{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/kh42.htm","path":"sks/ff/kh42.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/kh42.htm","text":"Sacred-texts home\u00a0\n Shakespeare\u00a0\n Index\u00a0\n Modern\u00a0\n Previous\u00a0\n Next\u00a0\n \n \n The Second Part of Henry the Fourth\n \n \n \n Containing his Death: and the Coronation of King Henry the Fift\n \n Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\n \n INDVCTION.\n \n Enter Rumour.\n \n \n Open your Eares: For which of you will stop\n The vent of Hearing, when loud Rumor speakes?\n I, from the Orient, to the drooping West\n (Making the winde my Post-horse) still vnfold\n The Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth.\n Vpon my Tongue, continuall Slanders ride,\n The which, in euery Language, I pronounce,\n Stuffing the Eares of them with false Reports:\n I speake of Peace, while couert Enmitie\n (Vnder the smile of Safety) wounds the World:\n And who but Rumour, who but onely I\n Make fearfull Musters, and prepar'd Defence,\n Whil'st the bigge yeare, swolne with some other griefes,\n Is thought with childe, by the sterne Tyrant, Warre,\n And no such matter? Rumour, is a Pipe\n Blowne by Surmises, Ielousies, Coniectures;\n And of so easie, and so plaine a stop,\n That the blunt Monster, with vncounted heads,\n The still discordant, wauering Multitude,\n Can play vpon it. But what neede I thus\n My well-knowne Body to Anathomize\n Among my houshold? Why is Rumour heere?\n I run before King Harries victory,\n Who in a bloodie field by Shrewsburie\n Hath beaten downe yong Hotspurre, and his Troopes,\n Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion,\n Euen with the Rebels blood. But what meane I\n To speake so true at first? My Office is\n To noyse abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell\n Vnder the Wrath of Noble Hotspurres Sword:\n And that the King, before the Dowglas Rage\n Stoop'd his Annointed head, as low as death.\n This haue I rumour'd through the peasant-Townes,\n Betweene the Royall Field of Shrewsburie,\n And this Worme-eaten-Hole of ragged Stone,\n Where Hotspurres Father, old Northumberland,\n Lyes crafty sicke. The Postes come tyring on,\n And not a man of them brings other newes\n Then they haue learn'd of Me. From Rumours Tongues,\n They bring smooth-Comforts-false, worse then True-wrongs.\n Enter.\n \n \n Scena Secunda.\n \n Enter Lord Bardolfe, and the Porter.\n \n L.Bar. Who keepes the Gate heere hoa?\n Where is the Earle?\n Por. What shall I say you are?\n Bar. Tell thou the Earle\n That the Lord Bardolfe doth attend him heere\n \n Por. His Lordship is walk'd forth into the Orchard,\n Please it your Honor, knocke but at the Gate,\n And he himselfe will answer.\n Enter Northumberland.\n \n L.Bar. Heere comes the Earle\n \n Nor. What newes Lord Bardolfe? Eu'ry minute now\n Should be the Father of some Stratagem;\n The Times are wilde: Contention (like a Horse\n Full of high Feeding) madly hath broke loose,\n And beares downe all before him\n \n L.Bar. Noble Earle,\n I bring you certaine newes from Shrewsbury\n \n Nor. Good, and heauen will\n \n L.Bar. As good as heart can wish:\n The King is almost wounded to the death:\n And in the Fortune of my Lord your Sonne,\n Prince Harrie slaine out-right: and both the Blunts\n Kill'd by the hand of Dowglas. Yong Prince Iohn,\n And Westmerland, and Stafford, fled the Field.\n And Harrie Monmouth's Brawne (the Hulke Sir Iohn)\n Is prisoner to your Sonne. O, such a Day,\n (So fought, so follow'd, and so fairely wonne)\n Came not, till now, to dignifie the Times\n Since C\u00e6sars Fortunes\n \n Nor. How is this deriu'd?\n Saw you the Field? Came you from Shrewsbury?\n L.Bar. I spake with one (my L[ord].) that came fro[m] thence,\n A Gentleman well bred, and of good name,\n That freely render'd me these newes for true\n \n Nor. Heere comes my Seruant Trauers, whom I sent\n On Tuesday last, to listen after Newes.\n Enter Trauers.\n \n L.Bar. My Lord, I ouer-rod him on the way,\n And he is furnish'd with no certainties,\n More then he (haply) may retaile from me\n \n Nor. Now Trauers, what good tidings comes fro[m] you?\n Tra. My Lord, Sir Iohn Vmfreuill turn'd me backe\n With ioyfull tydings; and (being better hors'd)\n Out-rod me. After him, came spurring head\n A Gentleman (almost fore-spent with speed)\n That stopp'd by me, to breath his bloodied horse.\n He ask'd the way to Chester: And of him\n I did demand what Newes from Shrewsbury:\n He told me, that Rebellion had ill lucke,\n And that yong Harry Percies Spurre was cold.\n With that he gaue his able Horse the head,\n And bending forwards strooke his able heeles\n Against the panting sides of his poore Iade\n Vp to the Rowell head, and starting so,\n He seem'd in running, to deuoure the way,\n Staying no longer question\n \n North. Ha? Againe:\n Said he yong Harrie Percyes Spurre was cold?\n (Of Hot-Spurre, cold-Spurre?) that Rebellion,\n Had met ill lucke?\n L.Bar. My Lord: Ile tell you what,\n If my yong Lord your Sonne, haue not the day,\n Vpon mine Honor, for a silken point\n Ile giue my Barony. Neuer talke of it\n \n Nor. Why should the Gentleman that rode by Trauers\n Giue then such instances of Losse?\n L.Bar. Who, he?\n He was some hielding Fellow, that had stolne\n The Horse he rode-on: and vpon my life\n Speake at aduenture. Looke, here comes more Newes.\n Enter Morton.\n \n Nor. Yea, this mans brow, like to a Title-leafe,\n Fore-tels the Nature of a Tragicke Volume:\n So lookes the Strond, when the Imperious Flood\n Hath left a witnest Vsurpation.\n Say Morton, did'st thou come from Shrewsbury?\n Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury (my Noble Lord)\n Where hatefull death put on his vgliest Maske\n To fright our party\n \n North. How doth my Sonne, and Brother?\n Thou trembl'st; and the whitenesse in thy Cheeke\n Is apter then thy Tongue, to tell thy Errand.\n Euen such a man, so faint, so spiritlesse,\n So dull, so dead in looke, so woe-be-gone,\n Drew Priams Curtaine, in the dead of night,\n And would haue told him, Halfe his Troy was burn'd.\n But Priam found the Fire, ere he his Tongue:\n And I, my Percies death, ere thou report'st it.\n This, thou would'st say: Your Sonne did thus, and thus:\n Your Brother, thus. So fought the Noble Dowglas,\n Stopping my greedy eare, with their bold deeds.\n But in the end (to stop mine Eare indeed)\n Thou hast a Sigh, to blow away this Praise,\n Ending with Brother, Sonne, and all are dead\n \n Mor. Dowglas is liuing, and your Brother, yet:\n But for my Lord, your Sonne\n \n North. Why, he is dead.\n See what a ready tongue Suspition hath:\n He that but feares the thing, he would not know,\n Hath by Instinct, knowledge from others Eyes,\n That what he feard, is chanc'd. Yet speake (Morton)\n Tell thou thy Earle, his Diuination Lies,\n And I will take it, as a sweet Disgrace,\n And make thee rich, for doing me such wrong\n \n Mor. You are too great, to be (by me) gainsaid:\n Your Spirit is too true, your Feares too certaine\n \n North. Yet for all this, say not that Percies dead.\n I see a strange Confession in thine Eye:\n Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it Feare, or Sinne,\n To speake a truth. If he be slaine, say so:\n The Tongue offends not, that reports his death:\n And he doth sinne that doth belye the dead:\n Not he, which sayes the dead is not aliue:\n Yet the first bringer of vnwelcome Newes\n Hath but a loosing Office: and his Tongue,\n Sounds euer after as a sullen Bell\n Remembred, knolling a departing Friend\n \n L.Bar. I cannot thinke (my Lord) your son is dead\n \n Mor. I am sorry, I should force you to beleeue\n That, which I would to heauen, I had not seene.\n But these mine eyes, saw him in bloody state,\n Rend'ring faint quittance (wearied, and out-breath'd)\n To Henrie Monmouth, whose swift wrath beate downe\n The neuer-daunted Percie to the earth,\n From whence (with life) he neuer more sprung vp.\n In few; his death (whose spirit lent a fire,\n Euen to the dullest Peazant in his Campe)\n Being bruited once, tooke fire and heate away\n From the best temper'd Courage in his Troopes.\n For from his Mettle, was his Party steel'd;\n Which once, in him abated, all the rest\n Turn'd on themselues, like dull and heauy Lead:\n And as the Thing, that's heauy in it selfe,\n Vpon enforcement, flyes with greatest speede,\n So did our Men, heauy in Hotspurres losse,\n Lend to this weight, such lightnesse with their Feare,\n That Arrowes fled not swifter toward their ayme,\n Then did our Soldiers (ayming at their safety)\n Fly from the field. Then was that Noble Worcester\n Too soone ta'ne prisoner: and that furious Scot,\n (The bloody Dowglas) whose well-labouring sword\n Had three times slaine th' appearance of the King,\n Gan vaile his stomacke, and did grace the shame\n Of those that turn'd their backes: and in his flight,\n Stumbling in Feare, was tooke. The summe of all,\n Is, that the King hath wonne: and hath sent out\n A speedy power, to encounter you my Lord,\n Vnder the Conduct of yong Lancaster\n And Westmerland. This is the Newes at full\n \n North. For this, I shall haue time enough to mourne.\n In Poyson, there is Physicke: and this newes\n (Hauing beene well) that would haue made me sicke,\n Being sicke, haue in some measure, made me well.\n And as the Wretch, whose Feauer-weakned ioynts,\n Like strengthlesse Hindges, buckle vnder life,\n Impatient of his Fit, breakes like a fire\n Out of his keepers armes: Euen so, my Limbes\n (Weak'ned with greefe) being now inrag'd with greefe,\n Are thrice themselues. Hence therefore thou nice crutch,\n A scalie Gauntlet now, with ioynts of Steele\n Must gloue this hand. And hence thou sickly Quoife,\n Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,\n Which Princes, flesh'd with Conquest, ayme to hit.\n Now binde my Browes with Iron and approach\n The ragged'st houre, that Time and Spight dare bring\n To frowne vpon th' enrag'd Northumberland.\n Let Heauen kisse Earth: now let not Natures hand\n Keepe the wilde Flood confin'd: Let Order dye,\n And let the world no longer be a stage\n To feede Contention in a ling'ring Act:\n But let one spirit of the First-borne Caine\n Reigne in all bosomes, that each heart being set\n On bloody Courses, the rude Scene may end,\n And darknesse be the burier of the dead\n \n L.Bar. Sweet Earle, diuorce not wisedom from your Honor\n \n Mor. The liues of all your louing Complices\n Leane-on your health, the which if you giue-o're\n To stormy Passion, must perforce decay.\n You cast th' euent of Warre (my Noble Lord)\n And summ'd the accompt of Chance, before you said\n Let vs make head: It was your presurmize,\n That in the dole of blowes, your Son might drop.\n You knew he walk'd o're perils, on an edge\n More likely to fall in, then to get o're:\n You were aduis'd his flesh was capeable\n Of Wounds, and Scarres; and that his forward Spirit\n Would lift him, where most trade of danger rang'd,\n Yet did you say go forth: and none of this\n (Though strongly apprehended) could restraine\n The stiffe-borne Action: What hath then befalne?\n Or what hath this bold enterprize bring forth,\n More then that Being, which was like to be?\n L.Bar. We all that are engaged to this losse,\n Knew that we ventur'd on such dangerous Seas,\n That if we wrought out life, was ten to one:\n And yet we ventur'd for the gaine propos'd,\n Choak'd the respect of likely perill fear'd,\n And since we are o're-set, venture againe.\n Come, we will all put forth; Body, and Goods,\n Mor. 'Tis more then time: And (my most Noble Lord)\n I heare for certaine, and do speake the truth:\n The gentle Arch-bishop of Yorke is vp\n With well appointed Powres: he is a man\n Who with a double Surety bindes his Followers.\n My Lord (your Sonne) had onely but the Corpes,\n But shadowes, and the shewes of men to fight.\n For that same word (Rebellion) did diuide\n The action of their bodies, from their soules,\n And they did fight with queasinesse, constrain'd\n As men drinke Potions; that their Weapons only\n Seem'd on our side: but for their Spirits and Soules,\n This word (Rebellion) it had froze them vp,\n As Fish are in a Pond. But now the Bishop\n Turnes Insurrection to Religion,\n Suppos'd sincere, and holy in his Thoughts:\n He's follow'd both with Body, and with Minde:\n And doth enlarge his Rising, with the blood\n Of faire King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones,\n Deriues from heauen, his Quarrell, and his Cause:\n Tels them, he doth bestride a bleeding Land,\n Gasping for life, vnder great Bullingbrooke,\n And more, and lesse, do flocke to follow him\n \n North. I knew of this before. But to speake truth,\n This present greefe had wip'd it from my minde.\n Go in with me, and councell euery man\n The aptest way for safety, and reuenge:\n Get Posts, and Letters, and make Friends with speed,\n Neuer so few, nor neuer yet more need.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scena Tertia.\n \n Enter Falstaffe, and Page.\n \n Fal. Sirra, you giant, what saies the Doct[or]. to my water?\n Pag. He said sir, the water it selfe was a good healthy\n water: but for the party that ow'd it, he might haue more\n diseases then he knew for\n \n Fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at mee: the\n braine of this foolish compounded Clay-man, is not able\n to inuent any thing that tends to laughter, more then I\n inuent, or is inuented on me. I am not onely witty in my\n selfe, but the cause that wit is in other men. I doe heere\n walke before thee, like a Sow, that hath o'rewhelm'd all\n her Litter, but one. If the Prince put thee into my Seruice\n for any other reason, then to set mee off, why then I\n haue no iudgement. Thou horson Mandrake, thou art\n fitter to be worne in my cap, then to wait at my heeles. I\n was neuer mann'd with an Agot till now: but I will sette\n you neyther in Gold, nor Siluer, but in vilde apparell, and\n send you backe againe to your Master, for a Iewell. The\n Iuuenall (the Prince your Master) whose Chin is not yet\n fledg'd, I will sooner haue a beard grow in the Palme of\n my hand, then he shall get one on his cheeke: yet he will\n not sticke to say, his Face is a Face-Royall. Heauen may\n finish it when he will, it is not a haire amisse yet: he may\n keepe it still at a Face-Royall, for a Barber shall neuer\n earne six pence out of it; and yet he will be crowing, as if\n he had writ man euer since his Father was a Batchellour.\n He may keepe his owne Grace, but he is almost out of\n mine, I can assure him. What said M[aster]. Dombledon, about\n the Satten for my short Cloake, and Slops?\n Pag. He said sir, you should procure him better Assurance,\n then Bardolfe: he wold not take his Bond & yours,\n he lik'd not the Security\n \n Fal. Let him bee damn'd like the Glutton, may his\n Tongue be hotter, a horson Achitophel; a\n Rascally-yea-forsooth-knaue,\n to beare a Gentleman in hand, and then\n stand vpon Security? The horson smooth-pates doe now\n weare nothing but high shoes, and bunches of Keyes at\n their girdles: and if a man is through with them in honest\n Taking-vp, then they must stand vpon Securitie: I\n had as liefe they would put Rats-bane in my mouth, as\n offer to stoppe it with Security. I look'd hee should haue\n sent me two and twenty yards of Satten (as I am true\n Knight) and he sends me Security. Well, he may sleep in\n Security, for he hath the horne of Abundance: and the\n lightnesse of his Wife shines through it, and yet cannot\n he see, though he haue his owne Lanthorne to light him.\n Where's Bardolfe?\n Pag. He's gone into Smithfield to buy your worship\n a horse\n \n Fal. I bought him in Paules, and hee'l buy mee a horse\n in Smithfield. If I could get mee a wife in the Stewes, I\n were Mann'd, Hors'd, and Wiu'd.\n Enter Chiefe Iustice, and Seruant.\n \n Pag. Sir, heere comes the Nobleman that committed\n the Prince for striking him, about Bardolfe\n \n Fal. Wait close, I will not see him\n \n Ch.Iust. What's he that goes there?\n Ser. Falstaffe, and't please your Lordship\n \n Iust. He that was in question for the Robbery?\n Ser. He my Lord, but he hath since done good seruice\n at Shrewsbury: and (as I heare) is now going with some\n Charge, to the Lord Iohn of Lancaster\n \n Iust. What to Yorke? Call him backe againe\n \n Ser. Sir Iohn Falstaffe\n \n Fal. Boy, tell him, I am deafe\n \n Pag. You must speake lowder, my Master is deafe\n \n Iust. I am sure he is, to the hearing of any thing good.\n Go plucke him by the Elbow, I must speake with him\n \n Ser. Sir Iohn\n \n Fal. What? a yong knaue and beg? Is there not wars? Is\n there not imployment? Doth not the K[ing]. lack subiects? Do\n not the Rebels want Soldiers? Though it be a shame to be\n on any side but one, it is worse shame to begge, then to\n be on the worst side, were it worse then the name of Rebellion\n can tell how to make it\n \n Ser. You mistake me Sir\n \n Fal. Why sir? Did I say you were an honest man? Setting\n my Knight-hood, and my Souldiership aside, I had\n lyed in my throat, if I had said so\n \n Ser. I pray you (Sir) then set your Knighthood and\n your Souldier-ship aside, and giue mee leaue to tell you,\n you lye in your throat, if you say I am any other then an\n honest man\n \n Fal. I giue thee leaue to tell me so? I lay a-side that\n which growes to me? If thou get'st any leaue of me, hang\n me: if thou tak'st leaue, thou wer't better be hang'd: you\n Hunt-counter, hence: Auant\n \n Ser. Sir, my Lord would speake with you\n \n Iust. Sir Iohn Falstaffe, a word with you\n \n Fal. My good Lord: giue your Lordship good time of\n the day. I am glad to see your Lordship abroad: I heard\n say your Lordship was sicke. I hope your Lordship goes\n abroad by aduise. Your Lordship (though not clean past\n your youth) hath yet some smack of age in you: some rellish\n of the saltnesse of Time, and I most humbly beseech\n your Lordship, to haue a reuerend care of your health\n \n Iust. Sir Iohn, I sent you before your Expedition, to\n Shrewsburie\n \n Fal. If it please your Lordship, I heare his Maiestie is\n return'd with some discomfort from Wales\n \n Iust. I talke not of his Maiesty: you would not come\n when I sent for you?\n Fal. And I heare moreouer, his Highnesse is falne into\n this same whorson Apoplexie\n \n Iust. Well, heauen mend him. I pray let me speak with you\n \n Fal. This Apoplexie is (as I take it) a kind of Lethargie,\n a sleeping of the blood, a horson Tingling\n \n Iust. What tell you me of it? be it as it is\n \n Fal. It hath it originall from much greefe; from study\n and perturbation of the braine. I haue read the cause of\n his effects in Galen. It is a kinde of deafenesse\n \n Iust. I thinke you are falne into the disease: For you\n heare not what I say to you\n \n Fal. Very well (my Lord) very well: rather an't please\n you) it is the disease of not Listning, the malady of not\n Marking, that I am troubled withall\n \n Iust. To punish you by the heeles, would amend the\n attention of your eares, & I care not if I be your Physitian\n Fal. I am as poore as Iob, my Lord; but not so Patient:\n your Lordship may minister the Potion of imprisonment\n to me, in respect of Pouertie: but how I should bee your\n Patient, to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make\n some dram of a scruple, or indeede, a scruple it selfe\n \n Iust. I sent for you (when there were matters against\n you for your life) to come speake with me\n \n Fal. As I was then aduised by my learned Councel, in\n the lawes of this Land-seruice, I did not come\n \n Iust. Wel, the truth is (sir Iohn) you liue in great infamy\n Fal. He that buckles him in my belt, ca[n]not liue in lesse\n \n Iust. Your Meanes is very slender, and your wast great\n \n Fal. I would it were otherwise: I would my Meanes\n were greater, and my waste slenderer\n \n Iust. You haue misled the youthfull Prince\n \n Fal. The yong Prince hath misled mee. I am the Fellow\n with the great belly, and he my Dogge\n \n Iust. Well, I am loth to gall a new-heal'd wound: your\n daies seruice at Shrewsbury, hath a little gilded ouer\n your Nights exploit on Gads-hill. You may thanke the\n vnquiet time, for your quiet o're-posting that Action\n \n Fal. My Lord?\n Iust. But since all is wel, keep it so: wake not a sleeping Wolfe\n \n Fal. To wake a Wolfe, is as bad as to smell a Fox\n \n Iu. What? you are as a candle, the better part burnt out\n Fal. A Wassell-Candle, my Lord; all Tallow: if I did\n say of wax, my growth would approue the truth\n \n Iust. There is not a white haire on your face, but shold\n haue his effect of grauity\n \n Fal. His effect of grauy, grauy, grauy\n \n Iust. You follow the yong Prince vp and downe, like\n his euill Angell\n \n Fal. Not so (my Lord) your ill Angell is light: but I\n hope, he that lookes vpon mee, will take mee without,\n weighing: and yet, in some respects I grant, I cannot go:\n I cannot tell. Vertue is of so little regard in these Costormongers,\n that true valor is turn'd Beare-heard. Pregnancie\n is made a Tapster, and hath his quicke wit wasted in\n giuing Recknings: all the other gifts appertinent to man\n (as the malice of this Age shapes them) are not woorth a\n Gooseberry. You that are old, consider not the capacities\n of vs that are yong: you measure the heat of our Liuers,\n with the bitternes of your gals: & we that are in the\n vaward of our youth, I must confesse, are wagges too\n \n Iust. Do you set downe your name in the scrowle of\n youth, that are written downe old, with all the Charracters\n of age? Haue you not a moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow\n cheeke? a white beard? a decreasing leg? an incresing\n belly? Is not your voice broken? your winde short? your\n wit single? and euery part about you blasted with Antiquity?\n and wil you cal your selfe yong? Fy, fy, fy, sir Iohn\n \n Fal. My Lord, I was borne with a white head, & somthing\n a round belly. For my voice, I haue lost it with hallowing\n and singing of Anthemes. To approue my youth\n farther, I will not: the truth is, I am onely olde in iudgement\n and vnderstanding: and he that will caper with mee\n for a thousand Markes, let him lend me the mony, & haue\n at him. For the boxe of th' eare that the Prince gaue you,\n he gaue it like a rude Prince, and you tooke it like a sensible\n Lord. I haue checkt him for it, and the yong Lion repents:\n Marry not in ashes and sacke-cloath, but in new\n Silke, and old Sacke\n \n Iust. Wel, heauen send the Prince a better companion\n \n Fal. Heauen send the Companion a better Prince: I\n cannot rid my hands of him\n \n Iust. Well, the King hath seuer'd you and Prince Harry,\n I heare you are going with Lord Iohn of Lancaster, against\n the Archbishop, and the Earle of Northumberland\n Fal. Yes, I thanke your pretty sweet wit for it: but\n looke you pray, (all you that kisse my Ladie Peace, at\n home) that our Armies ioyn not in a hot day: for if I take\n but two shirts out with me, and I meane not to sweat\n extraordinarily:\n if it bee a hot day, if I brandish any thing\n but my Bottle, would I might neuer spit white againe:\n There is not a daungerous Action can peepe out his head,\n but I am thrust vpon it. Well, I cannot last euer\n \n Iust. Well, be honest, be honest, and heauen blesse your\n Expedition\n \n Fal. Will your Lordship lend mee a thousand pound,\n to furnish me forth?