see such pitiful rascals.
No, I’ll be sworn, unless you call three fingers
in the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy is
already in the field.
The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.
Peace, chewet, peace.
In both your armies there is many a soul
Shall pay full dearly for this encounter
If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world
In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes,
This present enterprise set off his head,
I do not think a braver gentleman,
More active-valiant, or more valiant-young,
More daring or more bold, is now alive
To grace this latter age with noble deeds.
For my part, I may speak it to my shame,
I have a truant been to chivalry,
And so I hear he doth account me too.
Yet this before my father’s majesty:
I am content that he shall take the odds
Of his great name and estimation,
And will, to save the blood on either side,
Try fortune with him in a single fight.
It will not be accepted, on my life.
The Douglas and the Hotspur both together
Are confident against the world in arms.
Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship.
Say thy prayers, and farewell.
Why, thou owest God a death.
What, stand’st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword.
Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are yet unrevenged. I prithee
Lend me thy sword.
He is indeed, and living to kill thee.
I prithee, lend me thy sword.
Give it me. What, is it in the case?
What, is it a time to jest and dally now?
I beseech your Majesty, make up,
Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.
Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help,
And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive
The Prince of Wales from such a field as this,
Where stained nobility lies trodden on,
And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres.
By God, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster.
I did not think thee lord of such a spirit.
Before, I loved thee as a brother, John,
But now I do respect thee as my soul.
O, this boy lends mettle to us all.
Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like
Never to hold it up again. The spirits
Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms.
It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee,
Who never promiseth but he means to pay.
Cheerly, my lord. How fares your Grace?
Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succor sent,
And so hath Clifton. I’ll to Clifton straight.
O God, they did me too much injury
That ever said I hearkened for your death.
If it were so, I might have let alone
The insulting hand of Douglas over you,
Which would have been as speedy in your end
As all the poisonous potions in the world,
And saved the treacherous labor of your son.
Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name.
Why then I see
A very valiant rebel of the name.
I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,
To share with me in glory any more.
Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,
Nor can one England brook a double reign
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.
I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee,
And all the budding honors on thy crest
I’ll crop to make a garland for my head.
For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart.
Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound,
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
If thou wert sensible of courtesy,
I should not make so dear a show of zeal.
But let my favors hide thy mangled face;
And even in thy behalf I’ll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven.
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remembered in thy epitaph.
What, old acquaintance, could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell.
I could have better spared a better man.
O, I should have a heavy miss of thee
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a deer today,
Though many dearer in this bloody fray.
Emboweled will I see thee by and by;
Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.
Come, brother John. Full bravely hast thou fleshed
Thy maiden sword.
I did; I saw him dead,
Breathless and bleeding on the ground.—Art thou alive?
Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight?
I prithee, speak. We will not trust our eyes
Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st.
Why, Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead.
This is the strangest fellow, brother John.—
Come bring your luggage nobly on your back.
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.
Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field
To see what friends are living, who are dead.
The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw
The fortune of the day quite turned from him,
The noble Percy slain, and all his men
Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest,
And, falling from a hill, he was so bruised
That the pursuers took him. At my tent
The Douglas is, and I beseech your Grace
I may dispose of him.
Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you
This honorable bounty shall belong.
Go to the Douglas and deliver him
Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free.
His valors shown upon our crests today
Have taught us how to cherish such high deeds,
Even in the bosom of our adversaries.