Hoft. Oh, the Lord preferve thy good Grace! Welcome to London.-Now heav'n blefs that fweet face of thine. What, are you come from Wales?

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, 1 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-mine, you, how vilely did you fpeak of me even now, before this ho neft, virtuous, civil gentlewoman?

1

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-hill; 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.

P. Henry. I fhall drive you then to confefs the wilful abuse, and then I know how to handle you." Fal. No abufe, Hal, on my honour, no abuse.

P. Henry. Not to difpraise me, and call me pantler, and bread-chipper, and I know not what!

Fal. No abufe, Hal.

-Poins. No abuse!

Fal. No abuse, Ned, in the world; honeft Ned, none. I difprais'd him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him; in which doing, I have done part of a careful friend, and a true fubject. And thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abufe, Hal, none, Ned, none; no, boys, none.

--

P. Henry. See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardise doth not make thée wrong this virtuous

$ Candle-mine.] Thou inexhauftible magazine of tallow.

gentle

gentlewoman, to clofe with us? Is fhe of the wicked? is thine Hoftefs here of the wicked? or is the boy of the wicked? or honeft Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nofe, of the wicked?,

Poins, Anfwer, thou dead Elm, answer.

Fal. The fiend hath prickt down Bardolph irrecoverable, and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roaft malt-worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him, but the devil out bids

him too.

P. Henry. For the women,

6

Fal. For one of them, fhe is in hell already, and burns, poor foul! for the other, I owe her money; and whether he be damn'd for that, I know not.

Hoft. 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 fuffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law, for the which,, I think, thou wilt howl.

Hoft. All victuallers do fo. What is a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

P. Henry. You, gentlewoman.

Dol. What fays your Grace?

Fal. His Grace fays that, which his flesh rebels against.

Hoft. Who knocks fo loud at door? Look to the door there, Francis.

And burns, poor foul.] This is Sir T. Hanmer's reading. Un doubtedly right. The other editions had, he is in bell already,

and burns poor fouls. The venereal difeafe was called in thefe times the brennynge or burning.

SCENE

SCENE VIld 98 kend

Enter Peto.

P. Henry. Peto, how now? what news?
Peto. The King your father is at Westminster,
And there are twenty weak and wearied pofts
Come from the North; and, as I came along,
I met and overtook a dozen captains,

Bare-headed, fweating, knocking at the taverns,
And afking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

P. Henry. By heavens, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to profane the precious time;

When tempeft of commotion, like the South
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt
And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.
Give me my fword, and cloak. Falstaff, good night.
[Exeunt Prince and Poins.

Fal. Now comes in the fweeteft morfel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpick'd. More knocking at the door?-how now? what's the matter?

Bard. You muft away to Court, Sir, prefently; a dozen captains stay at door for you.

Fal. Pay the musicians, Sirrah. Farewel, Hoftess; farewel, Dol. You fee, my good wenches, how men of merit are fought after; the undeferver may fleep, when the man of action is call'd on. Farewel, good wenches; if I be not fent away poft, I will fee you again, ere I go.

Dol. I cannot fpeak; if my heart be not ready to burft-well, fweet Jack, have a care of thy felf. Fal. Farewel, farewel.

[Exit. Hoft. Well, fare thee well. I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come pefcod-time; but an honester and truer hearted man-well, fare thee well buli Bard. Mrs. Tear-fheet.

Hoft.

Hoft. What's the matter?

Bard. Bid Miftrefs Tear-Sheet come to my mafter.
Hoft. O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol.

[Exeunt.

7

ACT

A C T III.

SCENE I.

The Palace in LONDON.

Enter King Henry in his Night-Gown, with a Page.

K. HENRY.

NO, call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick;
But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read thefe

G

letters,

And well confider of them. Make good speed.

Exit Page.
How many thoufands of my poorest Subjects
Are at this hour afleep! O gentle fleep,
Nature's foft Nurfe, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,
And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, ly'ft thou in smoaky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,

And husht with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of coftly State,

And lull'd with founds of fweetest melody?

O thou dull God, why ly'ft thou with the vile

In loathfome beds, and leav'ft the kingly couch
A watch-cafe, or a common larum bell?

8

copy of

shen The firft fcene is not in my
of the first edition.
the
Aavatch-cafe, &c.] This
alludes to the watchmen fet in
garrison towns upon fome emi-

Wilt

nence attending upon an alarumbell, which he was to ring out in cafe of fire, or any approaching danger. He had a cafe or box to fhelter him from the weather,

but

Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the fhip-boy's eyes, and rock his brains,
In cradle of the rude imperious Surge;
And in the Vifitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf 'ning clamours in the flip'ry fhrouds,
That, with the hurley, death itself awakes?
Can't thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repofe
To the wet fea-boy in an hour fo rude?
And, in the calmeft and the stilleft night,.
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King? then, happy lowly clown,
Uneafy lyes the head, that wears a Crown.

9

SCENE II.

Enter Warwick and Surrey.

War. Many good morrows to your Majefty!
K. Henry. Is it good morrow, lords?

War. 'Tis one o'clock, and past.

I

K. Henry. Why, then, good morrow to you. Well, my lords,

Have