\n Iust. Not a peny, not a peny: you are too impatient\n to beare crosses. Fare you well. Commend mee to my\n Cosin Westmerland\n \n Fal. If I do, fillop me with a three-man-Beetle. A man\n can no more separate Age and Couetousnesse, then he can\n part yong limbes and letchery: but the Gowt galles the\n one, and the pox pinches the other; and so both the Degrees\n preuent my curses. Boy?\n Page. Sir\n \n Fal. What money is in my purse?\n Page. Seuen groats, and two pence\n \n Fal. I can get no remedy against this Consumption of\n the purse. Borrowing onely lingers, and lingers it out,\n but the disease is incureable. Go beare this letter to my\n Lord of Lancaster, this to the Prince, this to the Earle of\n Westmerland, and this to old Mistris Vrsula, whome I\n haue weekly sworne to marry, since I perceiu'd the first\n white haire on my chin. About it: you know where to\n finde me. A pox of this Gowt, or a Gowt of this Poxe:\n for the one or th' other playes the rogue with my great\n toe: It is no matter, if I do halt, I haue the warres for my\n colour, and my Pension shall seeme the more reasonable.\n A good wit will make vse of any thing: I will turne diseases\n to commodity.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Scena Quarta.\n \n Enter Archbishop, Hastings, Mowbray, and Lord Bardolfe.\n \n Ar. Thus haue you heard our causes, & kno our Means:\n And my most noble Friends, I pray you all\n Speake plainly your opinions of our hopes,\n And first (Lord Marshall) what say you to it?\n Mow. I well allow the occasion of our Armes,\n But gladly would be better satisfied,\n How (in our Meanes) we should aduance our selues\n To looke with forhead bold and big enough\n Vpon the Power and puisance of the King\n \n Hast. Our present Musters grow vpon the File\n To fiue and twenty thousand men of choice:\n And our Supplies, liue largely in the hope\n Of great Northumberland, whose bosome burnes\n With an incensed Fire of Iniuries\n \n L.Bar. The question then (Lord Hastings) standeth thus\n Whether our present fiue and twenty thousand\n May hold-vp-head, without Northumberland:\n Hast. With him, we may\n \n L.Bar. I marry, there's the point:\n But if without him we be thought to feeble,\n My iudgement is, we should not step too farre\n Till we had his Assistance by the hand.\n For in a Theame so bloody fac'd, as this,\n Coniecture, Expectation, and Surmise\n Of Aydes incertaine, should not be admitted\n \n Arch. 'Tis very true Lord Bardolfe, for indeed\n It was yong Hotspurres case, at Shrewsbury\n \n L.Bar. It was (my Lord) who lin'd himself with hope,\n Eating the ayre, on promise of Supply,\n Flatt'ring himselfe with Proiect of a power,\n Much smaller, then the smallest of his Thoughts,\n And so with great imagination\n (Proper to mad men) led his Powers to death,\n And (winking) leap'd into destruction\n \n Hast. But (by your leaue) it neuer yet did hurt,\n To lay downe likely-hoods, and formes of hope\n \n L.Bar. Yes, if this present quality of warre,\n Indeed the instant action: a cause on foot,\n Liues so in hope: As in an early Spring,\n We see th' appearing buds, which to proue fruite,\n Hope giues not so much warrant, as Dispaire\n That Frosts will bite them. When we meane to build,\n We first suruey the Plot, then draw the Modell,\n And when we see the figure of the house,\n Then must we rate the cost of the Erection,\n Which if we finde out-weighes Ability,\n What do we then, but draw a-new the Modell\n In fewer offices? Or at least, desist\n To builde at all? Much more, in this great worke,\n (Which is (almost) to plucke a Kingdome downe,\n And set another vp) should we suruey\n The plot of Situation, and the Modell;\n Consent vpon a sure Foundation:\n Question Surueyors, know our owne estate,\n How able such a Worke to vndergo,\n To weigh against his Opposite? Or else,\n We fortifie in Paper, and in Figures,\n Vsing the Names of men, instead of men:\n Like one, that drawes the Modell of a house\n Beyond his power to builde it; who (halfe through)\n Giues o're, and leaues his part-created Cost\n A naked subiect to the Weeping Clouds,\n And waste, for churlish Winters tyranny\n \n Hast. Grant that our hopes (yet likely of faire byrth)\n Should be still-borne: and that we now possest\n The vtmost man of expectation:\n I thinke we are a Body strong enough\n (Euen as we are) to equall with the King\n \n L.Bar. What is the King but fiue & twenty thousand?\n Hast. To vs no more: nay not so much Lord Bardolf.\n For0his diuisions (as the Times do braul)\n Are in three Heads: one Power against the French,\n And one against Glendower: Perforce a third\n Must take vp vs: So is the vnfirme King\n In three diuided: and his Coffers sound\n With hollow Pouerty, and Emptinesse\n \n Ar. That he should draw his seuerall strengths togither\n And come against vs in full puissance\n Need not be dreaded\n \n Hast. If he should do so,\n He leaues his backe vnarm'd, the French, and Welch\n Baying him at the heeles: neuer feare that\n \n L.Bar. Who is it like should lead his Forces hither?\n Hast. The Duke of Lancaster, and Westmerland:\n Against the Welsh himselfe, and Harrie Monmouth.\n But who is substituted 'gainst the French,\n I haue no certaine notice\n \n Arch. Let vs on:\n And publish the occasion of our Armes.\n The Common-wealth is sicke of their owne Choice,\n Their ouer-greedy loue hath surfetted:\n An habitation giddy, and vnsure\n Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.\n O thou fond Many, with what loud applause\n Did'st thou beate heauen with blessing Bullingbrooke,\n Before he was, what thou would'st haue him be?\n And being now trimm'd in thine owne desires,\n Thou (beastly Feeder) art so full of him,\n That thou prouok'st thy selfe to cast him vp.\n So, so, (thou common Dogge) did'st thou disgorge\n Thy glutton-bosome of the Royall Richard,\n And now thou would'st eate thy dead vomit vp,\n And howl'st to finde it. What trust is in these Times?\n They, that when Richard liu'd, would haue him dye,\n Are now become enamour'd on his graue.\n Thou that threw'st dust vpon his goodly head\n When through proud London he came sighing on,\n After th' admired heeles of Bullingbrooke,\n Cri'st now, O Earth, yeeld vs that King againe,\n And take thou this (O thoughts of men accurs'd)\n ``Past, and to Come, seemes best; things Present, worst\n \n Mow. Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on?\n Hast. We are Times subiects, and Time bids, be gon.\n \n Actus Secundus. Scoena Prima.\n \n Enter Hostesse, with two Officers, Fang, and Snare.\n \n Hostesse. Mr. Fang, haue you entred the Action?\n Fang. It is enter'd\n \n Hostesse. Wher's your Yeoman? Is it a lusty yeoman?\n Will he stand to it?\n Fang. Sirrah, where's Snare?\n Hostesse. I, I, good M[aster]. Snare\n \n Snare. Heere, heere\n \n Fang. Snare, we must Arrest Sir Iohn Falstaffe\n \n Host. I good M[aster]. Snare, I haue enter'd him, and all\n \n Sn. It may chance cost some of vs our liues: he wil stab\n Hostesse. Alas the day: take heed of him: he stabd me\n in mine owne house, and that most beastly: he cares not\n what mischeefe he doth, if his weapon be out. Hee will\n foyne like any diuell, he will spare neither man, woman,\n nor childe\n \n Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust\n \n Hostesse. No, nor I neither: Ile be at your elbow\n \n Fang. If I but fist him once: if he come but within my\n Vice\n \n Host. I am vndone with his going: I warrant he is an\n infinitiue thing vpon my score. Good M[aster]. Fang hold him\n sure: good M[aster]. Snare let him not scape, he comes\n continuantly\n to Py-Corner (sauing your manhoods) to buy a saddle,\n and hee is indited to dinner to the Lubbars head in\n Lombardstreet, to M[aster]. Smoothes the Silkman. I pra' ye, since\n my Exion is enter'd, and my Case so openly known to the\n world, let him be brought in to his answer: A 100. Marke\n is a long one, for a poore lone woman to beare: & I haue\n borne, and borne, and borne, and haue bin fub'd off, and\n fub'd-off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to\n be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing, vnles\n a woman should be made an Asse and a Beast, to beare euery\n Knaues wrong.\n \n Enter Falstaffe and Bardolfe.\n \n Yonder he comes, and that arrant Malmesey-Nose Bardolfe\n with him. Do your Offices, do your offices: M[aster]. Fang, &\n M[aster].\n Snare, do me, do me, do me your Offices\n \n Fal. How now? whose Mare's dead? what's the matter?\n Fang. Sir Iohn, I arrest you, at the suit of Mist. Quickly\n \n Falst. Away Varlets, draw Bardolfe: Cut me off the\n Villaines head: throw the Queane in the Channel\n \n Host. Throw me in the channell? Ile throw thee there.\n Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue. Murder, murder,\n O thou Hony-suckle villaine, wilt thou kill Gods officers,\n and the Kings? O thou hony-seed Rogue, thou art\n a honyseed, a Man-queller, and a woman-queller\n \n Falst. Keep them off, Bardolfe\n \n Fang. A rescu, a rescu\n \n Host. Good people bring a rescu. Thou wilt not? thou\n wilt not? Do, do thou Rogue: Do thou Hempseed\n \n Page. Away you Scullion, you Rampallian, you Fustillirian:\n Ile tucke your Catastrophe.\n Enter Ch. Iustice.\n \n Iust. What's the matter? Keepe the Peace here, hoa\n \n Host. Good my Lord be good to mee. I beseech you\n stand to me\n \n Ch.Iust. How now sir Iohn? What are you brauling here?\n Doth this become your place, your time, and businesse?\n You should haue bene well on your way to Yorke.\n Stand from him Fellow; wherefore hang'st vpon him?\n Host. Oh my most worshipfull Lord, and't please your\n Grace, I am a poore widdow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested\n at my suit\n \n Ch.Iust. For what summe?\n Host. It is more then for some (my Lord) it is for all: all\n I haue, he hath eaten me out of house and home; hee hath\n put all my substance into that fat belly of his: but I will\n haue some of it out againe, or I will ride thee o' Nights,\n like the Mare\n \n Falst. I thinke I am as like to ride the Mare, if I haue\n any vantage of ground, to get vp\n \n Ch.Iust. How comes this, Sir Iohn? Fy, what a man of\n good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation?\n Are you not asham'd to inforce a poore Widdowe to so\n rough a course, to come by her owne?\n Falst. What is the grosse summe that I owe thee?\n Host. Marry (if thou wer't an honest man) thy selfe, &\n the mony too. Thou didst sweare to mee vpon a parcell\n gilt Goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber at the round\n table, by a sea-cole fire, on Wednesday in Whitson week,\n when the Prince broke thy head for lik'ning him to a singing\n man of Windsor; Thou didst sweare to me then (as I\n was washing thy wound) to marry me, and make mee my\n Lady thy wife. Canst y deny it? Did not goodwife Keech\n the Butchers wife come in then, and cal me gossip Quickly?\n comming in to borrow a messe of Vinegar: telling vs,\n she had a good dish of Prawnes: whereby y didst desire to\n eat some: whereby I told thee they were ill for a greene\n wound? And didst not thou (when she was gone downe\n staires) desire me to be no more familiar with such poore\n people, saying, that ere long they should call me Madam?\n And did'st y not kisse me, and bid mee fetch thee 30.s? I\n put thee now to thy Book-oath, deny it if thou canst?\n Fal. My Lord, this is a poore mad soule: and she sayes\n vp & downe the town, that her eldest son is like you. She\n hath bin in good case, & the truth is, pouerty hath distracted\n her: but for these foolish Officers, I beseech you, I\n may haue redresse against them\n \n Iust. Sir Iohn, sir Iohn, I am well acquainted with your\n maner of wrenching the true cause, the false way. It is not\n a confident brow, nor the throng of wordes, that come\n with such (more then impudent) sawcines from you, can\n thrust me from a leuell consideration, I know you ha' practis'd\n vpon the easie-yeelding spirit of this woman\n \n Host. Yes in troth my Lord\n \n Iust. Prethee peace: pay her the debt you owe her, and\n vnpay the villany you haue done her: the one you may do\n with sterling mony, & the other with currant repentance\n \n Fal. My Lord, I will not vndergo this sneape without\n reply. You call honorable Boldnes, impudent Sawcinesse:\n If a man wil curt'sie, and say nothing, he is vertuous: No,\n my Lord (your humble duty reme[m]bred) I will not be your\n sutor. I say to you, I desire deliu'rance from these Officers\n being vpon hasty employment in the Kings Affaires\n \n Iust. You speake, as hauing power to do wrong: But\n answer in the effect of your Reputation, and satisfie the\n poore woman\n \n Falst. Come hither Hostesse.\n Enter M[aster]. Gower]\n Ch.Iust. Now Master Gower; What newes?\n Gow. The King (my Lord) and Henrie Prince of Wales\n Are neere at hand: The rest the Paper telles\n \n Falst. As I am a Gentleman\n \n Host. Nay, you said so before\n \n Fal. As I am a Gentleman. Come, no more words of it\n Host. By this Heauenly ground I tread on, I must be\n faine to pawne both my Plate, and the Tapistry of my dyning\n Chambers\n \n Fal. Glasses, glasses, is the onely drinking: and for\n thy walles a pretty slight Drollery, or the Storie of the\n Prodigall, or the Germane hunting in Waterworke, is\n worth a thousand of these Bed-hangings, and these Flybitten\n Tapistries. Let it be tenne pound (if thou canst.)\n Come, if it were not for thy humors, there is not a better\n Wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw thy\n Action: Come, thou must not bee in this humour with\n me, come, I know thou was't set on to this\n \n Host. Prethee (Sir Iohn) let it be but twenty Nobles,\n I loath to pawne my Plate, in good earnest la\n \n Fal. Let it alone, Ile make other shift: you'l be a fool\n still\n \n Host. Well, you shall haue it although I pawne my\n Gowne. I hope you'l come to Supper: You'l pay me altogether?\n Fal. Will I liue? Go with her, with her: hooke-on,\n hooke-on\n \n Host. Will you haue Doll Teare-sheet meet you at supper?\n Fal. No more words. Let's haue her\n \n Ch.Iust. I haue heard bitter newes\n \n Fal. What's the newes (my good Lord?)\n Ch.Iu. Where lay the King last night?\n Mes. At Basingstoke my Lord\n \n Fal. I hope (my Lord) all's well. What is the newes\n my Lord?\n Ch.Iust. Come all his Forces backe?\n Mes. No: Fifteene hundred Foot, fiue hundred Horse\n Are march'd vp to my Lord of Lancaster,\n Against Northumberland, and the Archbishop\n \n Fal. Comes the King backe from Wales, my noble L[ord]?\n Ch.Iust. You shall haue Letters of me presently.\n Come, go along with me, good M[aster]. Gowre\n \n Fal. My Lord\n \n Ch.Iust. What's the matter?\n Fal. Master Gowre, shall I entreate you with mee to\n dinner?\n Gow. I must waite vpon my good Lord heere.\n I thanke you, good Sir Iohn\n \n Ch.Iust. Sir Iohn, you loyter heere too long being you\n are to take Souldiers vp, in Countries as you go\n \n Fal. Will you sup with me, Master Gowre?\n Ch.Iust. What foolish Master taught you these manners,\n Sir Iohn?\n Fal. Master Gower, if they become mee not, hee was a\n Foole that taught them mee. This is the right Fencing\n grace (my Lord) tap for tap, and so part faire\n \n Ch.Iust. Now the Lord lighten thee, thou art a great\n Foole.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Scena Secunda.\n \n Enter Prince Henry, Pointz, Bardolfe, and Page.\n \n Prin. Trust me, I am exceeding weary\n \n Poin. Is it come to that? I had thought wearines durst\n not haue attach'd one of so high blood\n \n Prin. It doth me: though it discolours the complexion\n of my Greatnesse to acknowledge it. Doth it not shew\n vildely in me, to desire small Beere?\n Poin. Why, a Prince should not be so loosely studied,\n as to remember so weake a Composition\n \n Prince. Belike then, my Appetite was not Princely\n got: for (in troth) I do now remember the poore Creature,\n Small Beere. But indeede these humble considerations\n make me out of loue with my Greatnesse. What a\n disgrace is it to me, to remember thy name? Or to know\n thy face to morrow? Or to take note how many paire of\n Silk stockings y hast? (Viz. these, and those that were thy\n peach-colour'd ones:) Or to beare the Inuentorie of thy\n shirts, as one for superfluity, and one other, for vse. But\n that the Tennis-Court-keeper knowes better then I, for\n it is a low ebbe of Linnen with thee, when thou kept'st\n not Racket there, as thou hast not done a great while, because\n the rest of thy Low Countries, haue made a shift to\n eate vp thy Holland\n \n Poin. How ill it followes, after you haue labour'd so\n hard, you should talke so idlely? Tell me how many good\n yong Princes would do so, their Fathers lying so sicke, as\n yours is?\n Prin. Shall I tell thee one thing, Pointz?\n Poin. Yes: and let it be an excellent good thing\n \n Prin. It shall serue among wittes of no higher breeding\n then thine\n \n Poin. Go to: I stand the push of your one thing, that\n you'l tell\n \n Prin. Why, I tell thee, it is not meet, that I should be\n sad now my Father is sicke: albeit I could tell to thee (as\n to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend)\n I could be sad, and sad indeed too\n \n Poin. Very hardly, vpon such a subiect\n \n Prin. Thou think'st me as farre in the Diuels Booke, as\n thou, and Falstaffe, for obduracie and persistencie. Let the\n end try the man. But I tell thee, my hart bleeds inwardly,\n that my Father is so sicke: and keeping such vild company\n as thou art, hath in reason taken from me, all ostentation\n of sorrow\n \n Poin. The reason?\n Prin. What would'st thou think of me, if I shold weep?\n Poin. I would thinke thee a most Princely hypocrite\n \n Prin. It would be euery mans thought: and thou art\n a blessed Fellow, to thinke as euery man thinkes: neuer a\n mans thought in the world, keepes the Rode-way better\n then thine: euery man would thinke me an Hypocrite indeede.\n And what accites your most worshipful thought\n to thinke so?\n Poin. Why, because you haue beene so lewde, and so\n much ingraffed to Falstaffe\n \n Prin. And to thee\n \n Pointz. Nay, I am well spoken of, I can heare it with\n mine owne eares: the worst that they can say of me is, that\n I am a second Brother, and that I am a proper Fellowe of\n my hands: and those two things I confesse I canot helpe.\n Looke, looke, here comes Bardolfe\n \n Prince. And the Boy that I gaue Falstaffe, he had him\n from me Christian, and see if the fat villain haue not transform'd\n him Ape.\n Enter Bardolfe.\n \n Bar. Saue your Grace\n \n Prin. And yours, most Noble Bardolfe\n \n Poin. Come you pernitious Asse, you bashfull Foole,\n must you be blushing? Wherefore blush you now? what\n a Maidenly man at Armes are you become? Is it such a\n matter to get a Pottle-pots Maiden-head?\n Page. He call'd me euen now (my Lord) through a red\n Lattice, and I could discerne no part of his face from the\n window: at last I spy'd his eyes, and me thought he had\n made two holes in the Ale-wiues new Petticoat, & peeped\n through\n \n Prin. Hath not the boy profited?\n Bar. Away, you horson vpright Rabbet, away\n \n Page. Away, you rascally Altheas dreame, away\n \n Prin. Instruct vs Boy: what dreame, Boy?\n Page. Marry (my Lord) Althea dream'd, she was deliuer'd\n of a Firebrand, and therefore I call him hir dream\n \n Prince. A Crownes-worth of good Interpretation:\n There it is, Boy\n \n Poin. O that this good Blossome could bee kept from\n Cankers: Well, there is six pence to preserue thee\n \n Bard. If you do not make him be hang'd among you,\n the gallowes shall be wrong'd\n \n Prince. And how doth thy Master, Bardolph?\n Bar. Well, my good Lord: he heard of your Graces\n comming to Towne. There's a Letter for you\n \n Poin. Deliuer'd with good respect: And how doth the\n Martlemas, your Master?\n Bard. In bodily health Sir\n \n Poin. Marry, the immortall part needes a Physitian:\n but that moues not him: though that bee sicke, it dyes\n not\n \n Prince. I do allow this Wen to bee as familiar with\n me, as my dogge: and he holds his place, for looke you\n he writes\n \n Poin.\n \n Letter.\n \n Iohn Falstaffe Knight: (Euery man must\n know that, as oft as hee hath occasion to name himselfe:)\n Euen like those that are kinne to the King, for they neuer\n pricke their finger, but they say, there is som of the kings\n blood spilt. How comes that (sayes he) that takes vpon\n him not to conceiue? the answer is as ready as a borrowed\n cap: I am the Kings poore Cosin, Sir\n \n Prince. Nay, they will be kin to vs, but they wil fetch\n it from Iaphet. But to the Letter: - Sir Iohn Falstaffe,\n Knight, to the Sonne of the King, neerest his Father, Harrie\n Prince of Wales, greeting\n \n Poin. Why this is a Certificate\n \n Prin. Peace.\n I will imitate the honourable Romaines in breuitie\n \n Poin. Sure he meanes breuity in breath: short-winded.\n I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leaue thee. Bee\n not too familiar with Pointz, for hee misuses thy Fauours so\n much, that he sweares thou art to marrie his Sister Nell. Repent\n at idle times as thou mayst, and so farewell.\n Thine, by yea and no: which is as much as to say, as thou\n vsest him. Iacke Falstaffe with my Familiars:\n Iohn with my Brothers and Sister: & Sir\n Iohn, with all Europe.\n My Lord, I will steepe this Letter in Sack, and make him\n eate it\n \n Prin. That's to make him eate twenty of his Words.\n But do you vse me thus Ned? Must I marry your Sister?\n Poin. May the Wench haue no worse Fortune. But I\n neuer said so\n \n Prin. Well, thus we play the Fooles with the time, &\n the spirits of the wise, sit in the clouds, and mocke vs: Is\n your Master heere in London?\n Bard. Yes my Lord\n \n Prin. Where suppes he? Doth the old Bore, feede in\n the old Franke?\n Bard. At the old place my Lord, in East-cheape\n \n Prin. What Company?\n Page. Ephesians my Lord, of the old Church\n \n Prin. Sup any women with him?\n Page. None my Lord, but old Mistris Quickly, and M[istris].\n Doll Teare-sheet\n \n Prin. What Pagan may that be?\n Page. A proper Gentlewoman, Sir, and a Kinswoman\n of my Masters\n \n Prin. Euen such Kin, as the Parish Heyfors are to the\n Towne-Bull?\n Shall we steale vpon them (Ned) at Supper?\n Poin. I am your shadow, my Lord, Ile follow you\n \n Prin. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your\n Master that I am yet in Towne.\n There's for your silence\n \n Bar. I haue no tongue, sir\n \n Page. And for mine Sir, I will gouerne it\n \n Prin. Fare ye well: go.\n This Doll Teare-sheet should be some Rode\n \n Poin. I warrant you, as common as the way betweene\n S[aint]. Albans, and London\n \n Prin. How might we see Falstaffe bestow himselfe to\n night, in his true colours, and not our selues be seene?\n Poin. Put on two Leather Ierkins, and Aprons, and\n waite vpon him at his Table, like Drawers\n \n Prin. From a God, to a Bull? A heauie declension: It\n was Ioues case. From a Prince, to a Prentice, a low transformation,\n that shall be mine: for in euery thing, the purpose\n must weigh with the folly. Follow me Ned.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scena Tertia.\n \n Enter Northumberland, his Ladie, and Harrie Percies Ladie.\n \n North. I prethee louing Wife, and gentle Daughter,\n Giue an euen way vnto my rough Affaires:\n Put not you on the visage of the Times,\n And be like them to Percie, troublesome\n \n Wife. I haue giuen ouer, I will speak no more,\n Do what you will: your Wisedome, be your guide\n \n North. Alas (sweet Wife) my Honor is at pawne,\n And but my going, nothing can redeeme it\n \n La. Oh yet, for heauens sake, go not to these Warrs;\n The Time was (Father) when you broke your word,\n When you were more endeer'd to it, then now,\n When your owne Percy, when my heart-deereHarry,\n Threw many a Northward looke, to see his Father\n Bring vp his Powres: but he did long in vaine.\n Who then perswaded you to stay at home?\n There were two Honors lost; Yours, and your Sonnes.\n For Yours, may heauenly glory brighten it:\n For His, it stucke vpon him, as the Sunne\n In the gray vault of Heauen: and by his Light\n Did all the Cheualrie of England moue\n To do braue Acts. He was (indeed) the Glasse\n Wherein the Noble-Youth did dresse themselues.\n He had no Legges, that practic'd not his Gate:\n And speaking thicke (which Nature made his blemish)\n Became the Accents of the Valiant.\n For those that could speake low, and tardily,\n Would turne their owne Perfection, to Abuse,\n To seeme like him. So that in Speech, in Gate,\n In Diet, in Affections of delight,\n In Militarie Rules, Humors of Blood,\n He was the Marke, and Glasse, Coppy, and Booke,\n That fashion'd others. And him, O wondrous! him,\n O Miracle of Men! Him did you leaue\n (Second to none) vn-seconded by you,\n To looke vpon the hideous God of Warre,\n In dis-aduantage, to abide a field,\n Where nothing but the sound of Hotspurs Name\n Did seeme defensible: so you left him.\n Neuer, O neuer doe his Ghost the wrong,\n To hold your Honor more precise and nice\n With others, then with him. Let them alone:\n The Marshall and the Arch-bishop are strong.\n Had my sweet Harry had but halfe their Numbers,\n To day might I (hanging on Hotspurs Necke)\n Haue talk'd of Monmouth's Graue\n \n North. Beshrew your heart,\n (Faire Daughter) you doe draw my Spirits from me,\n With new lamenting ancient Ouer-sights.\n But I must goe, and meet with Danger there,\n Or it will seeke me in another place,\n And finde me worse prouided\n \n Wife. O flye to Scotland,\n Till that the Nobles, and the armed Commons,\n Haue of their Puissance made a little taste\n \n Lady. If they get ground, and vantage of the King,\n Then ioyne you with them, like a Ribbe of Steele,\n To make Strength stronger. But, for all our loues,\n First let them trye themselues. So did your Sonne,\n He was so suffer'd; so came I a Widow:\n And neuer shall haue length of Life enough,\n To raine vpon Remembrance with mine Eyes,\n That it may grow, and sprowt, as high as Heauen,\n For Recordation to my Noble Husband\n \n North. Come, come, go in with me: 'tis with my Minde\n As with the Tyde, swell'd vp vnto his height,\n That makes a still-stand, running neyther way.\n Faine would I goe to meet the Arch-bishop,\n But many thousand Reasons hold me backe.\n I will resolue for Scotland: there am I,\n Till Time and Vantage craue my company.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scaena Quarta.\n \n Enter two Drawers.\n \n 1.Drawer. What hast thou brought there? Apple-Iohns?\n Thou know'st Sir Iohn cannot endure an Apple-Iohn\n \n 2.Draw. Thou say'st true: the Prince once set a Dish\n of Apple-Iohns before him, and told him there were fiue\n more Sir Iohns: and, putting off his Hat, said, I will now\n take my leaue of these sixe drie, round, old-wither'd\n Knights. It anger'd him to the heart: but hee hath forgot\n that\n \n 1.Draw. Why then couer, and set them downe: and\n see if thou canst finde out Sneakes Noyse; Mistris Teare-sheet\n would faine haue some Musique\n \n 2.Draw. Sirrha, heere will be the Prince, and Master\n Points, anon: and they will put on two of our Ierkins,\n and Aprons, and Sir Iohn must not know of it: Bardolph\n hath brought word\n \n 1.Draw. Then here will be old Vtis: it will be an excellent\n stratagem\n \n 2.Draw. Ile see if I can finde out Sneake.\n Enter.\n \n Enter Hostesse, and Dol.\n \n Host. Sweet-heart, me thinkes now you are in an excellent\n good temperalitie: your Pulsidge beates as extraordinarily,\n as heart would desire; and your Colour\n (I warrant you) is as red as any Rose: But you haue\n drunke too much Canaries, and that's a maruellous searching\n Wine; and it perfumes the blood, ere wee can say\n what's this. How doe you now?\n Dol. Better then I was: Hem\n \n Host. Why that was well said: A good heart's worth\n Gold. Looke, here comes Sir Iohn.\n Enter Falstaffe.\n \n Falst. When Arthur first in Court - (emptie the Iordan)\n and was a worthy King: How now Mistris Dol?\n Host. Sick of a Calme: yea, good-sooth\n \n Falst. So is all her Sect: if they be once in a Calme,\n they are sick\n \n Dol. You muddie Rascall, is that all the comfort you\n giue me?\n Falst. You make fat Rascalls, Mistris Dol\n \n Dol. I make them? Gluttonie and Diseases make\n them, I make them not\n \n Falst. If the Cooke make the Gluttonie, you helpe to\n make the Diseases (Dol) we catch of you (Dol) we catch\n of you: Grant that, my poore Vertue, grant that\n \n Dol. I marry, our Chaynes, and our Iewels\n \n Falst. Your Brooches, Pearles, and Owches: For to\n serue brauely, is to come halting off: you know, to come\n off the Breach, with his Pike bent brauely, and to Surgerie\n brauely; to venture vpon the charg'd-Chambers\n brauely\n \n Host. Why this is the olde fashion: you two neuer\n meete, but you fall to some discord: you are both (in\n good troth) as Rheumatike as two drie Tostes, you cannot\n one beare with anothers Confirmities. What the\n good-yere? One must beare, and that must bee you:\n you are the weaker Vessell; as they say, the emptier\n Vessell\n \n Dol. Can a weake emptie Vessell beare such a huge\n full Hogs-head? There's a whole Marchants Venture\n of Burdeux-Stuffe in him: you haue not seene a Hulke\n better stufft in the Hold. Come, Ile be friends with thee\n Iacke: Thou art going to the Warres, and whether I\n shall euer see thee againe, or no, there is no body\n cares.\n Enter Drawer.\n \n Drawer. Sir, Ancient Pistoll is below, and would\n speake with you\n \n Dol. Hang him, swaggering Rascall, let him not\n come hither: it is the foule-mouth'dst Rogue in England\n \n Host. If hee swagger, let him not come here: I must\n liue amongst my Neighbors, Ile no Swaggerers: I am\n in good name, and fame, with the very best: shut the\n doore, there comes no Swaggerers heere: I haue not\n liu'd all this while, to haue swaggering now: shut the\n doore, I pray you\n \n Falst. Do'st thou heare, Hostesse?\n Host. 'Pray you pacifie your selfe (Sir Iohn) there comes\n no Swaggerers heere\n \n Falst. Do'st thou heare? it is mine Ancient\n \n Host. Tilly-fally (Sir Iohn) neuer tell me, your ancient\n Swaggerer comes not in my doores. I was before Master\n Tisick the Deputie, the other day: and as hee said to me,\n it was no longer agoe then Wednesday last: Neighbour\n Quickly (sayes hee;) Master Dombe, our Minister, was by\n then: Neighbour Quickly (sayes hee) receiue those that\n are Ciuill; for (sayth hee) you are in an ill Name: now\n hee said so, I can tell whereupon: for (sayes hee) you are\n an honest Woman, and well thought on; therefore take\n heede what Guests you receiue: Receiue (sayes hee) no\n swaggering Companions. There comes none heere. You\n would blesse you to heare what hee said. No, Ile no\n Swaggerers\n \n Falst. Hee's no Swaggerer (Hostesse:) a tame Cheater,\n hee: you may stroake him as gently, as a Puppie Greyhound:\n hee will not swagger with a Barbarie Henne, if\n her feathers turne backe in any shew of resistance. Call\n him vp (Drawer.)\n Host. Cheater, call you him? I will barre no honest\n man my house, nor no Cheater: but I doe not loue swaggering;\n I am the worse when one sayes, swagger: Feele\n Masters, how I shake: looke you, I warrant you\n \n Dol. So you doe, Hostesse\n \n Host. Doe I? yea, in very truth doe I, if it were an Aspen\n Leafe: I cannot abide Swaggerers.\n Enter Pistol, and Bardolph and his Boy.\n \n Pist. 'Saue you, Sir Iohn\n \n Falst. Welcome Ancient Pistol. Here (Pistol) I charge\n you with a Cup of Sacke: doe you discharge vpon mine\n Hostesse\n \n Pist. I will discharge vpon her (Sir Iohn) with two\n Bullets\n \n Falst. She is Pistoll-proofe (Sir) you shall hardly offend\n her\n \n Host. Come, Ile drinke no Proofes, nor no Bullets: I\n will drinke no more then will doe me good, for no mans\n pleasure, I\n \n Pist. Then to you (Mistris Dorothie) I will charge\n you\n \n Dol. Charge me? I scorne you (scuruie Companion)\n what? you poore, base, rascally, cheating, lacke-Linnen-Mate:\n away you mouldie Rogue, away; I am meat for\n your Master\n \n Pist. I know you, Mistris Dorothie\n \n Dol. Away you Cut-purse Rascall, you filthy Bung,\n away: By this Wine, Ile thrust my Knife in your mouldie\n Chappes, if you play the sawcie Cuttle with me. Away\n you Bottle-Ale Rascall, you Basket-hilt stale Iugler, you.\n Since when, I pray you, Sir? what, with two Points on\n your shoulder? much\n \n Pist. I will murther your Ruffe, for this\n \n Host. No, good Captaine Pistol: not heere, sweete\n Captaine\n \n Dol. Captaine? thou abhominable damn'd Cheater,\n art thou not asham'd to be call'd Captaine? If Captaines\n were of my minde, they would trunchion you out, for taking\n their Names vpon you, before you haue earn'd them.\n You a Captaine? you slaue, for what? for tearing a poore\n Whores Ruffe in a Bawdy-house? Hee a Captaine? hang\n him Rogue, hee liues vpon mouldie stew'd-Pruines, and\n dry'de Cakes. A Captaine? These Villaines will make\n the word Captaine odious: Therefore Captaines had\n neede looke to it\n \n Bard. 'Pray thee goe downe, good Ancient\n \n Falst. Hearke thee hither, Mistris Dol\n \n Pist. Not I: I tell thee what, Corporall Bardolph, I\n could teare her: Ile be reueng'd on her\n \n Page. 'Pray thee goe downe\n \n Pist. Ile see her damn'd first: to Pluto's damn'd Lake,\n to the Infernall Deepe, where Erebus and Tortures vilde\n also. Hold Hooke and Line, say I: Downe: downe\n Dogges, downe Fates: haue wee not Hiren here?\n Host. Good Captaine Peesel be quiet, it is very late:\n I beseeke you now, aggrauate your Choler\n \n Pist. These be good Humors indeede. Shall PackHorses,\n and hollow-pamper'd Iades of Asia, which cannot\n goe but thirtie miles a day, compare with C\u00e6sar, and\n with Caniballs, and Troian Greekes? nay, rather damne\n them with King Cerberus, and let the Welkin roare: shall\n wee fall foule for Toyes?\n Host. By my troth Captaine, these are very bitter\n words\n \n Bard. Be gone, good Ancient: this will grow to a\n Brawle anon\n \n Pist. Die men, like Dogges; giue Crownes like Pinnes:\n Haue we not Hiren here?\n Host. On my word (Captaine) there's none such here.\n What the good-yere, doe you thinke I would denye her?\n I pray be quiet\n \n Pist. Then feed, and be fat (my faire Calipolis.) Come,\n giue me some Sack, Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contente.\n Feare wee broad-sides? No, let the Fiend giue fire:\n Giue me some Sack: and Sweet-heart lye thou there:\n Come wee to full Points here, and are et cetera's nothing?\n Fal. Pistol, I would be quiet\n \n Pist. Sweet Knight, I kisse thy Neaffe: what? wee haue\n seene the seuen Starres\n \n Dol. Thrust him downe stayres, I cannot endure such\n a Fustian Rascall\n \n Pist. Thrust him downe stayres? know we not Galloway\n Nagges?\n Fal. Quoit him downe (Bardolph) like a shoue-groat\n shilling: nay, if hee doe nothing but speake nothing, hee\n shall be nothing here\n \n Bard. Come, get you downe stayres\n \n Pist. What? shall wee haue Incision? shall wee embrew?\n then Death rocke me asleepe, abridge my dolefull\n dayes: why then let grieuous, gastly, gaping Wounds,\n vntwin'd the Sisters three: Come Atropos, I say\n \n Host. Here's good stuffe toward\n \n Fal. Giue me my Rapier, Boy\n \n Dol. I prethee Iack, I prethee doe not draw\n \n Fal. Get you downe stayres\n \n Host. Here's a goodly tumult: Ile forsweare keeping\n house, before Ile be in these tirrits, and frights. So: Murther\n I warrant now. Alas, alas, put vp your naked Weapons,\n put vp your naked Weapons\n \n Dol. I prethee Iack be quiet, the Rascall is gone: ah,\n you whorson little valiant Villaine, you\n \n Host. Are you not hurt i'th' Groyne? me thought hee\n made a shrewd Thrust at your Belly\n \n Fal. Haue you turn'd him out of doores?\n Bard. Yes Sir: the Rascall's drunke: you haue hurt\n him (Sir) in the shoulder\n \n Fal. A Rascall to braue me\n \n Dol. Ah, you sweet little Rogue, you: alas, poore Ape,\n how thou sweat'st? Come, let me wipe thy Face: Come\n on, you whorson Chops: Ah Rogue, I loue thee: Thou\n art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth fiue of Agamemnon,\n and tenne times better then the nine Worthies: ah\n Villaine\n \n Fal. A rascally Slaue, I will tosse the Rogue in a Blanket\n \n Dol. Doe, if thou dar'st for thy heart: if thou doo'st,\n Ile canuas thee betweene a paire of Sheetes.\n Enter Musique.\n \n Page. The Musique is come, Sir\n \n Fal. Let them play: play Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol.\n A Rascall, bragging Slaue: the Rogue fled from me like\n Quick-siluer\n \n Dol. And thou followd'st him like a Church: thou\n whorson little tydie Bartholmew Bore-pigge, when wilt\n thou leaue fighting on dayes, and foyning on nights, and\n begin to patch vp thine old Body for Heauen?\n Enter the Prince and Poines disguis'd.\n \n Fal. Peace (good Dol) doe not speake like a Deathshead:\n doe not bid me remember mine end\n \n Dol. Sirrha, what humor is the Prince of?\n Fal. A good shallow young fellow: hee would haue\n made a good Pantler, hee would haue chipp'd Bread\n well\n \n Dol. They say Poines hath a good Wit\n \n Fal. Hee a good Wit? hang him Baboone, his Wit is\n as thicke as Tewksburie Mustard: there is no more conceit\n in him, then is in a Mallet\n \n Dol. Why doth the Prince loue him so then?\n Fal. Because their Legges are both of a bignesse: and\n hee playes at Quoits well, and eates Conger and Fennell,\n and drinkes off Candles ends for Flap-dragons, and rides\n the wilde-Mare with the Boyes, and iumpes vpon Ioyn'dstooles,\n and sweares with a good grace, and weares his\n Boot very smooth, like vnto the Signe of the Legge; and\n breedes no bate with telling of discreete stories: and such\n other Gamboll Faculties hee hath, that shew a weake\n Minde, and an able Body, for the which the Prince admits\n him; for the Prince himselfe is such another: the\n weight of an hayre will turne the Scales betweene their\n Haberdepois\n \n Prince. Would not this Naue of a Wheele haue his\n Eares cut off?\n Poin. Let vs beat him before his Whore\n \n Prince. Looke, if the wither'd Elder hath not his Poll\n claw'd like a Parrot\n \n Poin. Is it not strange, that Desire should so many\n yeeres out-liue performance?\n Fal. Kisse me Dol\n \n Prince. Saturne and Venus this yeere in Coniunction?\n What sayes the Almanack to that?\n Poin. And looke whether the fierie Trigon, his Man,\n be not lisping to his Masters old Tables, his Note-Booke,\n his Councell-keeper?\n Fal. Thou do'st giue me flatt'ring Busses\n \n Dol. Nay truely, I kisse thee with a most constant\n heart\n \n Fal. I am olde, I am olde\n \n Dol. I loue thee better, then I loue ere a scuruie young\n Boy of them all\n \n Fal. What Stuffe wilt thou haue a Kirtle of? I shall\n receiue Money on Thursday: thou shalt haue a Cappe\n to morrow. A merrie Song, come: it growes late,\n wee will to Bed. Thou wilt forget me, when I am\n gone\n \n Dol. Thou wilt set me a weeping, if thou say'st so:\n proue that euer I dresse my selfe handsome, till thy returne:\n well, hearken the end\n \n Fal. Some Sack, Francis\n \n Prin. Poin. Anon, anon, Sir\n \n Fal. Ha? a Bastard Sonne of the Kings? And art not\n thou Poines, his Brother?\n Prince. Why thou Globe of sinfull Continents, what\n a life do'st thou lead?\n Fal. A better then thou: I am a Gentleman, thou art\n a Drawer\n \n Prince. Very true, Sir: and I come to draw you out\n by the Eares\n \n Host. Oh, the Lord preserue thy good Grace: Welcome\n to London. Now Heauen blesse that sweete Face\n of thine: what, are you come from Wales?\n Fal. Thou whorson mad Compound of Maiestie: by\n this light Flesh, and corrupt Blood, thou art welcome\n \n Dol. How? you fat Foole, I scorne you\n \n Poin. My Lord, hee will driue you out of your reuenge,\n and turne all to a merryment, if you take not the\n heat\n \n Prince. You whorson Candle-myne you, how vildly\n did you speake of me euen now, before this honest, vertuous,\n ciuill Gentlewoman?\n Host. 'Blessing on your good heart, and so shee is by\n my troth\n \n Fal. Didst thou heare me?\n Prince. Yes: and you knew me, as you did when you\n ranne away by Gads-hill: you knew I was at your back,\n and spoke it on purpose, to trie my patience\n \n Fal. No, no, no: not so: I did not thinke, thou wast\n within hearing\n \n Prince. I shall driue you then to confesse the wilfull\n abuse, and then I know how to handle you\n \n Fal. No abuse (Hall) on mine Honor, no abuse\n \n Prince. Not to disprayse me? and call me Pantler, and\n Bread-chopper, and I know not what?\n Fal. No abuse (Hal.)\n Poin. No abuse?\n Fal. No abuse (Ned) in the World: honest Ned none.\n I disprays'd him before the Wicked, that the Wicked\n might not fall in loue with him: In which doing, I haue\n done the part of a carefull Friend, and a true Subiect, and\n thy Father is to giue me thankes for it. No abuse (Hal:)\n none (Ned) none; no Boyes, none\n \n Prince. See now whether pure Feare, and entire Cowardise,\n doth not make thee wrong this vertuous Gentlewoman,\n to close with vs? Is shee of the Wicked? Is thine\n Hostesse heere, of the Wicked? Or is the Boy of the\n Wicked? Or honest Bardolph (whose Zeale burnes in his\n Nose) of the Wicked?\n Poin. Answere thou dead Elme, answere\n \n Fal. The Fiend hath prickt downe Bardolph irrecouerable,\n and his Face is Lucifers Priuy-Kitchin, where hee\n doth nothing but rost Mault-Wormes: for the Boy,\n there is a good Angell about him, but the Deuill outbids\n him too\n \n Prince. For the Women?\n Fal. For one of them, shee is in Hell alreadie, and\n burnes poore Soules: for the other, I owe her Money;\n and whether shee bee damn'd for that, I know\n not\n \n Host. No, I warrant you\n \n Fal. No, I thinke thou art not: I thinke thou art quit\n for that. Marry, there is another Indictment vpon thee,\n for suffering flesh to bee eaten in thy house, contrary to\n the Law, for the which I thinke thou wilt howle\n \n Host. All Victuallers doe so: What is a Ioynt of\n Mutton, or two, in a whole Lent?\n Prince. You, Gentlewoman\n \n Dol. What sayes your Grace?\n Falst. His Grace sayes that, which his flesh rebells\n against\n \n Host. Who knocks so lowd at doore? Looke to the\n doore there, Francis?\n Enter Peto.\n \n Prince. Peto, how now? what newes?\n Peto. The King, your Father, is at Westminster,\n And there are twentie weake and wearied Postes,\n Come from the North: and as I came along,\n I met, and ouer-tooke a dozen Captaines,\n Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the Tauernes,\n And asking euery one for Sir Iohn Falstaffe\n \n Prince. By Heauen (Poines) I feele me much to blame,\n So idly to prophane the precious time,\n When Tempest of Commotion, like the South,\n Borne with black Vapour, doth begin to melt,\n And drop vpon our bare vnarmed heads.\n Giue me my Sword, and Cloake:\n Falstaffe, good night.\n Enter.\n \n Falst. Now comes in the sweetest Morsell of the\n night, and wee must hence, and leaue it vnpickt. More\n knocking at the doore? How now? what's the matter?\n Bard. You must away to Court, Sir, presently,\n A dozen Captaines stay at doore for you\n \n Falst. Pay the Musitians, Sirrha: farewell Hostesse,\n farewell Dol. You see (my good Wenches) how men of\n Merit are sought after: the vndeseruer may sleepe, when\n the man of Action is call'd on. Farewell good Wenches:\n if I be not sent away poste, I will see you againe, ere I\n goe\n \n Dol. I cannot speake: if my heart bee not readie\n to burst- Well (sweete Iacke) haue a care of thy\n selfe\n \n Falst. Farewell, farewell.\n Enter.\n \n Host. Well, fare thee well: I haue knowne thee\n these twentie nine yeeres, come Pescod-time: but an\n honester, and truer-hearted man- Well, fare thee\n well\n \n Bard. Mistris Teare-sheet\n \n Host. What's the matter?\n Bard. Bid Mistris Teare-sheet come to my Master\n \n Host. Oh runne Dol, runne: runne, good Dol.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.\n \n Enter the King, with a Page.\n \n King. Goe, call the Earles of Surrey, and of Warwick:\n But ere they come, bid them ore-reade these Letters,\n And well consider of them: make good speed.\n Enter.\n \n How many thousand of my poorest Subiects\n Are at this howre asleepe? O Sleepe, O gentle Sleepe,\n Natures soft Nurse, how haue I frighted thee,\n That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids downe,\n And steepe my Sences in Forgetfulnesse?\n Why rather (Sleepe) lyest thou in smoakie Cribs,\n Vpon vneasie Pallads stretching thee,\n And huisht with bussing Night, flyes to thy slumber,\n Then in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great?\n Vnder the Canopies of costly State,\n And lull'd with sounds of sweetest Melodie?\n O thou dull God, why lyest thou with the vilde,\n In loathsome Beds, and leau'st the Kingly Couch,\n A Watch-case, or a common Larum-Bell?\n Wilt thou, vpon the high and giddie Mast,\n Seale vp the Ship-boyes Eyes, and rock his Braines,\n In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,\n And in the visitation of the Windes,\n Who take the Ruffian Billowes by the top,\n Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them\n With deaff'ning Clamors in the slipp'ry Clouds,\n That with the hurley, Death it selfe awakes?\n Canst thou (O partiall Sleepe) giue thy Repose\n To the wet Sea-Boy, in an houre so rude:\n And in the calmest, and most stillest Night,\n With all appliances, and meanes to boote,\n Deny it to a King? Then happy Lowe, lye downe,\n Vneasie lyes the Head, that weares a Crowne.\n Enter Warwicke and Surrey.\n \n War. Many good-morrowes to your Maiestie\n \n King. Is it good-morrow, Lords?\n War. 'Tis One a Clock, and past\n \n King. Why then good-morrow to you all (my Lords:)\n Haue you read o're the Letters that I sent you?\n War. We haue (my Liege.)\n King. Then you perceiue the Body of our Kingdome,\n How foule it is: what ranke Diseases grow,\n And with what danger, neere the Heart of it?\n War. It is but as a Body, yet distemper'd,\n Which to his former strength may be restor'd,\n With good aduice, and little Medicine:\n My Lord Northumberland will soone be cool'd\n \n King. Oh Heauen, that one might read the Book of Fate,\n And see the reuolution of the Times\n Make Mountaines leuell, and the Continent\n (Wearie of solide firmenesse) melt it selfe\n Into the Sea: and other Times, to see\n The beachie Girdle of the Ocean\n Too wide for Neptunes hippes; how Chances mocks\n And Changes fill the Cuppe of Alteration\n With diuers Liquors. 'Tis not tenne yeeres gone,\n Since Richard, and Northumberland, great friends,\n Did feast together; and in two yeeres after,\n Were they at Warres. It is but eight yeeres since,\n This Percie was the man, neerest my Soule,\n Who, like a Brother, toyl'd in my Affaires,\n And layd his Loue and Life vnder my foot:\n Yea, for my sake, euen to the eyes of Richard\n Gaue him defiance. But which of you was by\n (You Cousin Neuil, as I may remember)\n When Richard, with his Eye, brim-full of Teares,\n (Then check'd, and rated by Northumberland)\n Did speake these words (now prou'd a Prophecie:)\n Northumberland, thou Ladder, by the which\n My Cousin Bullingbrooke ascends my Throne:\n (Though then, Heauen knowes, I had no such intent,\n But that necessitie so bow'd the State,\n That I and Greatnesse were compell'd to kisse:)\n The Time shall come (thus did hee follow it)\n The Time will come, that foule Sinne gathering head,\n Shall breake into Corruption: so went on,\n Fore-telling this same Times Condition,\n And the diuision of our Amitie\n \n War. There is a Historie in all mens Liues,\n Figuring the nature of the Times deceas'd:\n The which obseru'd, a man may prophecie\n With a neere ayme, of the maine chance of things,\n As yet not come to Life, which in their Seedes\n And weake beginnings lye entreasured:\n Such things become the Hatch and Brood of Time;\n And by the necessarie forme of this,\n King Richard might create a perfect guesse,\n That great Northumberland, then false to him,\n Would of that Seed, grow to a greater falsenesse,\n Which should not finde a ground to roote vpon,\n Vnlesse on you\n \n King. Are these things then Necessities?\n Then let vs meete them like Necessities;\n And that same word, euen now cryes out on vs:\n They say, the Bishop and Northumberland\n Are fiftie thousand strong\n \n War. It cannot be (my Lord:)\n Rumor doth double, like the Voice, and Eccho,\n The numbers of the feared. Please it your Grace\n To goe to bed, vpon my Life (my Lord)\n The Pow'rs that you alreadie haue sent forth,\n Shall bring this Prize in very easily.\n To comfort you the more, I haue receiu'd\n A certaine instance, that Glendour is dead.\n Your Maiestie hath beene this fort-night ill,\n And these vnseason'd howres perforce must adde\n Vnto your Sicknesse\n \n King. I will take your counsaile:\n And were these inward Warres once out of hand,\n Wee would (deare Lords) vnto the Holy-Land.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scena Secunda.\n \n Enter Shallow and Silence: with Mouldie, Shadow, Wart, Feeble,\n Bull-calfe.\n \n Shal. Come-on, come-on, come-on: giue mee your\n Hand, Sir; giue mee your Hand, Sir: an early stirrer, by\n the Rood. And how doth my good Cousin Silence?\n Sil. Good-morrow, good Cousin Shallow\n \n Shal. And how doth my Cousin, your Bed-fellow?\n and your fairest Daughter, and mine, my God-Daughter\n Ellen?\n Sil. Alas, a blacke Ouzell (Cousin Shallow.)\n Shal. By yea and nay, Sir. I dare say my Cousin William\n is become a good Scholler? hee is at Oxford still, is hee\n not?\n Sil. Indeede Sir, to my cost\n \n Shal. Hee must then to the Innes of Court shortly: I\n was once of Clements Inne; where (I thinke) they will\n talke of mad Shallow yet\n \n Sil. You were call'd lustie Shallow then (Cousin.)\n Shal. I was call'd any thing: and I would haue done\n any thing indeede too, and roundly too. There was I, and\n little Iohn Doit of Staffordshire, and blacke George Bare,\n and Francis Pick-bone, and Will Squele a Cotsal-man, you\n had not foure such Swindge-bucklers in all the Innes of\n Court againe: And I may say to you, wee knew where\n the Bona-Roba's were, and had the best of them all at\n commandement. Then was Iacke Falstaffe (now Sir Iohn)\n a Boy, and Page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolke\n \n Sil. This Sir Iohn (Cousin) that comes hither anon about\n Souldiers?\n Shal. The same Sir Iohn, the very same: I saw him\n breake Scoggan's Head at the Court-Gate, when hee was\n a Crack, not thus high: and the very same day did I fight\n with one Sampson Stock-fish, a Fruiterer, behinde Greyes-Inne.\n Oh the mad dayes that I haue spent! and to see\n how many of mine olde Acquaintance are dead?\n Sil. Wee shall all follow (Cousin.)\n Shal. Certaine: 'tis certaine: very sure, very sure:\n Death is certaine to all, all shall dye. How a good Yoke\n of Bullocks at Stamford Fayre?\n Sil. Truly Cousin, I was not there\n \n Shal. Death is certaine. Is old Double of your Towne\n liuing yet?\n Sil. Dead, Sir\n \n Shal. Dead? See, see: hee drew a good Bow: and\n dead? hee shot a fine shoote. Iohn of Gaunt loued\n him well, and betted much Money on his head. Dead?\n hee would haue clapt in the Clowt at Twelue-score, and\n carryed you a fore-hand Shaft at foureteene, and foureteene\n and a halfe, that it would haue done a mans heart\n good to see. How a score of Ewes now?\n Sil. Thereafter as they be: a score of good Ewes\n may be worth tenne pounds\n \n Shal. And is olde Double dead?\n Enter Bardolph and his Boy.\n \n Sil. Heere come two of Sir Iohn Falstaffes Men (as I\n thinke.)\n Shal. Good-morrow, honest Gentlemen\n \n Bard. I beseech you, which is Iustice Shallow?\n Shal. I am Robert Shallow (Sir) a poore Esquire of this\n Countie, and one of the Kings Iustices of the Peace:\n What is your good pleasure with me?\n Bard. My Captaine (Sir) commends him to you:\n my Captaine, Sir Iohn Falstaffe: a tall Gentleman, and a\n most gallant Leader\n \n Shal. Hee greetes me well: (Sir) I knew him a\n good Back-Sword-man. How doth the good Knight?\n may I aske, how my Lady his Wife doth?\n Bard. Sir, pardon: a Souldier is better accommodated,\n then with a Wife\n \n Shal. It is well said, Sir; and it is well said, indeede,\n too: Better accommodated? it is good, yea indeede is\n it: good phrases are surely, and euery where very commendable.\n Accommodated, it comes of Accommodo:\n very good, a good Phrase\n \n Bard. Pardon, Sir, I haue heard the word. Phrase\n call you it? by this Day, I know not the Phrase: but\n I will maintaine the Word with my Sword, to bee a\n Souldier-like Word, and a Word of exceeding good\n Command. Accommodated: that is, when a man is\n (as they say) accommodated: or, when a man is, being\n whereby he thought to be accommodated, which is an\n excellent thing.\n Enter Falstaffe.\n \n Shal. It is very iust: Looke, heere comes good Sir\n Iohn. Giue me your hand, giue me your Worships good\n hand: Trust me, you looke well: and beare your yeares\n very well. Welcome, good Sir Iohn\n \n Fal. I am glad to see you well, good M[aster]. Robert Shallow:\n Master Sure-card as I thinke?\n Shal. No sir Iohn, it is my Cosin Silence: in Commission\n with mee\n \n Fal. Good M[aster]. Silence, it well befits you should be of\n the peace\n \n Sil. Your good Worship is welcome\n \n Fal. Fye, this is hot weather (Gentlemen) haue you\n prouided me heere halfe a dozen of sufficient men?\n Shal. Marry haue we sir: Will you sit?\n Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you\n \n Shal. Where's the Roll? Where's the Roll? Where's\n the Roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see: so, so, so, so:\n yea marry Sir. Raphe Mouldie: let them appeare as I call:\n let them do so, let them do so: Let mee see, Where is\n Mouldie?\n Moul. Heere, if it please you\n \n Shal. What thinke you (Sir Iohn) a good limb'd fellow:\n yong, strong, and of good friends\n \n Fal. Is thy name Mouldie?\n Moul. Yea, if it please you\n \n Fal. 'Tis the more time thou wert vs'd\n \n Shal. Ha, ha, ha, most excellent. Things that are mouldie,\n lacke vse: very singular good. Well saide Sir Iohn,\n very well said\n \n Fal. Pricke him\n \n Moul. I was prickt well enough before, if you could\n haue let me alone: my old Dame will be vndone now, for\n one to doe her Husbandry, and her Drudgery; you need\n not to haue prickt me, there are other men fitter to goe\n out, then I\n \n Fal. Go too: peace Mouldie, you shall goe. Mouldie,\n it is time you were spent\n \n Moul. Spent?\n Shallow. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: Know you\n where you are? For the other sir Iohn: Let me see: Simon\n Shadow\n \n Fal. I marry, let me haue him to sit vnder: he's like to\n be a cold souldier\n \n Shal. Where's Shadow?\n Shad. Heere sir\n \n Fal. Shadow, whose sonne art thou?\n Shad. My Mothers sonne, Sir\n \n Falst. Thy Mothers sonne: like enough, and thy Fathers\n shadow: so the sonne of the Female, is the shadow\n of the Male: it is often so indeede, but not of the Fathers\n substance\n \n Shal. Do you like him, sir Iohn?\n Falst. Shadow will serue for Summer: pricke him: For\n wee haue a number of shadowes to fill vppe the Muster-Booke\n \n Shal. Thomas Wart?\n Falst. Where's he?\n Wart. Heere sir\n \n Falst. Is thy name Wart?\n Wart. Yea sir\n \n Fal. Thou art a very ragged Wart\n \n Shal. Shall I pricke him downe,\n Sir Iohn?\n Falst. It were superfluous: for his apparrel is built vpon\n his backe, and the whole frame stands vpon pins: prick\n him no more\n \n Shal. Ha, ha, ha, you can do it sir: you can doe it: I\n commend you well.\n Francis Feeble\n \n Feeble. Heere sir\n \n Shal. What Trade art thou Feeble?\n Feeble. A Womans Taylor sir\n \n Shal. Shall I pricke him, sir?\n Fal. You may:\n But if he had beene a mans Taylor, he would haue prick'd\n you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemies Battaile,\n as thou hast done in a Womans petticote?\n Feeble. I will doe my good will sir, you can haue no\n more\n \n Falst. Well said, good Womans Tailour: Well sayde\n Couragious Feeble: thou wilt bee as valiant as the wrathfull\n Doue, or most magnanimous Mouse. Pricke the womans\n Taylour well Master Shallow, deepe Maister Shallow\n \n Feeble. I would Wart might haue gone sir\n \n Fal. I would thou wert a mans Tailor, that y might'st\n mend him, and make him fit to goe. I cannot put him to\n a priuate souldier, that is the Leader of so many thousands.\n Let that suffice, most Forcible Feeble\n \n Feeble. It shall suffice\n \n Falst. I am bound to thee, reuerend Feeble. Who is\n the next?\n Shal. Peter Bulcalfe of the Greene\n \n Falst. Yea marry, let vs see Bulcalfe\n \n Bul. Heere sir\n \n Fal. Trust me, a likely Fellow. Come, pricke me Bulcalfe\n till he roare againe\n \n Bul. Oh, good my Lord Captaine\n \n Fal. What? do'st thou roare before th'art prickt\n \n Bul. Oh sir, I am a diseased man\n \n Fal. What disease hast thou?\n Bul. A whorson cold sir, a cough sir, which I caught\n with Ringing in the Kings affayres, vpon his Coronation\n day, sir\n \n Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the Warres in a Gowne:\n we will haue away thy Cold, and I will take such order,\n that thy friends shall ring for thee. Is heere all?\n Shal. There is two more called then your number:\n you must haue but foure heere sir, and so I pray you go in\n with me to dinner\n \n Fal. Come, I will goe drinke with you, but I cannot\n tarry dinner. I am glad to see you in good troth, Master\n Shallow\n \n Shal. O sir Iohn, doe you remember since wee lay all\n night in the Winde-mill, in S[aint]. Georges Field\n \n Falstaffe. No more of that good Master Shallow: No\n more of that\n \n Shal. Ha? it was a merry night. And is Iane Nightworke\n aliue?\n Fal. She liues, M[aster]. Shallow\n \n Shal. She neuer could away with me\n \n Fal. Neuer, neuer: she would alwayes say shee could\n not abide M[aster]. Shallow\n \n Shal. I could anger her to the heart: shee was then a\n Bona-Roba. Doth she hold her owne well\n \n Fal. Old, old, M[aster]. Shallow\n \n Shal. Nay, she must be old, she cannot choose but be\n old: certaine shee's old: and had Robin Night-worke, by\n old Night-worke, before I came to Clements Inne\n \n Sil. That's fiftie fiue yeeres agoe\n \n Shal. Hah, Cousin Silence, that thou hadst seene that,\n that this Knight and I haue seene: hah, Sir Iohn, said I\n well?\n Falst. Wee haue heard the Chymes at mid-night, Master\n Shallow\n \n Shal. That wee haue, that wee haue; in faith, Sir Iohn,\n wee haue: our watch-word was, Hem-Boyes. Come,\n let's to Dinner; come, let's to Dinner: Oh the dayes that\n wee haue seene. Come, come\n \n Bul. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my\n friend, and heere is foure Harry tenne shillings in French\n Crownes for you: in very truth, sir, I had as lief be hang'd\n sir, as goe: and yet, for mine owne part, sir, I do not care;\n but rather, because I am vnwilling, and for mine owne\n part, haue a desire to stay with my friends: else, sir, I did\n not care, for mine owne part, so much\n \n Bard. Go-too: stand aside\n \n Mould. And good Master Corporall Captaine, for my\n old Dames sake, stand my friend: shee hath no body to\n doe any thing about her, when I am gone: and she is old,\n and cannot helpe her selfe: you shall haue fortie, sir\n \n Bard. Go-too: stand aside\n \n Feeble. I care not, a man can die but once: wee owe a\n death. I will neuer beare a base minde: if it be my destinie,\n so: if it be not, so: no man is too good to serue his\n Prince: and let it goe which way it will, he that dies this\n yeere, is quit for the next\n \n Bard. Well said, thou art a good fellow\n \n Feeble. Nay, I will beare no base minde\n \n Falst. Come sir, which men shall I haue?\n Shal. Foure of which you please\n \n Bard. Sir, a word with you: I haue three pound, to\n free Mouldie and Bull-calfe\n \n Falst. Go-too: well\n \n Shal. Come, sir Iohn, which foure will you haue?\n Falst. Doe you chuse for me\n \n Shal. Marry then, Mouldie, Bull-calfe, Feeble, and\n Shadow\n \n Falst. Mouldie, and Bull-calfe: for you Mouldie, stay\n at home, till you are past seruice: and for your part, Bull-calfe,\n grow till you come vnto it: I will none of you\n \n Shal. Sir Iohn, Sir Iohn, doe not your selfe wrong, they\n are your likelyest men, and I would haue you seru'd with\n the best\n \n Falst. Will you tell me (Master Shallow) how to chuse\n a man? Care I for the Limbe, the Thewes, the stature,\n bulke, and bigge assemblance of a man? giue mee the\n spirit (Master Shallow.) Where's Wart? you see what\n a ragged appearance it is: hee shall charge you, and\n discharge you, with the motion of a Pewterers Hammer:\n come off, and on, swifter then hee that gibbets on\n the Brewers Bucket. And this same halfe-fac'd fellow,\n Shadow, giue me this man: hee presents no marke to the\n Enemie, the foe-man may with as great ayme leuell at\n the edge of a Pen-knife: and for a Retrait, how swiftly\n will this Feeble, the Womans Taylor, runne off. O, giue\n me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a\n Calyuer into Warts hand, Bardolph\n \n Bard. Hold Wart, Trauerse: thus, thus, thus\n \n Falst. Come, manage me your Calyuer: so: very well,\n go-too, very good, exceeding good. O, giue me alwayes\n a little, leane, old, chopt, bald Shot. Well said Wart, thou\n art a good Scab: hold, there is a Tester for thee\n \n Shal. Hee is not his Crafts-master, hee doth not doe\n it right. I remember at Mile-end-Greene, when I lay\n at Clements Inne, I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthurs\n Show: there was a little quiuer fellow, and hee would\n manage you his Peece thus: and hee would about,\n and about, and come you in, and come you in: Rah,\n tah, tah, would hee say, Bownce would hee say, and\n away againe would hee goe, and againe would he come:\n I shall neuer see such a fellow\n \n Falst. These fellowes will doe well, Master Shallow.\n Farewell Master Silence, I will not vse many wordes with\n you: fare you well, Gentlemen both: I thanke you:\n I must a dozen mile to night. Bardolph, giue the Souldiers\n Coates\n \n Shal. Sir Iohn, Heauen blesse you, and prosper your\n Affaires, and send vs Peace. As you returne, visit\n my house. Let our old acquaintance be renewed: peraduenture\n I will with you to the Court\n \n Falst. I would you would, Master Shallow\n \n Shal. Go-too: I haue spoke at a word. Fare you\n well.\n Enter.\n \n Falst. Fare you well, gentle Gentlemen. On Bardolph,\n leade the men away. As I returne, I will fetch off\n these Iustices: I doe see the bottome of Iustice Shallow.\n How subiect wee old men are to this vice of Lying?\n This same staru'd Iustice hath done nothing but\n prate to me of the wildenesse of his Youth, and the\n Feates hee hath done about Turnball-street, and euery\n third word a Lye, duer pay'd to the hearer, then the\n Turkes Tribute. I doe remember him at Clements Inne,\n like a man made after Supper, of a Cheese-paring. When\n hee was naked, hee was, for all the world, like a forked\n Radish, with a Head fantastically caru'd vpon it with a\n Knife. Hee was so forlorne, that his Dimensions (to\n any thicke sight) were inuincible. Hee was the very\n Genius of Famine: hee came euer in the rere-ward of\n the Fashion: And now is this Vices Dagger become a\n Squire, and talkes as familiarly of Iohn of Gaunt, as if\n hee had beene sworne Brother to him: and Ile be sworne\n hee neuer saw him but once in the Tilt-yard, and then he\n burst his Head, for crowding among the Marshals men.\n I saw it, and told Iohn of Gaunt, hee beat his owne\n Name, for you might haue truss'd him and all his Apparrell\n into an Eele-skinne: the Case of a Treble Hoeboy\n was a Mansion for him: a Court: and now hath\n hee Land, and Beeues. Well, I will be acquainted with\n him, if I returne: and it shall goe hard, but I will make\n him a Philosophers two Stones to me. If the young\n Dace be a Bayt for the old Pike, I see no reason, in the\n Law of Nature, but I may snap at him. Let time shape,\n and there an end.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.\n \n Enter the Arch-bishop, Mowbray, Hastings, Westmerland,\n Coleuile.\n \n Bish. What is this Forrest call'd?\n Hast. 'Tis Gaultree Forrest, and't shall please your\n Grace\n \n Bish. Here stand (my Lords) and send discouerers forth,\n To know the numbers of our Enemies\n \n Hast. Wee haue sent forth alreadie\n \n Bish. 'Tis well done.\n My Friends, and Brethren (in these great Affaires)\n I must acquaint you, that I haue receiu'd\n New-dated Letters from Northumberland:\n Their cold intent, tenure, and substance thus.\n Here doth hee wish his Person, with such Powers\n As might hold sortance with his Qualitie,\n The which hee could not leuie: whereupon\n Hee is retyr'd, to ripe his growing Fortunes,\n To Scotland; and concludes in heartie prayers,\n That your Attempts may ouer-liue the hazard,\n And fearefull meeting of their Opposite\n \n Mow. Thus do the hopes we haue in him, touch ground,\n And dash themselues to pieces.\n Enter a Messenger.\n \n Hast. Now? what newes?\n Mess. West of this Forrest, scarcely off a mile,\n In goodly forme, comes on the Enemie:\n And by the ground they hide, I iudge their number\n Vpon, or neere, the rate of thirtie thousand\n \n Mow. The iust proportion that we gaue them out.\n Let vs sway-on, and face them in the field.\n Enter Westmerland.\n \n Bish. What well-appointed Leader fronts vs here?\n Mow. I thinke it is my Lord of Westmerland\n \n West. Health, and faire greeting from our Generall,\n The Prince, Lord Iohn, and Duke of Lancaster\n \n Bish. Say on (my Lord of Westmerland) in peace:\n What doth concerne your comming?\n West. Then (my Lord)\n Vnto your Grace doe I in chiefe addresse\n The substance of my Speech. If that Rebellion\n Came like it selfe, in base and abiect Routs,\n Led on by bloodie Youth, guarded with Rage,\n And countenanc'd by Boyes, and Beggerie:\n I say, if damn'd Commotion so appeare,\n In his true, natiue, and most proper shape,\n You (Reuerend Father, and these Noble Lords)\n Had not beene here, to dresse the ougly forme\n Of base, and bloodie Insurrection,\n With your faire Honors. You, Lord Arch-bishop,\n Whose Sea is by a Ciuill Peace maintain'd,\n Whose Beard, the Siluer Hand of Peace hath touch'd,\n Whose Learning, and good Letters, Peace hath tutor'd,\n Whose white Inuestments figure Innocence,\n The Doue, and very blessed Spirit of Peace.\n Wherefore doe you so ill translate your selfe,\n Out of the Speech of Peace, that beares such grace,\n Into the harsh and boystrous Tongue of Warre?\n Turning your Bookes to Graues, your Inke to Blood,\n Your Pennes to Launces, and your Tongue diuine\n To a lowd Trumpet, and a Point of Warre\n \n Bish. Wherefore doe I this? so the Question stands.\n Briefely to this end: Wee are all diseas'd,\n And with our surfetting, and wanton howres,\n Haue brought our selues into a burning Feuer,\n And wee must bleede for it: of which Disease,\n Our late King Richard (being infected) dy'd.\n But (my most Noble Lord of Westmerland)\n I take not on me here as a Physician,\n Nor doe I, as an Enemie to Peace,\n Troope in the Throngs of Militarie men:\n But rather shew a while like fearefull Warre,\n To dyet ranke Mindes, sicke of happinesse,\n And purge th' obstructions, which begin to stop\n Our very Veines of Life: heare me more plainely.\n I haue in equall ballance iustly weigh'd,\n What wrongs our Arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,\n And finde our Griefes heauier then our Offences.\n Wee see which way the streame of Time doth runne,\n And are enforc'd from our most quiet there,\n By the rough Torrent of Occasion,\n And haue the summarie of all our Griefes\n (When time shall serue) to shew in Articles;\n Which long ere this, wee offer'd to the King,\n And might, by no Suit, gayne our Audience:\n When wee are wrong'd, and would vnfold our Griefes,\n Wee are deny'd accesse vnto his Person,\n Euen by those men, that most haue done vs wrong.\n The dangers of the dayes but newly gone,\n Whose memorie is written on the Earth\n With yet appearing blood; and the examples\n Of euery Minutes instance (present now)\n Hath put vs in these ill-beseeming Armes:\n Not to breake Peace, or any Branch of it,\n But to establish here a Peace indeede,\n Concurring both in Name and Qualitie\n \n West. When euer yet was your Appeale deny'd?\n Wherein haue you beene galled by the King?\n What Peere hath beene suborn'd, to grate on you,\n That you should seale this lawlesse bloody Booke\n Of forg'd Rebellion, with a Seale diuine?\n Bish. My Brother generall, the Common-wealth,\n I make my Quarrell, in particular\n \n West. There is no neede of any such redresse:\n Or if there were, it not belongs to you\n \n Mow. Why not to him in part, and to vs all,\n That feele the bruizes of the dayes before,\n And suffer the Condition of these Times\n To lay a heauie and vnequall Hand vpon our Honors?\n West. O my good Lord Mowbray,\n Construe the Times to their Necessities,\n And you shall say (indeede) it is the Time,\n And not the King, that doth you iniuries.\n Yet for your part, it not appeares to me,\n Either from the King, or in the present Time,\n That you should haue an ynch of any ground\n To build a Griefe on: were you not restor'd\n To all the Duke of Norfolkes Seignories,\n Your Noble, and right well-remembred Fathers?\n Mow. What thing, in Honor, had my Father lost,\n That need to be reuiu'd, and breath'd in me?\n The King that lou'd him, as the State stood then,\n Was forc'd, perforce compell'd to banish him:\n And then, that Henry Bullingbrooke and hee\n Being mounted, and both rowsed in their Seates,\n Their neighing Coursers daring of the Spurre,\n Their armed Staues in charge, their Beauers downe,\n Their eyes of fire, sparkling through sights of Steele,\n And the lowd Trumpet blowing them together:\n Then, then, when there was nothing could haue stay'd\n My Father from the Breast of Bullingbrooke;\n O, when the King did throw his Warder downe,\n (His owne Life hung vpon the Staffe hee threw)\n Then threw hee downe himselfe, and all their Liues,\n That by Indictment, and by dint of Sword,\n Haue since mis-carryed vnder Bullingbrooke\n \n West. You speak (Lord Mowbray) now you know not what.\n The Earle of Hereford was reputed then\n In England the most valiant Gentleman.\n Who knowes, on whom Fortune would then haue smil'd?\n But if your Father had beene Victor there,\n Hee ne're had borne it out of Couentry.\n For all the Countrey, in a generall voyce,\n Cry'd hate vpon him: and all their prayers, and loue,\n Were set on Herford, whom they doted on,\n And bless'd, and grac'd, and did more then the King.\n But this is meere digression from my purpose.\n Here come I from our Princely Generall,\n To know your Griefes; to tell you, from his Grace,\n That hee will giue you Audience: and wherein\n It shall appeare, that your demands are iust,\n You shall enioy them, euery thing set off,\n That might so much as thinke you Enemies\n \n Mow. But hee hath forc'd vs to compell this Offer,\n And it proceedes from Pollicy, not Loue\n \n West. Mowbray, you ouer-weene to take it so:\n This Offer comes from Mercy, not from Feare.\n For loe, within a Ken our Army lyes,\n Vpon mine Honor, all too confident\n To giue admittance to a thought of feare.\n Our Battaile is more full of Names then yours,\n Our Men more perfect in the vse of Armes,\n Our Armor all as strong, our Cause the best;\n Then Reason will, our hearts should be as good.\n Say you not then, our Offer is compell'd\n \n Mow. Well, by my will, wee shall admit no Parley\n \n West. That argues but the shame of your offence:\n A rotten Case abides no handling\n \n Hast. Hath the Prince Iohn a full Commission,\n In very ample vertue of his Father,\n To heare, and absolutely to determine\n Of what Conditions wee shall stand vpon?\n West. That is intended in the Generals Name:\n I muse you make so slight a Question\n \n Bish. Then take (my Lord of Westmerland) this Schedule,\n For this containes our generall Grieuances:\n Each seuerall Article herein redress'd,\n All members of our Cause, both here, and hence,\n That are insinewed to this Action,\n Acquitted by a true substantiall forme,\n And present execution of our wills,\n To vs, and to our purposes confin'd,\n Wee come within our awfull Banks againe,\n And knit our Powers to the Arme of Peace\n \n West. This will I shew the Generall. Please you Lords,\n In sight of both our Battailes, wee may meete\n At either end in peace: which Heauen so frame,\n Or to the place of difference call the Swords,\n Which must decide it\n \n Bish. My Lord, wee will doe so\n \n Mow. There is a thing within my Bosome tells me,\n That no Conditions of our Peace can stand\n \n Hast. Feare you not, that if wee can make our Peace\n Vpon such large termes, and so absolute,\n As our Conditions shall consist vpon,\n Our Peace shall stand as firme as Rockie Mountaines\n \n Mow. I, but our valuation shall be such,\n That euery slight, and false-deriued Cause,\n Yea, euery idle, nice, and wanton Reason,\n Shall, to the King, taste of this Action:\n That were our Royall faiths, Martyrs in Loue,\n Wee shall be winnowed with so rough a winde,\n That euen our Corne shall seeme as light as Chaffe,\n And good from bad finde no partition\n \n Bish. No, no (my Lord) note this: the King is wearie\n Of daintie, and such picking Grieuances:\n For hee hath found, to end one doubt by Death,\n Reuiues two greater in the Heires of Life.\n And therefore will hee wipe his Tables cleane,\n And keepe no Tell-tale to his Memorie,\n That may repeat, and Historie his losse,\n To new remembrance. For full well hee knowes,\n Hee cannot so precisely weede this Land,\n As his mis-doubts present occasion:\n His foes are so en-rooted with his friends,\n That plucking to vnfixe an Enemie,\n Hee doth vnfasten so, and shake a friend.\n So that this Land, like an offensiue wife,\n That hath enrag'd him on, to offer strokes,\n As he is striking, holds his Infant vp,\n And hangs resolu'd Correction in the Arme,\n That was vprear'd to execution\n \n Hast. Besides, the King hath wasted all his Rods,\n On late Offenders, that he now doth lacke\n The very Instruments of Chasticement:\n So that his power, like to a Fanglesse Lion\n May offer, but not hold\n \n Bish. 'Tis very true:\n And therefore be assur'd (my good Lord Marshal)\n If we do now make our attonement well,\n Our Peace, will (like a broken Limbe vnited)\n Grow stronger, for the breaking\n \n Mow. Be it so:\n Heere is return'd my Lord of Westmerland.\n Enter Westmerland.\n \n West. The Prince is here at hand: pleaseth your Lordship\n To meet his Grace, iust distance 'tweene our Armies?\n Mow. Your Grace of Yorke, in heauen's name then\n forward\n \n Bish. Before, and greet his Grace (my Lord) we come.\n Enter Prince Iohn.\n \n Iohn. You are wel encountred here (my cosin Mowbray)\n Good day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop,\n And so to you Lord Hastings, and to all.\n My Lord of Yorke, it better shew'd with you,\n When that your Flocke (assembled by the Bell)\n Encircled you, to heare with reuerence\n Your exposition on the holy Text,\n Then now to see you heere an Iron man\n Chearing a rowt of Rebels with your Drumme,\n Turning the Word, to Sword; and Life to death:\n That man that sits within a Monarches heart,\n And ripens in the Sunne-shine of his fauor,\n Would hee abuse the Countenance of the King,\n Alack, what Mischiefes might hee set abroach,\n In shadow of such Greatnesse? With you, Lord Bishop,\n It is euen so. Who hath not heard it spoken,\n How deepe you were within the Bookes of Heauen?\n To vs, the Speaker in his Parliament;\n To vs, th' imagine Voyce of Heauen it selfe:\n The very Opener, and Intelligencer,\n Betweene the Grace, the Sanctities of Heauen;\n And our dull workings. O, who shall beleeue,\n But you mis-vse the reuerence of your Place,\n Employ the Countenance, and Grace of Heauen,\n As a false Fauorite doth his Princes Name,\n In deedes dis-honorable? You haue taken vp,\n Vnder the counterfeited Zeale of Heauen,\n The Subiects of Heauens Substitute, my Father,\n And both against the Peace of Heauen, and him,\n Haue here vp-swarmed them\n \n Bish. Good my Lord of Lancaster,\n I am not here against your Fathers Peace:\n But (as I told my Lord of Westmerland)\n The Time (mis-order'd) doth in common sence\n Crowd vs, and crush vs, to this monstrous Forme,\n To hold our safetie vp. I sent your Grace\n The parcels, and particulars of our Griefe,\n The which hath been with scorne shou'd from the Court:\n Whereon this Hydra-Sonne of Warre is borne,\n Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleepe,\n With graunt of our most iust and right desires;\n And true Obedience, of this Madnesse cur'd,\n Stoope tamely to the foot of Maiestie\n \n Mow. If not, wee readie are to trye our fortunes,\n To the last man\n \n Hast. And though wee here fall downe,\n Wee haue Supplyes, to second our Attempt:\n If they mis-carry, theirs shall second them.\n And so, successe of Mischiefe shall be borne,\n And Heire from Heire shall hold this Quarrell vp,\n Whiles England shall haue generation\n \n Iohn. You are too shallow (Hastings)\n Much too shallow,\n To sound the bottome of the after-Times\n \n West. Pleaseth your Grace, to answere them directly,\n How farre-forth you doe like their Articles\n \n Iohn. I like them all, and doe allow them well:\n And sweare here, by the honor of my blood,\n My Fathers purposes haue beene mistooke,\n And some, about him, haue too lauishly\n Wrested his meaning, and Authoritie.\n My Lord, these Griefes shall be with speed redrest:\n Vpon my Life, they shall. If this may please you,\n Discharge your Powers vnto their seuerall Counties,\n As wee will ours: and here, betweene the Armies,\n Let's drinke together friendly, and embrace,\n That all their eyes may beare those Tokens home,\n Of our restored Loue, and Amitie\n \n Bish. I take your Princely word, for these redresses\n \n Iohn. I giue it you, and will maintaine my word:\n And thereupon I drinke vnto your Grace\n \n Hast. Goe Captaine, and deliuer to the Armie\n This newes of Peace: let them haue pay, and part:\n I know, it will well please them.\n High thee Captaine.\n Enter.\n \n Bish. To you, my Noble Lord of Westmerland\n \n West. I pledge your Grace:\n And if you knew what paines I haue bestow'd,\n To breede this present Peace,\n You would drinke freely: but my loue to ye,\n Shall shew it selfe more openly hereafter\n \n Bish. I doe not doubt you\n \n West. I am glad of it.\n Health to my Lord, and gentle Cousin Mowbray\n \n Mow. You wish me health in very happy season,\n For I am, on the sodaine, something ill\n \n Bish. Against ill Chances, men are euer merry,\n But heauinesse fore-runnes the good euent\n \n West. Therefore be merry (Cooze) since sodaine sorrow\n Serues to say thus: some good thing comes to morrow\n \n Bish. Beleeue me, I am passing light in spirit\n \n Mow. So much the worse, if your owne Rule be true\n \n Iohn. The word of Peace is render'd: hearke how\n they showt\n \n Mow. This had been chearefull, after Victorie\n \n Bish. A Peace is of the nature of a Conquest:\n For then both parties nobly are subdu'd,\n And neither partie looser\n \n Iohn. Goe (my Lord)\n And let our Army be discharged too:\n And good my Lord (so please you) let our Traines\n March by vs, that wee may peruse the men\n Enter.\n \n Wee should haue coap'd withall\n \n Bish. Goe, good Lord Hastings:\n And ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by.\n Enter.\n \n Iohn. I trust (Lords) wee shall lye to night together.\n Enter Westmerland.\n \n Now Cousin, wherefore stands our Army still?\n West. The Leaders hauing charge from you to stand,\n Will not goe off, vntill they heare you speake\n \n Iohn. They know their duties.\n Enter Hastings.\n \n Hast. Our Army is dispers'd:\n Like youthfull Steeres, vnyoak'd, they tooke their course\n East, West, North, South: or like a Schoole, broke vp,\n Each hurryes towards his home, and sporting place\n \n West. Good tidings (my Lord Hastings) for the which,\n I doe arrest thee (Traytor) of high Treason:\n And you Lord Arch-bishop, and you Lord Mowbray,\n Of Capitall Treason, I attach you both\n \n Mow. Is this proceeding iust, and honorable?\n West. Is your Assembly so?\n Bish. Will you thus breake your faith?\n Iohn. I pawn'd thee none:\n I promis'd you redresse of these same Grieuances\n Whereof you did complaine; which, by mine Honor,\n I will performe, with a most Christian care.\n But for you (Rebels) looke to taste the due\n Meet for Rebellion, and such Acts as yours.\n Most shallowly did you these Armes commence,\n Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.\n Strike vp our Drummes, pursue the scatter'd stray,\n Heauen, and not wee, haue safely fought to day.\n Some guard these Traitors to the Block of Death,\n Treasons true Bed, and yeelder vp of breath.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter Falstaffe and Colleuile.\n \n Falst. What's your Name, Sir? of what Condition are\n you? and of what place, I pray?\n Col. I am a Knight, Sir:\n And my Name is Colleuile of the Dale\n \n Falst. Well then, Colleuile is your Name, a Knight is\n your Degree, and your Place, the Dale. Colleuile shall\n still be your Name, a Traytor your Degree, and the Dungeon\n your Place, a place deepe enough: so shall you be\n still Colleuile of the Dale\n \n Col. Are not you Sir Iohn Falstaffe?\n Falst. As good a man as he sir, who ere I am: doe yee\n yeelde sir, or shall I sweate for you? if I doe sweate, they\n are the drops of thy Louers, and they weep for thy death,\n therefore rowze vp Feare and Trembling, and do obseruance\n to my mercy\n \n Col. I thinke you are Sir Iohn Falstaffe, & in that thought\n yeeld me\n \n Fal. I haue a whole Schoole of tongues in this belly of\n mine, and not a Tongue of them all, speakes anie other\n word but my name: and I had but a belly of any indifferencie,\n I were simply the most actiue fellow in Europe:\n my wombe, my wombe, my wombe vndoes mee. Heere\n comes our Generall.\n Enter Prince Iohn, and Westmerland.\n \n Iohn. The heat is past, follow no farther now:\n Call in the Powers, good Cousin Westmerland.\n Now Falstaffe, where haue you beene all this while?\n When euery thing is ended, then you come.\n These tardie Tricks of yours will (on my life)\n One time, or other, breake some Gallowes back\n \n Falst. I would bee sorry (my Lord) but it should bee\n thus: I neuer knew yet, but rebuke and checke was the\n reward of Valour. Doe you thinke me a Swallow, an Arrow,\n or a Bullet? Haue I, in my poore and olde Motion,\n the expedition of Thought? I haue speeded hither with\n the very extremest ynch of possibilitie. I haue fowndred\n nine score and odde Postes: and heere (trauell-tainted\n as I am) haue, in my pure and immaculate Valour, taken\n Sir Iohn Colleuile of the Dale, a most furious Knight, and\n valorous Enemie: But what of that? hee saw mee, and\n yeelded: that I may iustly say with the hooke-nos'd\n fellow of Rome, I came, saw, and ouer-came\n \n Iohn. It was more of his Courtesie, then your deseruing\n \n Falst. I know not: heere hee is, and heere I yeeld\n him: and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd, with\n the rest of this dayes deedes; or I sweare, I will haue it\n in a particular Ballad, with mine owne Picture on the top\n of it (Colleuile kissing my foot:) To the which course, if\n I be enforc'd, if you do not all shew like gilt two-pences\n to me; and I, in the cleare Skie of Fame, o're-shine you\n as much as the Full Moone doth the Cynders of the Element\n (which shew like Pinnes-heads to her) beleeue not\n the Word of the Noble: therefore let mee haue right,\n and let desert mount\n \n Iohn. Thine's too heauie to mount\n \n Falst. Let it shine then\n \n Iohn. Thine's too thick to shine\n \n Falst. Let it doe something (my good Lord) that may\n doe me good, and call it what you will\n \n Iohn. Is thy Name Colleuile?\n Col. It is (my Lord.)\n Iohn. A famous Rebell art thou, Colleuile\n \n Falst. And a famous true Subiect tooke him\n \n Col. I am (my Lord) but as my Betters are,\n That led me hither: had they beene rul'd by me,\n You should haue wonne them dearer then you haue\n \n Falst. I know not how they sold themselues, but thou\n like a kinde fellow, gau'st thy selfe away; and I thanke\n thee, for thee.\n Enter Westmerland.\n \n Iohn. Haue you left pursuit?\n West. Retreat is made, and Execution stay'd\n \n Iohn. Send Colleuile, with his Confederates,\n To Yorke, to present Execution.\n Blunt, leade him hence, and see you guard him sure.\n \n Exit with Colleuile.\n \n And now dispatch we toward the Court (my Lords)\n I heare the King, my Father, is sore sicke.\n Our Newes shall goe before vs, to his Maiestie,\n Which (Cousin) you shall beare, to comfort him:\n And wee with sober speede will follow you\n \n Falst. My Lord, I beseech you, giue me leaue to goe\n through Gloucestershire: and when you come to Court,\n stand my good Lord, 'pray, in your good report\n \n Iohn. Fare you well, Falstaffe: I, in my condition,\n Shall better speake of you, then you deserue.\n Enter.\n \n Falst. I would you had but the wit: 'twere better\n then your Dukedome. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded\n Boy doth not loue me, nor a man cannot\n make him laugh: but that's no maruaile, hee drinkes no\n Wine. There's neuer any of these demure Boyes come\n to any proofe: for thinne Drinke doth so ouer-coole\n their blood, and making many Fish-Meales, that they\n fall into a kinde of Male Greene-sicknesse: and then,\n when they marry, they get Wenches. They are generally\n Fooles, and Cowards; which some of vs should be too,\n but for inflamation. A good Sherris-Sack hath a two-fold\n operation in it: it ascends me into the Braine, dryes\n me there all the foolish, and dull, and cruddie Vapours,\n which enuiron it: makes it apprehensiue, quicke, forgetiue,\n full of nimble, fierie, and delectable shapes; which\n deliuer'd o're to the Voyce, the Tongue, which is the\n Birth, becomes excellent Wit. The second propertie of\n your excellent Sherris, is, the warming of the Blood:\n which before (cold, and setled) left the Liuer white, and\n pale; which is the Badge of Pusillanimitie, and Cowardize:\n but the Sherris warmes it, and makes it course\n from the inwards, to the parts extremes: it illuminateth\n the Face, which (as a Beacon) giues warning to all the\n rest of this little Kingdome (Man) to Arme: and then\n the Vitall Commoners, and in-land pettie Spirits, muster\n me all to their Captaine, the Heart; who great, and pufft\n vp with his Retinue, doth any Deed of Courage: and this\n Valour comes of Sherris. So, that skill in the Weapon\n is nothing, without Sack (for that sets it a-worke:) and\n Learning, a meere Hoord of Gold, kept by a Deuill, till\n Sack commences it, and sets it in act, and vse. Hereof\n comes it, that Prince Harry is valiant: for the cold blood\n hee did naturally inherite of his Father, hee hath, like\n leane, stirrill, and bare Land, manured, husbanded, and\n tyll'd, with excellent endeauour of drinking good, and\n good store of fertile Sherris, that hee is become very hot,\n and valiant. If I had a thousand Sonnes, the first Principle\n I would teach them, should be to forsweare thinne Potations,\n and to addict themselues to Sack.\n Enter Bardolph.\n \n How now Bardolph?\n Bard. The Armie is discharged all, and gone\n \n Falst. Let them goe: Ile through Gloucestershire,\n and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire: I\n haue him alreadie tempering betweene my finger and my\n thombe, and shortly will I seale with him. Come away.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scena Secunda.\n \n Enter King, Warwicke, Clarence, Gloucester.\n \n King. Now Lords, if Heauen doth giue successefull end\n To this Debate, that bleedeth at our doores,\n Wee will our Youth lead on to higher Fields,\n And draw no Swords, but what are sanctify'd.\n Our Nauie is addressed, our Power collected,\n Our Substitutes, in absence, well inuested,\n And euery thing lyes leuell to our wish;\n Onely wee want a little personall Strength:\n And pawse vs, till these Rebels, now a-foot,\n Come vnderneath the yoake of Gouernment\n \n War. Both which we doubt not, but your Maiestie\n Shall soone enioy\n \n King. Humphrey (my Sonne of Gloucester) where is\n the Prince, your Brother?\n Glo. I thinke hee's gone to hunt (my Lord) at Windsor\n \n King. And how accompanied?\n Glo. I doe not know (my Lord.)\n King. Is not his Brother, Thomas of Clarence, with\n him?\n Glo. No (my good Lord) hee is in presence heere\n \n Clar. What would my Lord, and Father?\n King. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.\n How chance thou art not with the Prince, thy Brother?\n Hee loues thee, and thou do'st neglect him (Thomas.)\n Thou hast a better place in his Affection,\n Then all thy Brothers: cherish it (my Boy)\n And Noble Offices thou may'st effect\n Of Mediation (after I am dead)\n Betweene his Greatnesse, and thy other Brethren.\n Therefore omit him not: blunt not his Loue,\n Nor loose the good aduantage of his Grace,\n By seeming cold, or carelesse of his will.\n For hee is gracious, if hee be obseru'd:\n Hee hath a Teare for Pitie, and a Hand\n Open (as Day) for melting Charitie:\n Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, hee's Flint,\n As humorous as Winter, and as sudden,\n As Flawes congealed in the Spring of day.\n His temper therefore must be well obseru'd:\n Chide him for faults, and doe it reuerently,\n When you perceiue his blood enclin'd to mirth:\n But being moodie, giue him Line, and scope,\n Till that his passions (like a Whale on ground)\n Confound themselues with working. Learne this Thomas,\n And thou shalt proue a shelter to thy friends,\n A Hoope of Gold, to binde thy Brothers in:\n That the vnited Vessell of their Blood\n (Mingled with Venome of Suggestion,\n As force, perforce, the Age will powre it in)\n Shall neuer leake, though it doe worke as strong\n As Aconitum, or rash Gun-powder\n \n Clar. I shall obserue him with all care, and loue\n \n King. Why art thou not at Windsor with him (Thomas?)\n Clar. Hee is not there to day: hee dines in London\n \n King. And how accompanyed? Canst thou tell\n that?\n Clar. With Pointz, and other his continuall followers\n \n King. Most subiect is the fattest Soyle to Weedes:\n And hee (the Noble Image of my Youth)\n Is ouer-spread with them: therefore my griefe\n Stretches it selfe beyond the howre of death.\n The blood weepes from my heart, when I doe shape\n (In formes imaginarie) th' vnguided Dayes,\n And rotten Times, that you shall looke vpon,\n When I am sleeping with my Ancestors.\n For when his head-strong Riot hath no Curbe,\n When Rage and hot-Blood are his Counsailors,\n When Meanes and lauish Manners meete together;\n Oh, with what Wings shall his Affections flye\n Towards fronting Perill, and oppos'd Decay?\n War. My gracious Lord, you looke beyond him quite:\n The Prince but studies his Companions,\n Like a strange Tongue: wherein, to gaine the Language,\n 'Tis needfull, that the most immodest word\n Be look'd vpon, and learn'd: which once attayn'd,\n Your Highnesse knowes, comes to no farther vse,\n But to be knowne, and hated. So, like grosse termes,\n The Prince will, in the perfectnesse of time,\n Cast off his followers: and their memorie\n Shall as a Patterne, or a Measure, liue,\n By which his Grace must mete the liues of others,\n Turning past-euills to aduantages\n \n King. 'Tis seldome, when the Bee doth leaue her Combe\n In the dead Carrion.\n Enter Westmerland.\n \n Who's heere? Westmerland?\n West. Health to my Soueraigne, and new happinesse\n Added to that, that I am to deliuer.\n Prince Iohn, your Sonne, doth kisse your Graces Hand:\n Mowbray, the Bishop, Scroope, Hastings, and all,\n Are brought to the Correction of your Law.\n There is not now a Rebels Sword vnsheath'd,\n But Peace puts forth her Oliue euery where:\n The manner how this Action hath beene borne,\n Here (at more leysure) may your Highnesse reade,\n With euery course, in his particular\n \n King. O Westmerland, thou art a Summer Bird,\n Which euer in the haunch of Winter sings\n The lifting vp of day.\n Enter Harcourt.\n \n Looke, heere's more newes\n \n Harc. From Enemies, Heauen keepe your Maiestie:\n And when they stand against you, may they fall,\n As those that I am come to tell you of.\n The Earle Northumberland, and the Lord Bardolfe,\n With a great Power of English, and of Scots,\n Are by the Sherife of Yorkeshire ouerthrowne:\n The manner, and true order of the fight,\n This Packet (please it you) containes at large\n \n King. And wherefore should these good newes\n Make me sicke?\n Will Fortune neuer come with both hands full,\n But write her faire words still in foulest Letters?\n Shee eyther giues a Stomack, and no Foode,\n (Such are the poore, in health) or else a Feast,\n And takes away the Stomack (such are the Rich,\n That haue aboundance, and enioy it not.)\n I should reioyce now, at this happy newes,\n And now my Sight fayles, and my Braine is giddie.\n O me, come neere me, now I am much ill\n \n Glo. Comfort your Maiestie\n \n Cla. Oh, my Royall Father\n \n West. My Soueraigne Lord, cheare vp your selfe, looke\n vp\n \n War. Be patient (Princes) you doe know, these Fits\n Are with his Highnesse very ordinarie.\n Stand from him, giue him ayre:\n Hee'le straight be well\n \n Clar. No, no, hee cannot long hold out: these pangs,\n Th' incessant care, and labour of his Minde,\n Hath wrought the Mure, that should confine it in,\n So thinne, that Life lookes through, and will breake out\n \n Glo. The people feare me: for they doe obserue\n Vnfather'd Heires, and loathly Births of Nature:\n The Seasons change their manners, as the Yeere\n Had found some Moneths asleepe, and leap'd them ouer\n \n Clar. The Riuer hath thrice flow'd, no ebbe betweene:\n And the old folke (Times doting Chronicles)\n Say it did so, a little time before\n That our great Grand-sire Edward sick'd, and dy'de\n \n War. Speake lower (Princes) for the King recouers\n \n Glo. This Apoplexie will (certaine) be his end\n \n King. I pray you take me vp, and beare me hence\n Into some other Chamber: softly 'pray.\n Let there be no noyse made (my gentle friends)\n Vnlesse some dull and fauourable hand\n Will whisper Musicke to my wearie Spirit\n \n War. Call for the Musicke in the other Roome\n \n King. Set me the Crowne vpon my Pillow here\n \n Clar. His eye is hollow, and hee changes much\n \n War. Lesse noyse, lesse noyse.\n Enter Prince Henry.\n \n P.Hen. Who saw the Duke of Clarence?\n Clar. I am here (Brother) full of heauinesse\n \n P.Hen. How now? Raine within doores, and none\n abroad? How doth the King?\n Glo. Exceeding ill\n \n P.Hen. Heard hee the good newes yet?\n Tell it him\n \n Glo. Hee alter'd much, vpon the hearing it\n \n P.Hen. If hee be sicke with Ioy,\n Hee'le recouer without Physicke\n \n War. Not so much noyse (my Lords)\n Sweet Prince speake lowe,\n The King, your Father, is dispos'd to sleepe\n \n Clar. Let vs with-draw into the other Roome\n \n War. Wil't please your Grace to goe along with vs?\n P.Hen. No: I will sit, and watch here, by the King.\n Why doth the Crowne lye there, vpon his Pillow,\n Being so troublesome a Bed-fellow?\n O pollish'd Perturbation! Golden Care!\n That keep'st the Ports of Slumber open wide,\n To many a watchfull Night: sleepe with it now,\n Yet not so sound, and halfe so deepely sweete,\n As hee whose Brow (with homely Biggen bound)\n Snores out the Watch of Night. O Maiestie!\n When thou do'st pinch thy Bearer, thou do'st sit\n Like a rich Armor, worne in heat of day,\n That scald'st with safetie: by his Gates of breath,\n There lyes a dowlney feather, which stirres not:\n Did hee suspire, that light and weightlesse dowlne\n Perforce must moue. My gracious Lord, my Father,\n This sleepe is sound indeede: this is a sleepe,\n That from this Golden Rigoll hath diuorc'd\n So many English Kings. Thy due, from me,\n Is Teares, and heauie Sorrowes of the Blood,\n Which Nature, Loue, and filiall tendernesse,\n Shall (O deare Father) pay thee plenteously.\n My due, from thee, is this Imperiall Crowne,\n Which (as immediate from thy Place, and Blood)\n Deriues it selfe to me. Loe, heere it sits,\n Which Heauen shall guard:\n And put the worlds whole strength into one gyant Arme,\n It shall not force this Lineall Honor from me.\n This, from thee, will I to mine leaue,\n As 'tis left to me.\n Enter.\n \n Enter Warwicke, Gloucester, Clarence.\n \n King. Warwicke, Gloucester, Clarence\n \n Clar. Doth the King call?\n War. What would your Maiestie? how fares your\n Grace?\n King. Why did you leaue me here alone (my Lords?)\n Cla. We left the Prince (my Brother) here (my Liege)\n Who vndertooke to sit and watch by you\n \n King. The Prince of Wales? where is hee? let mee\n see him\n \n War. This doore is open, hee is gone this way\n \n Glo. Hee came not through the Chamber where wee\n stayd\n \n King. Where is the Crowne? who tooke it from my\n Pillow?\n War. When wee with-drew (my Liege) wee left it\n heere\n \n King. The Prince hath ta'ne it hence:\n Goe seeke him out.\n Is hee so hastie, that hee doth suppose\n My sleepe, my death? Finde him (my Lord of Warwick)\n Chide him hither: this part of his conioynes\n With my disease, and helpes to end me.\n See Sonnes, what things you are:\n How quickly Nature falls into reuolt,\n When Gold becomes her Obiect?\n For this, the foolish ouer-carefull Fathers\n Haue broke their sleepes with thoughts,\n Their braines with care, their bones with industry.\n For this, they haue ingrossed and pyl'd vp\n The canker'd heapes of strange-atchieued Gold:\n For this, they haue beene thoughtfull, to inuest\n Their Sonnes with Arts, and Martiall Exercises:\n When, like the Bee, culling from euery flower\n The vertuous Sweetes, our Thighes packt with Wax,\n Our Mouthes with Honey, wee bring it to the Hiue;\n And like the Bees, are murthered for our paines.\n This bitter taste yeelds his engrossements,\n To the ending Father.\n Enter Warwicke.\n \n Now, where is hee, that will not stay so long,\n Till his Friend Sicknesse hath determin'd me?\n War. My Lord, I found the Prince in the next Roome,\n Washing with kindly Teares his gentle Cheekes,\n With such a deepe demeanure, in great sorrow,\n That Tyranny, which neuer quafft but blood,\n Would (by beholding him) haue wash'd his Knife\n With gentle eye-drops. Hee is comming hither\n \n King. But wherefore did hee take away the Crowne?\n Enter Prince Henry.\n \n Loe, where hee comes. Come hither to me (Harry.)\n Depart the Chamber, leaue vs heere alone.\n Enter.\n \n P.Hen. I neuer thought to heare you speake againe\n \n King. Thy wish was Father (Harry) to that thought:\n I stay too long by thee, I wearie thee.\n Do'st thou so hunger for my emptie Chayre,\n That thou wilt needes inuest thee with mine Honors,\n Before thy howre be ripe? O foolish Youth!\n Thou seek'st the Greatnesse, that will ouer-whelme thee.\n Stay but a little: for my Cloud of Dignitie\n Is held from falling, with so weake a winde,\n That it will quickly drop: my Day is dimme.\n Thou hast stolne that, which after some few howres\n Were thine, without offence: and at my death\n Thou hast seal'd vp my expectation.\n Thy Life did manifest, thou lou'dst me not,\n And thou wilt haue me dye assur'd of it.\n Thou hid'st a thousand Daggers in thy thoughts,\n Which thou hast whetted on thy stonie heart,\n To stab at halfe an howre of my Life.\n What? canst thou not forbeare me halfe an howre?\n Then get thee gone, and digge my graue thy selfe,\n And bid the merry Bels ring to thy eare\n That thou art Crowned, not that I am dead.\n Let all the Teares, that should bedew my Hearse\n Be drops of Balme, to sanctifie thy head:\n Onely compound me with forgotten dust.\n Giue that, which gaue thee life, vnto the Wormes:\n Plucke downe my Officers, breake my Decrees;\n For now a time is come, to mocke at Forme.\n Henry the fift is Crown'd: Vp Vanity,\n Downe Royall State: All you sage Counsailors, hence:\n And to the English Court, assemble now\n From eu'ry Region, Apes of Idlenesse.\n Now neighbor-Confines, purge you of your Scum:\n Haue you a Ruffian that will sweare? drinke? dance?\n Reuell the night? Rob? Murder? and commit\n The oldest sinnes, the newest kinde of wayes?\n Be happy, he will trouble you no more:\n England, shall double gill'd, his trebble guilt.\n England, shall giue him Office, Honor, Might:\n For the Fift Harry, from curb'd License pluckes\n The muzzle of Restraint; and the wilde Dogge\n Shall flesh his tooth in euery Innocent.\n O my poore Kingdome (sicke, with ciuill blowes)\n When that my Care could not with-hold thy Ryots,\n What wilt thou do, when Ryot is thy Care?\n O, thou wilt be a Wildernesse againe,\n Peopled with Wolues (thy old Inhabitants.)\n Prince. O pardon me (my Liege)\n But for my Teares,\n The most Impediments vnto my Speech,\n I had fore-stall'd this deere, and deepe Rebuke,\n Ere you (with greefe) had spoke, and I had heard\n The course of it so farre. There is your Crowne,\n And he that weares the Crowne immortally,\n Long guard it yours. If I affect it more,\n Then as your Honour, and as your Renowne,\n Let me no more from this Obedience rise,\n Which my most true, and inward duteous Spirit\n Teacheth this prostrate, and exteriour bending.\n Heauen witnesse with me, when I heere came in,\n And found no course of breath within your Maiestie,\n How cold it strooke my heart. If I do faine,\n O let me, in my present wildenesse, dye,\n And neuer liue, to shew th' incredulous World,\n The Noble change that I haue purposed.\n Comming to looke on you, thinking you dead,\n (And dead almost (my Liege) to thinke you were)\n I spake vnto the Crowne (as hauing sense)\n And thus vpbraided it. The Care on thee depending,\n Hath fed vpon the body of my Father,\n Therefore, thou best of Gold, art worst of Gold.\n Other, lesse fine in Charract, is more precious,\n Preseruing life, in Med'cine potable:\n But thou, most Fine, most Honour'd, most Renown'd,\n Hast eate the Bearer vp.\n Thus (my Royall Liege)\n Accusing it, I put it on my Head,\n To try with it (as with an Enemie,\n That had before my face murdred my Father)\n The Quarrell of a true Inheritor.\n But if it did infect my blood with Ioy,\n Or swell my Thoughts, to any straine of Pride,\n If any Rebell, or vaine spirit of mine,\n Did, with the least Affection of a Welcome,\n Giue entertainment to the might of it,\n Let heauen, for euer, keepe it from my head,\n And make me, as the poorest Vassaile is,\n That doth with awe, and terror kneele to it\n \n King. O my Sonne!\n Heauen put it in thy minde to take it hence,\n That thou might'st ioyne the more, thy Fathers loue,\n Pleading so wisely, in excuse of it.\n Come hither Harrie, sit thou by my bedde,\n And heare (I thinke, the very latest Counsell\n That euer I shall breath: Heauen knowes, my Sonne)\n By what by-pathes, and indirect crook'd-wayes\n I met this Crowne: and I my selfe know well\n How troublesome it sate vpon my head.\n To thee, it shall descend with better Quiet,\n Better Opinion, better Confirmation:\n For all the soyle of the Atchieuement goes\n With me, into the Earth. It seem'd in mee,\n But as an Honour snatch'd with boyst'rous hand,\n And I had many liuing, to vpbraide\n My gaine of it, by their Assistances,\n Which dayly grew to Quarrell, and to Blood-shed,\n Wounding supposed Peace.\n All these bold Feares,\n Thou seest (with perill) I haue answered:\n For all my Reigne, hath beene but as a Scene\n Acting that argument. And now my death\n Changes the Moode: For what in me, was purchas'd,\n Falles vpon thee, in a more Fayrer sort.\n So thou, the Garland wear'st successiuely.\n Yet, though thou stand'st more sure, then I could do,\n Thou art not firme enough, since greefes are greene:\n And all thy Friends, which thou must make thy Friends\n Haue but their stings, and teeth, newly tak'n out,\n By whose fell working, I was first aduanc'd,\n And by whose power, I well might lodge a Feare\n To be againe displac'd. Which to auoyd,\n I cut them off: and had a purpose now\n To leade out many to the Holy Land;\n Least rest, and lying still, might make them looke\n Too neere vnto my State.\n Therefore (my Harrie)\n Be it thy course to busie giddy Mindes\n With Forraigne Quarrels: that Action hence borne out,\n May waste the memory of the former dayes.\n More would I, but my Lungs are wasted so,\n That strength of Speech it vtterly deni'de mee.\n How I came by the Crowne, O heauen forgiue:\n And grant it may, with thee, in true peace liue\n \n Prince. My gracious Liege:\n You wonne it, wore it: kept it, gaue it me,\n Then plaine and right must my possession be;\n Which I, with more, then with a Common paine,\n 'Gainst all the World, will rightfully maintaine.\n Enter Lord Iohn of Lancaster, and Warwicke.\n \n King. Looke, looke,\n Heere comes my Iohn of Lancaster:\n Iohn. Health, Peace, and Happinesse,\n To my Royall Father\n \n King. Thou bring'st me happinesse and Peace\n (Sonne Iohn:)\n But health (alacke) with youthfull wings is flowne\n From this bare, wither'd Trunke. Vpon thy sight\n My worldly businesse makes a period.\n Where is my Lord of Warwicke?\n Prin. My Lord of Warwicke\n \n King. Doth any name particular, belong\n Vnto the Lodging, where I first did swoon'd?\n War. 'Tis call'd Ierusalem, my Noble Lord\n \n King. Laud be to heauen:\n Euen there my life must end.\n It hath beene prophesi'de to me many yeares,\n I should not dye, but in Ierusalem:\n Which (vainly) I suppos'd the Holy-Land.\n But beare me to that Chamber, there Ile lye:\n In that Ierusalem, shall Harry dye.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Actus Quintus. Scoena Prima.\n \n Enter Shallow, Silence, Falstaffe, Bardolfe, Page, and Dauie.\n \n Shal. By Cocke and Pye, you shall not away to night.\n What Dauy, I say\n \n Fal. You must excuse me, M[aster]. Robert Shallow\n \n Shal. I will not excuse you: you shall not be excused.\n Excuses shall not be admitted: there is no excuse shall\n serue: you shall not be excus'd.\n Why Dauie\n \n Dauie. Heere sir\n \n Shal. Dauy, Dauy, Dauy, let me see (Dauy) let me see:\n William Cooke, bid him come hither. Sir Iohn, you shal\n not be excus'd\n \n Dauy. Marry sir, thus: those Precepts cannot bee\n seru'd: and againe sir, shall we sowe the head-land with\n Wheate?\n Shal. With red Wheate Dauy. But for William Cook:\n are there no yong Pigeons?\n Dauy. Yes Sir.\n Heere is now the Smithes note, for Shooing,\n And Plough-Irons\n \n Shal. Let it be cast, and payde: Sir Iohn, you shall\n not be excus'd\n \n Dauy. Sir, a new linke to the Bucket must needes bee\n had: And Sir, doe you meane to stoppe any of Williams\n Wages, about the Sacke he lost the other day, at Hinckley\n Fayre?\n Shal. He shall answer it:\n Some Pigeons Dauy, a couple of short-legg'd Hennes: a\n ioynt of Mutton, and any pretty little tine Kickshawes,\n tell William Cooke\n \n Dauy. Doth the man of Warre, stay all night sir?\n Shal. Yes Dauy:\n I will vse him well. A Friend i'th Court, is better then a\n penny in purse. Vse his men well Dauy, for they are arrant\n Knaues, and will backe-bite\n \n Dauy. No worse then they are bitten, sir: For they\n haue maruellous fowle linnen\n \n Shallow. Well conceited Dauy: about thy Businesse,\n Dauy\n \n Dauy. I beseech you sir,\n To countenance William Visor of Woncot, against Clement\n Perkes of the hill\n \n Shal. There are many Complaints Dauy, against that\n Visor, that Visor is an arrant Knaue, on my knowledge\n \n Dauy. I graunt your Worship, that he is a knaue (Sir:)\n But yet heauen forbid Sir, but a Knaue should haue some\n Countenance, at his Friends request. An honest man sir,\n is able to speake for himselfe, when a Knaue is not. I haue\n seru'd your Worshippe truely sir, these eight yeares: and\n if I cannot once or twice in a Quarter beare out a knaue,\n against an honest man, I haue but a very litle credite with\n your Worshippe. The Knaue is mine honest Friend Sir,\n therefore I beseech your Worship, let him bee Countenanc'd\n \n Shal. Go too,\n I say he shall haue no wrong: Looke about Dauy.\n Where are you Sir Iohn? Come, off with your Boots.\n Giue me your hand M[aster]. Bardolfe\n \n Bard. I am glad to see your Worship\n \n Shal. I thanke thee, with all my heart, kinde Master\n Bardolfe: and welcome my tall Fellow:\n Come Sir Iohn\n \n Falstaffe. Ile follow you, good Master Robert Shallow.\n Bardolfe, looke to our Horsses. If I were saw'de into\n Quantities, I should make foure dozen of such bearded\n Hermites staues, as Master Shallow. It is a wonderfull\n thing to see the semblable Coherence of his mens spirits,\n and his: They, by obseruing of him, do beare themselues\n like foolish Iustices: Hee, by conuersing with them, is\n turn'd into a Iustice-like Seruingman. Their spirits are\n so married in Coniunction, with the participation of Society,\n that they flocke together in consent, like so many\n Wilde-Geese. If I had a suite to Mayster Shallow, I\n would humour his men, with the imputation of beeing\n neere their Mayster. If to his Men, I would currie with\n Maister Shallow, that no man could better command his\n Seruants. It is certaine, that either wise bearing, or ignorant\n Carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of\n another: therefore, let men take heede of their Companie.\n I will deuise matter enough out of this Shallow, to\n keepe Prince Harry in continuall Laughter, the wearing\n out of sixe Fashions (which is foure Tearmes) or two Actions,\n and he shall laugh with Interuallums. O it is much\n that a Lye (with a slight Oath) and a iest (with a sadde\n brow) will doe, with a Fellow, that neuer had the Ache\n in his shoulders. O you shall see him laugh, till his Face\n be like a wet Cloake, ill laid vp\n \n Shal. Sir Iohn\n \n Falst. I come Master Shallow, I come Master Shallow.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Scena Secunda.\n \n \n Enter the Earle of Warwicke, and the Lord Chiefe Iustice.\n \n Warwicke. How now, my Lord Chiefe Iustice, whether\n away?\n Ch.Iust. How doth the King?\n Warw. Exceeding well: his Cares\n Are now, all ended\n \n Ch.Iust. I hope, not dead\n \n Warw. Hee's walk'd the way of Nature,\n And to our purposes, he liues no more\n \n Ch.Iust. I would his Maiesty had call'd me with him,\n The seruice, that I truly did his life,\n Hath left me open to all iniuries\n \n War. Indeed I thinke the yong King loues you not\n \n Ch.Iust. I know he doth not, and do arme my selfe\n To welcome the condition of the Time,\n Which cannot looke more hideously vpon me,\n Then I haue drawne it in my fantasie.\n Enter Iohn of Lancaster, Gloucester, and Clarence.\n \n War. Heere come the heauy Issue of dead Harrie:\n O, that the liuing Harrie had the temper\n Of him, the worst of these three Gentlemen:\n How many Nobles then, should hold their places,\n That must strike saile, to Spirits of vilde sort?\n Ch.Iust. Alas, I feare, all will be ouer-turn'd\n \n Iohn. Good morrow Cosin Warwick, good morrow\n \n Glou. Cla. Good morrow, Cosin\n \n Iohn. We meet, like men, that had forgot to speake\n \n War. We do remember: but our Argument\n Is all too heauy, to admit much talke\n \n Ioh. Well: Peace be with him, that hath made vs heauy\n Ch.Iust. Peace be with vs, least we be heauier\n \n Glou. O, good my Lord, you haue lost a friend indeed:\n And I dare sweare, you borrow not that face\n Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your owne\n \n Iohn. Though no man be assur'd what grace to finde,\n You stand in coldest expectation.\n I am the sorrier, would 'twere otherwise\n \n Cla. Wel, you must now speake Sir Iohn Falstaffe faire,\n Which swimmes against your streame of Quality\n \n Ch.Iust. Sweet Princes: what I did, I did in Honor,\n Led by th' Imperiall Conduct of my Soule,\n And neuer shall you see, that I will begge\n A ragged, and fore-stall'd Remission.\n If Troth, and vpright Innocency fayle me,\n Ile to the King (my Master) that is dead,\n And tell him, who hath sent me after him\n \n War. Heere comes the Prince.\n Enter Prince Henrie.\n \n Ch.Iust. Good morrow: and heauen saue your Maiesty\n Prince. This new, and gorgeous Garment, Maiesty,\n Sits not so easie on me, as you thinke.\n Brothers, you mixe your Sadnesse with some Feare:\n This is the English, not the Turkish Court:\n Not Amurah, an Amurah succeeds,\n But Harry, Harry: Yet be sad (good Brothers)\n For (to speake truth) it very well becomes you:\n Sorrow, so Royally in you appeares,\n That I will deeply put the Fashion on,\n And weare it in my heart. Why then be sad,\n But entertaine no more of it (good Brothers)\n Then a ioynt burthen, laid vpon vs all.\n For me, by Heauen (I bid you be assur'd)\n Ile be your Father, and your Brother too:\n Let me but beare your Loue, Ile beare your Cares;\n But weepe that Harrie's dead, and so will I.\n But Harry liues, that shall conuert those Teares\n By number, into houres of Happinesse\n \n Iohn, &c. We hope no other from your Maiesty\n \n Prin. You all looke strangely on me: and you most,\n You are (I thinke) assur'd, I loue you not\n \n Ch.Iust. I am assur'd (if I be measur'd rightly)\n Your Maiesty hath no iust cause to hate mee\n \n Pr. No? How might a Prince of my great hopes forget\n So great Indignities you laid vpon me?\n What? Rate? Rebuke? and roughly send to Prison\n Th' immediate Heire of England? Was this easie?\n May this be wash'd in Lethe, and forgotten?\n Ch.Iust. I then did vse the Person of your Father:\n The Image of his power, lay then in me,\n And in th' administration of his Law,\n Whiles I was busie for the Commonwealth,\n Your Highnesse pleased to forget my place,\n The Maiesty, and power of Law, and Iustice,\n The Image of the King, whom I presented,\n And strooke me in my very Seate of Iudgement:\n Whereon (as an Offender to your Father)\n I gaue bold way to my Authority,\n And did commit you. If the deed were ill,\n Be you contented, wearing now the Garland,\n To haue a Sonne, set your Decrees at naught?\n To plucke downe Iustice from your awefull Bench?\n To trip the course of Law, and blunt the Sword\n That guards the peace, and safety of your Person?\n Nay more, to spurne at your most Royall Image,\n And mocke your workings, in a Second body?\n Question your Royall Thoughts, make the case yours:\n Be now the Father, and propose a Sonne:\n Heare your owne dignity so much prophan'd,\n See your most dreadfull Lawes, so loosely slighted;\n Behold your selfe, so by a Sonne disdained:\n And then imagine me, taking your part,\n And in your power, soft silencing your Sonne:\n After this cold considerance, sentence me;\n And, as you are a King, speake in your State,\n What I haue done, that misbecame my place,\n My person, or my Lieges Soueraigntie\n \n Prin. You are right Iustice, and you weigh this well:\n Therefore still beare the Ballance, and the Sword:\n And I do wish your Honors may encrease,\n Till you do liue, to see a Sonne of mine\n Offend you, and obey you, as I did.\n So shall I liue, to speake my Fathers words:\n Happy am I, that haue a man so bold,\n That dares do Iustice, on my proper Sonne;\n And no lesse happy, hauing such a Sonne,\n That would deliuer vp his Greatnesse so,\n Into the hands of Iustice. You did commit me:\n For which, I do commit into your hand,\n Th' vnstained Sword that you haue vs'd to beare:\n With this Remembrance; That you vse the same\n With the like bold, iust, and impartiall spirit\n As you haue done 'gainst me. There is my hand,\n You shall be as a Father, to my Youth:\n My voice shall sound, as you do prompt mine eare,\n And I will stoope, and humble my Intents,\n To your well-practis'd, wise Directions.\n And Princes all, beleeue me, I beseech you:\n My Father is gone wilde into his Graue,\n (For in his Tombe, lye my Affections)\n And with his Spirits, sadly I suruiue,\n To mocke the expectation of the World;\n To frustrate Prophesies, and to race out\n Rotten Opinion, who hath writ me downe\n After my seeming. The Tide of Blood in me,\n Hath prowdly flow'd in Vanity, till now.\n Now doth it turne, and ebbe backe to the Sea,\n Where it shall mingle with the state of Floods,\n And flow henceforth in formall Maiesty.\n Now call we our High Court of Parliament,\n And let vs choose such Limbes of Noble Counsaile,\n That the great Body of our State may go\n In equall ranke, with the best gouern'd Nation,\n That Warre, or Peace, or both at once may be\n As things acquainted and familiar to vs,\n In which you (Father) shall haue formost hand.\n Our Coronation done, we will accite\n (As I before remembred) all our State,\n And heauen (consigning to my good intents)\n No Prince, nor Peere, shall haue iust cause to say,\n Heauen shorten Harries happy life, one day.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scena Tertia.\n \n Enter Falstaffe, Shallow, Silence, Bardolfe, Page, and Pistoll.\n \n Shal. Nay, you shall see mine Orchard: where, in an\n Arbor we will eate a last yeares Pippin of my owne graffing,\n with a dish of Carrawayes, and so forth. (Come Cosin\n Silence, and then to bed\n \n Fal. You haue heere a goodly dwelling, and a rich\n \n Shal. Barren, barren, barren: Beggers all, beggers all\n Sir Iohn: Marry, good ayre. Spread Dauy, spread Dauie:\n Well said Dauie\n \n Falst. This Dauie serues you for good vses: he is your\n Seruingman, and your Husband\n \n Shal. A good Varlet, a good Varlet, a very good Varlet,\n Sir Iohn: I haue drunke too much Sacke at Supper. A\n good Varlet. Now sit downe, now sit downe: Come\n Cosin\n \n Sil. Ah sirra (quoth-a) we shall doe nothing but eate,\n and make good cheere, and praise heauen for the merrie\n yeere: when flesh is cheape, and Females deere, and lustie\n Lads rome heere, and there: so merrily, and euer among\n so merrily\n \n Fal. There's a merry heart, good M[aster]. Silence, Ile giue\n you a health for that anon\n \n Shal. Good M[aster]. Bardolfe: some wine, Dauie\n \n Da. Sweet sir, sit: Ile be with you anon: most sweete\n sir, sit. Master Page, good M[aster]. Page, sit: Proface. What\n you want in meate, wee'l haue in drinke: but you beare,\n the heart's all\n \n Shal. Be merry M[aster]. Bardolfe, and my little Souldiour\n there, be merry\n \n Sil. Be merry, be merry, my wife ha's all.\n For women are Shrewes, both short, and tall:\n 'Tis merry in Hall, when Beards wagge all;\n And welcome merry Shrouetide. Be merry, be merry\n \n Fal. I did not thinke M[aster]. Silence had bin a man of this\n Mettle\n \n Sil. Who I? I haue beene merry twice and once, ere\n now\n \n Dauy. There is a dish of Lether-coats for you\n \n Shal. Dauie\n \n Dau. Your Worship: Ile be with you straight. A cup\n of Wine, sir?\n Sil. A Cup of Wine, that's briske and fine, & drinke\n vnto the Leman mine: and a merry heart liues long-a\n \n Fal. Well said, M[aster]. Silence\n \n Sil. If we shall be merry, now comes in the sweete of\n the night\n \n Fal. Health, and long life to you, M[aster]. Silence\n \n Sil. Fill the Cuppe, and let it come. Ile pledge you a\n mile to the bottome\n \n Shal. Honest Bardolfe, welcome: If thou want'st any\n thing, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome my\n little tyne theefe, and welcome indeed too: Ile drinke to\n M[aster]. Bardolfe, and to all the Cauileroes about London\n \n Dau. I hope to see London, once ere I die\n \n Bar. If I might see you there, Dauie\n \n Shal. You'l cracke a quart together? Ha, will you not\n M[aster]. Bardolfe?\n Bar. Yes Sir, in a pottle pot\n \n Shal. I thanke thee: the knaue will sticke by thee, I\n can assure thee that. He will not out, he is true bred\n \n Bar. And Ile sticke by him, sir\n \n Shal. Why there spoke a King: lack nothing, be merry.\n Looke, who's at doore there, ho: who knockes?\n Fal. Why now you haue done me right\n \n Sil. Do me right, and dub me Knight, Samingo. Is't\n not so?\n Fal. 'Tis so\n \n Sil. Is't so? Why then say an old man can do somwhat\n \n Dau. If it please your Worshippe, there's one Pistoll\n come from the Court with newes\n \n Fal. From the Court? Let him come in.\n Enter Pistoll.\n \n How now Pistoll?\n Pist. Sir Iohn, 'saue you sir\n \n Fal. What winde blew you hither, Pistoll?\n Pist. Not the ill winde which blowes none to good,\n sweet Knight: Thou art now one of the greatest men in\n the Realme\n \n Sil. Indeed, I thinke he bee, but Goodman Puffe of\n Barson\n \n Pist. Puffe? puffe in thy teeth, most recreant Coward\n base. Sir Iohn, I am thy Pistoll, and thy Friend: helter\n skelter haue I rode to thee, and tydings do I bring, and\n luckie ioyes, and golden Times, and happie Newes of\n price\n \n Fal. I prethee now deliuer them, like a man of this\n World\n \n Pist. A footra for the World, and Worldlings base,\n I speake of Affrica, and Golden ioyes\n \n Fal. O base Assyrian Knight, what is thy newes?\n Let King Couitha know the truth thereof\n \n Sil. And Robin-hood, Scarlet, and Iohn\n \n Pist. Shall dunghill Curres confront the Hellicons?\n And shall good newes be baffel'd?\n Then Pistoll lay thy head in Furies lappe\n \n Shal. Honest Gentleman,\n I know not your breeding\n \n Pist. Why then Lament therefore\n \n Shal. Giue me pardon, Sir.\n If sir, you come with news from the Court, I take it, there\n is but two wayes, either to vtter them, or to conceale\n them. I am Sir, vnder the King, in some Authority\n \n Pist. Vnder which King?\n Bezonian, speake, or dye\n \n Shal. Vnder King Harry\n \n Pist. Harry the Fourth? or Fift?\n Shal. Harry the Fourth\n \n Pist. A footra for thine Office.\n Sir Iohn, thy tender Lamb-kinne, now is King,\n Harry the Fift's the man, I speake the truth.\n When Pistoll lyes, do this, and figge-me, like\n The bragging Spaniard\n \n Fal. What, is the old King dead?\n Pist. As naile in doore.\n The things I speake, are iust\n \n Fal. Away Bardolfe, Sadle my Horse,\n Master Robert Shallow, choose what Office thou wilt\n In the Land, 'tis thine. Pistol, I will double charge thee\n With Dignities\n \n Bard. O ioyfull day:\n I would not take a Knighthood for my Fortune\n \n Pist. What? I do bring good newes\n \n Fal. Carrie Master Silence to bed: Master Shallow, my\n Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am Fortunes Steward.\n Get on thy Boots, wee'l ride all night. Oh sweet Pistoll:\n Away Bardolfe: Come Pistoll, vtter more to mee: and\n withall deuise something to do thy selfe good. Boote,\n boote Master Shallow, I know the young King is sick for\n mee. Let vs take any mans Horsses: The Lawes of England\n are at my command'ment. Happie are they, which\n haue beene my Friendes: and woe vnto my Lord Chiefe\n Iustice\n \n Pist. Let Vultures vil'de seize on his Lungs also:\n Where is the life that late I led, say they?\n Why heere it is, welcome those pleasant dayes.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Scena Quarta.\n \n Enter Hostesse Quickly, Dol Teare-sheete, and Beadles.\n \n Hostesse. No, thou arrant knaue: I would I might dy,\n that I might haue thee hang'd: Thou hast drawne my\n shoulder out of ioynt\n \n Off. The Constables haue deliuer'd her ouer to mee:\n and shee shall haue Whipping cheere enough, I warrant\n her. There hath beene a man or two (lately) kill'd about\n her\n \n Dol. Nut-hooke, nut-hooke, you Lye: Come on, Ile\n tell thee what, thou damn'd Tripe-visag'd Rascall, if the\n Childe I now go with, do miscarrie, thou had'st better\n thou had'st strooke thy Mother, thou Paper-fac'd Villaine\n \n Host. O that Sir Iohn were come, hee would make\n this a bloody day to some body. But I would the Fruite\n of her Wombe might miscarry\n \n Officer. If it do, you shall haue a dozen of Cushions\n againe, you haue but eleuen now. Come, I charge you\n both go with me: for the man is dead, that you and Pistoll\n beate among you\n \n Dol. Ile tell thee what, thou thin man in a Censor; I\n will haue you as soundly swindg'd for this, you blewBottel'd\n Rogue: you filthy famish'd Correctioner, if you\n be not swing'd, Ile forsweare halfe Kirtles\n \n Off. Come, come, you shee-Knight-arrant, come\n \n Host. O, that right should thus o'recome might. Wel\n of sufferance, comes ease\n \n Dol. Come you Rogue, come:\n Bring me to a Iustice\n \n Host. Yes, come you staru'd Blood-hound\n \n Dol. Goodman death, goodman Bones\n \n Host. Thou Anatomy, thou\n \n Dol. Come you thinne Thing:\n Come you Rascall\n \n Off. Very well.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Scena Quinta.\n \n Enter two Groomes.\n \n 1.Groo. More Rushes, more Rushes\n \n 2.Groo. The Trumpets haue sounded twice\n \n 1.Groo. It will be two of the Clocke, ere they come\n from the Coronation.\n \n Exit Groo.\n \n Enter Falstaffe, Shallow, Pistoll, Bardolfe, and Page.\n \n Falstaffe. Stand heere by me, M[aster]. Robert Shallow, I will\n make the King do you Grace. I will leere vpon him, as\n he comes by: and do but marke the countenance that hee\n will giue me\n \n Pistol. Blesse thy Lungs, good Knight\n \n Falst. Come heere Pistol, stand behind me. O if I had\n had time to haue made new Liueries, I would haue bestowed\n the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But it is\n no matter, this poore shew doth better: this doth inferre\n the zeale I had to see him\n \n Shal. It doth so\n \n Falst. It shewes my earnestnesse in affection\n \n Pist. It doth so\n \n Fal. My deuotion\n \n Pist. It doth, it doth, it doth\n \n Fal. As it were, to ride day and night,\n And not to deliberate, not to remember,\n Not to haue patience to shift me\n \n Shal. It is most certaine\n \n Fal. But to stand stained with Trauaile, and sweating\n with desire to see him, thinking of nothing else, putting\n all affayres in obliuion, as if there were nothing els to bee\n done, but to see him\n \n Pist. 'Tis semper idem: for obsque hoc nihil est. 'Tis all\n in euery part\n \n Shal. 'Tis so indeed\n \n Pist. My Knight, I will enflame thy Noble Liuer, and\n make thee rage. Thy Dol, and Helen of thy noble thoghts\n is in base Durance, and contagious prison: Hall'd thither\n by most Mechanicall and durty hand. Rowze vppe\n Reuenge from Ebon den, with fell Alecto's Snake, for\n Dol is in. Pistol, speakes nought but troth\n \n Fal. I will deliuer her\n \n Pistol. There roar'd the Sea: and Trumpet Clangour\n sounds.\n \n The Trumpets sound. Enter King Henrie the Fift, Brothers, Lord\n Chiefe\n Iustice.\n \n Falst. Saue thy Grace, King Hall, my Royall Hall\n \n Pist. The heauens thee guard, and keepe, most royall\n Impe of Fame\n \n Fal. 'Saue thee my sweet Boy\n \n King. My Lord Chiefe Iustice, speake to that vaine\n man\n \n Ch.Iust. Haue you your wits?\n Know you what 'tis you speake?\n Falst. My King, my Ioue; I speake to thee, my heart\n \n King. I know thee not, old man: Fall to thy Prayers:\n How ill white haires become a Foole, and Iester?\n I haue long dream'd of such a kinde of man,\n So surfeit-swell'd, so old, and so prophane:\n But being awake, I do despise my dreame.\n Make lesse thy body (hence) and more thy Grace,\n Leaue gourmandizing; Know the Graue doth gape\n For thee, thrice wider then for other men.\n Reply not to me, with a Foole-borne Iest,\n Presume not, that I am the thing I was,\n For heauen doth know (so shall the world perceiue)\n That I haue turn'd away my former Selfe,\n So will I those that kept me Companie.\n When thou dost heare I am, as I haue bin,\n Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou was't\n The Tutor and the Feeder of my Riots:\n Till then, I banish thee, on paine of death,\n As I haue done the rest of my Misleaders,\n Not to come neere our Person, by ten mile.\n For competence of life, I will allow you,\n That lacke of meanes enforce you not to euill:\n And as we heare you do reforme your selues,\n We will according to your strength, and qualities,\n Giue you aduancement. Be it your charge (my Lord)\n To see perform'd the tenure of our word. Set on.\n \n Exit King.\n \n Fal. Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound\n \n Shal. I marry Sir Iohn, which I beseech you to let me\n haue home with me\n \n Fal. That can hardly be, M[aster]. Shallow, do not you grieue\n at this: I shall be sent for in priuate to him: Looke you,\n he must seeme thus to the world: feare not your aduancement:\n I will be the man yet, that shall make you great\n \n Shal. I cannot well perceiue how, vnlesse you should\n giue me your Doublet, and stuffe me out with Straw. I\n beseech you, good Sir Iohn, let mee haue fiue hundred of\n my thousand\n \n Fal. Sir, I will be as good as my word. This that you\n heard, was but a colour\n \n Shall. A colour I feare, that you will dye in, Sir Iohn\n \n Fal. Feare no colours, go with me to dinner:\n Come Lieutenant Pistol, come Bardolfe,\n I shall be sent for soone at night\n \n Ch.Iust. Go carry Sir Iohn Falstaffe to the Fleete,\n Take all his Company along with him\n \n Fal. My Lord, my Lord\n \n Ch.Iust. I cannot now speake, I will heare you soone:\n Take them away\n \n Pist. Si fortuna me tormento, spera me contento.\n \n Exit. Manent Lancaster and Chiefe Iustice\n \n Iohn. I like this faire proceeding of the Kings:\n He hath intent his wonted Followers\n Shall all be very well prouided for:\n But all are banisht, till their conuersations\n Appeare more wise, and modest to the world\n \n Ch.Iust. And so they are\n \n Iohn. The King hath call'd his Parliament,\n My Lord\n \n Ch.Iust. He hath\n \n Iohn. I will lay oddes, that ere this yeere expire,\n We beare our Ciuill Swords, and Natiue fire\n As farre as France. I heare a Bird so sing,\n Whose Musicke (to my thinking) pleas'd the King.\n Come, will you hence?\n \n Exeunt.\n \n FINIS.\n \n EPILOGVE.\n \n First, my Feare: then, my Curtsie: last, my Speech.\n My Feare, is your Displeasure: My Curtsie, my Dutie:\n And my speech, to Begge your Pardons. If you looke for a\n good speech now, you vndoe me: For what I haue to say, is\n of mine owne making: and what (indeed) I should say, will\n (I doubt) prooue mine owne marring. But to the Purpose,\n and so to the Venture. Be it knowne to you (as it is very\n well) I was lately heere in the end of a displeasing Play, to pray\n your\n Patien for it, and to promise you a Better: I did meane (indeede) to\n pay you with\n thi which if (like an ill Venture) it come vnluckily home, I breake;\n and you,\n my Creditors lose. Heere I promist you I would be, and heere I\n commit my Bodie\n to your Mercies: Bate me some, and I will pay you some, and (as\n most Debtors d\n promise you infinitely.\n If my Tongue cannot entreate you to acquit me: will you command\n me to vse\n my Legges? And yet that were but light payment, to Dance out of\n your debt:\n But\n a good Conscience, will make any possible satisfaction, and so\n will I. All\n the\n heere haue forgiuen me, if the Gentlemen will not, then the\n Gentlemen\n do not agree with the Gentlewomen, which was neuer seene\n before, in such an\n As\n One word more, I beseech you: if you be not too much cloid with\n Fat Meate,\n our humble Author will continue the Story (with Sir Iohn in it) and\n make yo\n \n merry, with faire Katherine of France: where (for any thing I\n know) Fals\n shall dye of a sweat, vnlesse already he be kill'd with your hard\n Opinions:\n \n For Old-Castle dyed a Martyr, and this is not the man. My Tongue\n is wearie\n when my Legs are too, I will bid you good night; and so kneele\n downe before\n yo\n But (indeed) to pray for the Queene.\n \n THE ACTORS NAMES.\n \n Rumour the Presentor.\n King Henry the Fourth.\n Prince Henry, afterwards Crowned King Henrie the Fift.\n Prince Iohn of Lancaster.\n Humphrey of Gloucester.\n Thomas of Clarence.\n Sonnes to Henry the Fourth, & brethren to Henry 5.\n Northumberland.\n The Arch Byshop of Yorke.\n Mowbray.\n Hastings.\n Lord Bardolfe.\n Trauers.\n Morton.\n Coleuile.\n Opposites against King Henrie the\n Fourth.\n Warwicke.\n Westmerland.\n Surrey.\n Gowre.\n Harecourt.\n Lord Chiefe Iustice.\n Of the Kings\n Partie.\n Shallow.\n Silence.\n Both Country\n Iustices.\n Dauie, Seruant to Shallow.\n Phang, and Snare, 2. Serieants\n Mouldie.\n Shadow.\n Wart.\n Feeble.\n Bullcalfe.\n Country Soldiers\n Pointz.\n Falstaffe.\n Bardolphe.\n Pistoll.\n Peto.\n Page.\n Irregular\n Humorists.\n Drawers\n Beadles.\n Groomes\n Northumberlands Wife.\n Percies Widdow.\n Hostesse Quickly.\n Doll Teare-sheete.\n \n Epilogue. The Second Part of Henry the Fourth, Containing his\n Death: and\n the Coronation of King Henry the Fift.\n \n \n The Life of Henry the Fift\n \n Enter Prologue.\n \n O For a Muse of Fire, that would ascend\n The brightest Heauen of Inuention:\n A Kingdome for a Stage, Princes to Act,\n And Monarchs to behold the swelling Scene.\n Then should the Warlike Harry, like himselfe,\n Assume the Port of Mars, and at his heeles\n (Leasht in, like Hounds) should Famine, Sword, and Fire\n Crouch for employment. But pardon, Gentles all:\n The flat vnraysed Spirits, that hath dar'd,\n On this vnworthy Scaffold, to bring forth\n So great an Obiect. Can this Cock-Pit hold\n The vastie fields of France? Or may we cramme\n Within this Woodden O, the very Caskes\n That did affright the Ayre at Agincourt?\n O pardon: since a crooked Figure may\n Attest in little place a Million,\n And let vs, Cyphers to this great Accompt,\n On your imaginarie Forces worke.\n Suppose within the Girdle of these Walls\n Are now confin'd two mightie Monarchies,\n Whose high, vp-reared, and abutting Fronts,\n The perillous narrow Ocean parts asunder.\n Peece out our imperfections with your thoughts:\n Into a thousand parts diuide one Man,\n And make imaginarie Puissance.\n Thinke when we talke of Horses, that you see them\n Printing their prowd Hoofes i'th' receiuing Earth:\n For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our Kings,\n Carry them here and there: Iumping o're Times;\n Turning th' accomplishment of many yeeres\n Into an Howre-glasse: for the which supplie,\n Admit me Chorus to this Historie;\n Who Prologue-like, your humble patience pray,\n Gently to heare, kindly to iudge our Play.\n Enter.\n \n \n Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\n \n Enter the two Bishops of Canterbury and Ely.\n \n Bish.Cant. My Lord, Ile tell you, that selfe Bill is vrg'd,\n Which in th' eleue[n]th yere of y last Kings reign\n Was like, and had indeed against vs past,\n But that the scambling and vnquiet time\n Did push it out of farther question\n \n Bish.Ely. But how my Lord shall we resist it now?\n Bish.Cant. It must be thought on: if it passe against vs,\n We loose the better halfe of our Possession:\n For all the Temporall Lands, which men deuout\n By Testament haue giuen to the Church,\n Would they strip from vs; being valu'd thus,\n As much as would maintaine, to the Kings honor,\n Full fifteene Earles, and fifteene hundred Knights,\n Six thousand and two hundred good Esquires:\n And to reliefe of Lazars, and weake age\n Of indigent faint Soules, past corporall toyle,\n A hundred Almes-houses, right well supply'd:\n And to the Coffers of the King beside,\n A thousand pounds by th' yeere. Thus runs the Bill\n \n Bish.Ely. This would drinke deepe\n \n Bish.Cant. 'Twould drinke the Cup and all\n \n Bish.Ely. But what preuention?\n Bish.Cant. The King is full of grace, and faire regard\n \n Bish.Ely. And a true louer of the holy Church\n \n Bish.Cant. The courses of his youth promis'd it not.\n The breath no sooner left his Fathers body,\n But that his wildnesse, mortify'd in him,\n Seem'd to dye too: yea, at that very moment,\n Consideration like an Angell came,\n And whipt th' offending Adam out of him;\n Leauing his body as a Paradise,\n T' inuelop and containe Celestiall Spirits.\n Neuer was such a sodaine Scholler made:\n Neuer came Reformation in a Flood,\n With such a heady currance scowring faults:\n Nor neuer Hidra-headed Wilfulnesse\n So soone did loose his Seat; and all at once;\n As in this King\n \n Bish.Ely. We are blessed in the Change\n \n Bish.Cant. Heare him but reason in Diuinitie;\n And all-admiring, with an inward wish\n You would desire the King were made a Prelate:\n Heare him debate of Common-wealth Affaires;\n You would say, it hath been all in all his study:\n List his discourse of Warre; and you shall heare\n A fearefull Battaile rendred you in Musique.\n Turne him to any Cause of Pollicy,\n The Gordian Knot of it he will vnloose,\n Familiar as his Garter: that when he speakes,\n The Ayre, a Charter'd Libertine, is still,\n And the mute Wonder lurketh in mens eares,\n To steale his sweet and honyed Sentences:\n So that the Art and Practique part of Life,\n Must be the Mistresse to this Theorique.\n Which is a wonder how his Grace should gleane it,\n Since his addiction was to Courses vaine,\n His Companies vnletter'd, rude, and shallow,\n His Houres fill'd vp with Ryots, Banquets, Sports;\n And neuer noted in him any studie,\n Any retyrement, any sequestration,\n From open Haunts and Popularitie\n \n B.Ely. The Strawberry growes vnderneath the Nettle,\n And holesome Berryes thriue and ripen best,\n Neighbour'd by Fruit of baser qualitie:\n And so the Prince obscur'd his Contemplation\n Vnder the Veyle of Wildnesse, which (no doubt)\n Grew like the Summer Grasse, fastest by Night,\n Vnseene, yet cressiue in his facultie\n \n B.Cant. It must be so; for Miracles are ceast:\n And therefore we must needes admit the meanes,\n How things are perfected\n \n B.Ely. But my good Lord:\n How now for mittigation of this Bill,\n Vrg'd by the Commons? doth his Maiestie\n Incline to it, or no?\n B.Cant. He seemes indifferent:\n Or rather swaying more vpon our part,\n Then cherishing th' exhibiters against vs:\n For I haue made an offer to his Maiestie,\n Vpon our Spirituall Conuocation,\n And in regard of Causes now in hand,\n Which I haue open'd to his Grace at large,\n As touching France, to giue a greater Summe,\n Then euer at one time the Clergie yet\n Did to his Predecessors part withall\n \n B.Ely. How did this offer seeme receiu'd, my Lord?\n B.Cant. With good acceptance of his Maiestie:\n Saue that there was not time enough to heare,\n As I perceiu'd his Grace would faine haue done,\n The seueralls and vnhidden passages\n Of his true Titles to some certaine Dukedomes,\n And generally, to the Crowne and Seat of France,\n Deriu'd from Edward, his great Grandfather\n \n B.Ely. What was th' impediment that broke this off?\n B.Cant. The French Embassador vpon that instant\n Crau'd audience; and the howre I thinke is come,\n To giue him hearing: Is it foure a Clock?\n B.Ely. It is\n \n B.Cant. Then goe we in, to know his Embassie:\n Which I could with a ready guesse declare,\n Before the Frenchman speake a word of it\n \n B.Ely. Ile wait vpon you, and I long to heare it.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter the King, Humfrey, Bedford, Clarence, Warwick,\n Westmerland, and\n Exeter.\n \n King. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?\n Exeter. Not here in presence\n \n King. Send for him, good Vnckle\n \n Westm. Shall we call in th' Ambassador, my Liege?\n King. Not yet, my Cousin: we would be resolu'd,\n Before we heare him, of some things of weight,\n That taske our thoughts, concerning vs and France.\n Enter two Bishops.\n \n B.Cant. God and his Angels guard your sacred Throne,\n And make you long become it\n \n King. Sure we thanke you.\n My learned Lord, we pray you to proceed,\n And iustly and religiously vnfold,\n Why the Law Salike, that they haue in France,\n Or should or should not barre vs in our Clayme:\n And God forbid, my deare and faithfull Lord,\n That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading,\n Or nicely charge your vnderstanding Soule,\n With opening Titles miscreate, whose right\n Sutes not in natiue colours with the truth:\n For God doth know, how many now in health,\n Shall drop their blood, in approbation\n Of what your reuerence shall incite vs to.\n Therefore take heed how you impawne our Person,\n How you awake our sleeping Sword of Warre;\n We charge you in the Name of God take heed:\n For neuer two such Kingdomes did contend,\n Without much fall of blood, whose guiltlesse drops\n Are euery one, a Woe, a sore Complaint,\n 'Gainst him, whose wrongs giues edge vnto the Swords,\n That makes such waste in briefe mortalitie.\n Vnder this Coniuration, speake my Lord:\n For we will heare, note, and beleeue in heart,\n That what you speake, is in your Conscience washt,\n As pure as sinne with Baptisme\n \n B.Can. Then heare me gracious Soueraign, & you Peers,\n That owe your selues, your liues, and seruices,\n To this Imperiall Throne. There is no barre\n To make against your Highnesse Clayme to France,\n But this which they produce from Pharamond,\n In terram Salicam Mulieres ne succedant,\n No Woman shall succeed in Salike Land:\n Which Salike Land, the French vniustly gloze\n To be the Realme of France, and Pharamond\n The founder of this Law, and Female Barre.\n Yet their owne Authors faithfully affirme,\n That the Land Salike is in Germanie,\n Betweene the Flouds of Sala and of Elue:\n Where Charles the Great hauing subdu'd the Saxons,\n There left behind and settled certaine French:\n Who holding in disdaine the German Women,\n For some dishonest manners of their life,\n Establisht then this Law; to wit, No Female\n Should be Inheritrix in Salike Land:\n Which Salike (as I said) 'twixt Elue and Sala,\n Is at this day in Germanie, call'd Meisen.\n Then doth it well appeare, the Salike Law\n Was not deuised for the Realme of France:\n Nor did the French possesse the Salike Land,\n Vntill foure hundred one and twentie yeeres\n After defunction of King Pharamond,\n Idly suppos'd the founder of this Law,\n Who died within the yeere of our Redemption,\n Foure hundred twentie six: and Charles the Great\n Subdu'd the Saxons, and did seat the French\n Beyond the Riuer Sala, in the yeere\n Eight hundred fiue. Besides, their Writers say,\n King Pepin, which deposed Childerike,\n Did as Heire Generall, being descended\n Of Blithild, which was Daughter to King Clothair,\n Make Clayme and Title to the Crowne of France.\n Hugh Capet also, who vsurpt the Crowne\n Of Charles the Duke of Loraine, sole Heire male\n Of the true Line and Stock of Charles the Great:\n To find his Title with some shewes of truth,\n Though in pure truth it was corrupt and naught,\n Conuey'd himselfe as th' Heire to th' Lady Lingare,\n Daughter to Charlemaine, who was the Sonne\n To Lewes the Emperour, and Lewes the Sonne\n Of Charles the Great: also King Lewes the Tenth,\n Who was sole Heire to the Vsurper Capet,\n Could not keepe quiet in his conscience,\n Wearing the Crowne of France, 'till satisfied,\n That faire Queene Isabel, his Grandmother,\n Was Lineall of the Lady Ermengare,\n Daughter to Charles the foresaid Duke of Loraine:\n By the which Marriage, the Lyne of Charles the Great\n Was re-vnited to the Crowne of France.\n So, that as cleare as is the Summers Sunne,\n King Pepins Title, and Hugh Capets Clayme,\n King Lewes his satisfaction, all appeare\n To hold in Right and Title of the Female:\n So doe the Kings of France vnto this day.\n Howbeit, they would hold vp this Salique Law,\n To barre your Highnesse clayming from the Female,\n And rather chuse to hide them in a Net,\n Then amply to imbarre their crooked Titles,\n Vsurpt from you and your Progenitors\n \n King. May I with right and conscience make this claim?\n Bish.Cant. The sinne vpon my head, dread Soueraigne:\n For in the Booke of Numbers is it writ,\n When the man dyes, let the Inheritance\n Descend vnto the Daughter. Gracious Lord,\n Stand for your owne, vnwind your bloody Flagge,\n Looke back into your mightie Ancestors:\n Goe my dread Lord, to your great Grandsires Tombe,\n From whom you clayme; inuoke his Warlike Spirit,\n And your Great Vnckles, Edward the Black Prince,\n Who on the French ground play'd a Tragedie,\n Making defeat on the full Power of France:\n Whiles his most mightie Father on a Hill\n Stood smiling, to behold his Lyons Whelpe\n Forrage in blood of French Nobilitie.\n O Noble English, that could entertaine\n With halfe their Forces, the full pride of France,\n And let another halfe stand laughing by,\n All out of worke, and cold for action\n \n Bish. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead,\n And with your puissant Arme renew their Feats;\n You are their Heire, you sit vpon their Throne:\n The Blood and Courage that renowned them,\n Runs in your Veines: and my thrice-puissant Liege\n Is in the very May-Morne of his Youth,\n Ripe for Exploits and mightie Enterprises\n \n Exe. Your Brother Kings and Monarchs of the Earth\n Doe all expect, that you should rowse your selfe,\n As did the former Lyons of your Blood\n \n West. They know your Grace hath cause, and means, and might;\n So hath your Highnesse: neuer King of England\n Had Nobles richer, and more loyall Subiects,\n Whose hearts haue left their bodyes here in England,\n And lye pauillion'd in the fields of France\n \n Bish.Can. O let their bodyes follow my deare Liege\n With Bloods, and Sword and Fire, to win your Right:\n In ayde whereof, we of the Spiritualtie\n Will rayse your Highnesse such a mightie Summe,\n As neuer did the Clergie at one time\n Bring in to any of your Ancestors\n \n King. We must not onely arme t' inuade the French,\n But lay downe our proportions, to defend\n Against the Scot, who will make roade vpon vs,\n With all aduantages\n \n Bish.Can. They of those Marches, gracious Soueraign,\n Shall be a Wall sufficient to defend\n Our in-land from the pilfering Borderers\n \n King. We do not meane the coursing snatchers onely,\n But feare the maine intendment of the Scot,\n Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to vs:\n For you shall reade, that my great Grandfather\n Neuer went with his forces into France,\n But that the Scot, on his vnfurnisht Kingdome,\n Came pouring like the Tyde into a breach,\n With ample and brim fulnesse of his force,\n Galling the gleaned Land with hot Assayes,\n Girding with grieuous siege, Castles and Townes:\n That England being emptie of defence,\n Hath shooke and trembled at th' ill neighbourhood\n \n B.Can. She hath bin the[n] more fear'd the[n] harm'd, my Liege:\n For heare her but exampl'd by her selfe,\n When all her Cheualrie hath been in France,\n And shee a mourning Widdow of her Nobles,\n Shee hath her selfe not onely well defended,\n But taken and impounded as a Stray,\n The King of Scots: whom shee did send to France,\n To fill King Edwards fame with prisoner Kings,\n And make their Chronicle as rich with prayse,\n As is the Owse and bottome of the Sea\n With sunken Wrack, and sum-lesse Treasuries\n \n Bish.Ely. But there's a saying very old and true,\n If that you will France win, then with Scotland first begin.\n For once the Eagle (England) being in prey,\n To her vnguarded Nest, the Weazell (Scot)\n Comes sneaking, and so sucks her Princely Egges,\n Playing the Mouse in absence of the Cat,\n To tame and hauocke more then she can eate\n \n Exet. It followes then, the Cat must stay at home,\n Yet that is but a crush'd necessity,\n Since we haue lockes to safegard necessaries,\n And pretty traps to catch the petty theeues.\n While that the Armed hand doth fight abroad,\n Th' aduised head defends it selfe at home:\n For Gouernment, though high, and low, and lower,\n Put into parts, doth keepe in one consent,\n Congreeing in a full and natural close,\n Like Musicke\n \n Cant. Therefore doth heauen diuide\n The state of man in diuers functions,\n Setting endeuour in continual motion:\n To which is fixed as an ayme or butt,\n Obedience: for so worke the Hony Bees,\n Creatures that by a rule in Nature teach\n The Act of Order to a peopled Kingdome.\n They haue a King, and Officers of sorts,\n Where some like Magistrates correct at home:\n Others, like Merchants venter Trade abroad:\n Others, like Souldiers armed in their stings,\n Make boote vpon the Summers Veluet buddes:\n Which pillage, they with merry march bring home\n To the Tent-royal of their Emperor:\n Who busied in his Maiesties surueyes\n The singing Masons building roofes of Gold,\n The ciuil Citizens kneading vp the hony;\n The poore Mechanicke Porters, crowding in\n Their heauy burthens at his narrow gate:\n The sad-ey'd Iustice with his surly humme,\n Deliuering ore to Executors pale\n The lazie yawning Drone: I this inferre,\n That many things hauing full reference\n To one consent, may worke contrariously,\n As many Arrowes loosed seuerall wayes\n Come to one marke: as many wayes meet in one towne,\n As many fresh streames meet in one salt sea;\n As many Lynes close in the Dials center:\n So may a thousand actions once a foote,\n And in one purpose, and be all well borne\n Without defeat. Therefore to France, my Liege,\n Diuide your happy England into foure,\n Whereof, take you one quarter into France,\n And you withall shall make all Gallia shake.\n If we with thrice such powers left at home,\n Cannot defend our owne doores from the dogge,\n Let vs be worried, and our Nation lose\n The name of hardinesse and policie\n \n King. Call in the Messengers sent from the Dolphin.\n Now are we well resolu'd, and by Gods helpe\n And yours, the noble sinewes of our power,\n France being ours, wee'l bend it to our Awe,\n Or breake it all to peeces. Or there wee'l sit,\n (Ruling in large and ample Emperie,\n Ore France, and all her (almost) Kingly Dukedomes)\n Or lay these bones in an vnworthy Vrne,\n Tomblesse, with no remembrance ouer them:\n Either our History shall with full mouth\n Speake freely of our Acts, or else our graue\n Like Turkish mute, shall haue a tonguelesse mouth,\n Not worshipt with a waxen Epitaph.\n Enter Ambassadors of France.\n \n Now are we well prepar'd to know the pleasure\n Of our faire Cosin Dolphin: for we heare,\n Your greeting is from him, not from the King\n \n Amb. May't please your Maiestie to giue vs leaue\n Freely to render what we haue in charge:\n Or shall we sparingly shew you farre off\n The Dolphins meaning, and our Embassie\n \n King. We are no Tyrant, but a Christian King,\n Vnto whose grace our passion is as subiect\n As is our wretches fettred in our prisons,\n Therefore with franke and with vncurbed plainnesse,\n Tell vs the Dolphins minde\n \n Amb. Thus than in few:\n Your Highnesse lately sending into France,\n Did claime some certaine Dukedomes, in the right\n Of your great Predecessor, King Edward the third.\n In answer of which claime, the Prince our Master\n Sayes, that you sauour too much of your youth,\n And bids you be aduis'd: There's nought in France,\n That can be with a nimble Galliard wonne:\n You cannot reuell into Dukedomes there.\n He therefore sends you meeter for your spirit\n This Tun of Treasure; and in lieu of this,\n Desires you let the dukedomes that you claime\n Heare no more of you. This the Dolphin speakes\n \n King. What Treasure Vncle?\n Exe. Tennis balles, my Liege\n \n Kin. We are glad the Dolphin is so pleasant with vs,\n His Present, and your paines we thanke you for:\n When we haue matcht our Rackets to these Balles,\n We will in France (by Gods grace) play a set,\n Shall strike his fathers Crowne into the hazard.\n Tell him, he hath made a match with such a Wrangler,\n That all the Courts of France will be disturb'd\n With Chaces. And we vnderstand him well,\n How he comes o're vs with our wilder dayes,\n Not measuring what vse we made of them.\n We neuer valew'd this poore seate of England,\n And therefore liuing hence, did giue our selfe\n To barbarous license: As 'tis euer common,\n That men are merriest, when they are from home.\n But tell the Dolphin, I will keepe my State,\n Be like a King, and shew my sayle of Greatnesse,\n When I do rowse me in my Throne of France.\n For that I haue layd by my Maiestie,\n And plodded like a man for working dayes:\n But I will rise there with so full a glorie,\n That I will dazle all the eyes of France,\n Yea strike the Dolphin blinde to looke on vs,\n And tell the pleasant Prince, this Mocke of his\n Hath turn'd his balles to Gun-stones, and his soule\n Shall stand sore charged, for the wastefull vengeance\n That shall flye with them: for many a thousand widows\n Shall this his Mocke, mocke out of their deer husbands;\n Mocke mothers from their sonnes, mock Castles downe:\n And some are yet vngotten and vnborne,\n That shal haue cause to curse the Dolphins scorne.\n But this lyes all within the wil of God,\n To whom I do appeale, and in whose name\n Tel you the Dolphin, I am comming on,\n To venge me as I may, and to put forth\n My rightfull hand in a wel-hallow'd cause.\n So get you hence in peace: And tell the Dolphin,\n His Iest will sauour but of shallow wit,\n When thousands weepe more then did laugh at it.\n Conuey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.\n \n Exeunt. Ambassadors.\n \n Exe. This was a merry Message\n \n King. We hope to make the Sender blush at it:\n Therefore, my Lords, omit no happy howre,\n That may giue furth'rance to our Expedition:\n For we haue now no thought in vs but France,\n Saue those to God, that runne before our businesse.\n Therefore let our proportions for these Warres\n Be soone collected, and all things thought vpon,\n That may with reasonable swiftnesse adde\n More Feathers to our Wings: for God before,\n Wee'le chide this Dolphin at his fathers doore.\n Therefore let euery man now taske his thought,\n That this faire Action may on foot be brought.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Flourish. Enter Chorus.\n \n Now all the Youth of England are on fire,\n And silken Dalliance in the Wardrobe lyes:\n Now thriue the Armorers, and Honors thought\n Reignes solely in the breast of euery man.\n They sell the Pasture now, to buy the Horse;\n Following the Mirror of all Christian Kings,\n With winged heeles, as English Mercuries.\n For now sits Expectation in the Ayre,\n And hides a Sword, from Hilts vnto the Point,\n With Crownes Imperiall, Crownes and Coronets,\n Promis'd to Harry, and his followers.\n The French aduis'd by good intelligence\n Of this most dreadfull preparation,\n Shake in their feare, and with pale Pollicy\n Seeke to diuert the English purposes.\n O England: Modell to thy inward Greatnesse,\n Like little Body with a mightie Heart:\n What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,\n Were all thy children kinde and naturall:\n But see, thy fault France hath in thee found out,\n A nest of hollow bosomes, which he filles\n With treacherous Crownes, and three corrupted men:\n One, Richard Earle of Cambridge, and the second\n Henry Lord Scroope of Masham, and the third\n Sir Thomas Grey Knight of Northumberland,\n Haue for the Gilt of France (O guilt indeed)\n Confirm'd Conspiracy with fearefull France,\n And by their hands, this grace of Kings must dye.\n If Hell and Treason hold their promises,\n Ere he take ship for France; and in Southampton.\n Linger your patience on, and wee'l digest\n Th' abuse of distance; force a play:\n The summe is payde, the Traitors are agreed,\n The King is set from London, and the Scene\n Is now transported (Gentles) to Southampton,\n There is the Play-house now, there must you sit,\n And thence to France shall we conuey you safe,\n And bring you backe: Charming the narrow seas\n To giue you gentle Passe: for if we may,\n Wee'l not offend one stomacke with our Play.\n But till the King come forth, and not till then,\n Vnto Southampton do we shift our Scene.\n \n Exit\n \n Enter Corporall Nym, and Lieutenant Bardolfe.\n \n Bar. Well met Corporall Nym\n \n Nym. Good morrow Lieutenant Bardolfe\n \n Bar. What, are Ancient Pistoll and you friends yet?\n Nym. For my part, I care not: I say little: but when\n time shall serue, there shall be smiles, but that shall be as\n it may. I dare not fight, but I will winke and holde out\n mine yron: it is a simple one, but what though? It will\n toste Cheese, and it will endure cold, as another mans\n sword will: and there's an end\n \n Bar. I will bestow a breakfast to make you friendes,\n and wee'l bee all three sworne brothers to France: Let't\n be so good Corporall Nym\n \n Nym. Faith, I will liue so long as I may, that's the certaine\n of it: and when I cannot liue any longer, I will doe\n as I may: That is my rest, that is the rendeuous of it\n \n Bar. It is certaine Corporall, that he is marryed to\n Nell Quickly, and certainly she did you wrong, for you\n were troth-plight to her\n \n Nym. I cannot tell, Things must be as they may: men\n may sleepe, and they may haue their throats about them\n at that time, and some say, kniues haue edges: It must\n be as it may, though patience be a tyred name, yet shee\n will plodde, there must be Conclusions, well, I cannot\n tell.\n Enter Pistoll, & Quickly.\n \n Bar. Heere comes Ancient Pistoll and his wife: good\n Corporall be patient heere. How now mine Hoaste Pistoll?\n Pist. Base Tyke, cal'st thou mee Hoste, now by this\n hand I sweare I scorne the terme: nor shall my Nel keep\n Lodgers\n \n Host. No by my troth, not long: For we cannot lodge\n and board a dozen or fourteene Gentlewomen that liue\n honestly by the pricke of their Needles, but it will bee\n thought we keepe a Bawdy-house straight. O welliday\n Lady, if he be not hewne now, we shall see wilful adultery\n and murther committed\n \n Bar. Good Lieutenant, good Corporal offer nothing\n heere\n \n Nym. Pish\n \n Pist. Pish for thee, Island dogge: thou prickeard cur\n of Island\n \n Host. Good Corporall Nym shew thy valor, and put\n vp your sword\n \n Nym. Will you shogge off? I would haue you solus\n \n Pist. Solus, egregious dog? O Viper vile; The solus\n in thy most meruailous face, the solus in thy teeth, and\n in thy throate, and in thy hatefull Lungs, yea in thy Maw\n perdy; and which is worse, within thy nastie mouth. I\n do retort the solus in thy bowels, for I can take, and Pistols\n cocke is vp, and flashing fire will follow\n \n Nym. I am not Barbason, you cannot coniure mee: I\n haue an humor to knocke you indifferently well: If you\n grow fowle with me Pistoll, I will scoure you with my\n Rapier, as I may, in fayre tearmes. If you would walke\n off, I would pricke your guts a little in good tearmes, as\n I may, and that's the humor of it\n \n Pist. O Braggard vile, and damned furious wight,\n The Graue doth gape, and doting death is neere,\n Therefore exhale\n \n Bar. Heare me, heare me what I say: Hee that strikes\n the first stroake, Ile run him vp to the hilts, as I am a soldier\n \n Pist. An oath of mickle might, and fury shall abate.\n Giue me thy fist, thy fore-foote to me giue: Thy spirites\n are most tall\n \n Nym. I will cut thy throate one time or other in faire\n termes, that is the humor of it\n \n Pistoll. Couple a gorge, that is the word. I defie thee againe.\n O hound of Creet, think'st thou my spouse to get?\n No, to the spittle goe, and from the Poudring tub of infamy,\n fetch forth the Lazar Kite of Cressids kinde, Doll\n Teare-sheete, she by name, and her espouse. I haue, and I\n will hold the Quondam Quickely for the onely shee: and\n Pauca, there's enough to go to.\n Enter the Boy.\n \n Boy. Mine Hoast Pistoll, you must come to my Mayster,\n and your Hostesse: He is very sicke, & would to bed.\n Good Bardolfe, put thy face betweene his sheets, and do\n the Office of a Warming-pan: Faith, he's very ill\n \n Bard. Away you Rogue\n \n Host. By my troth he'l yeeld the Crow a pudding one\n of these dayes: the King has kild his heart. Good Husband\n come home presently.\n \n Exit\n \n Bar. Come, shall I make you two friends. Wee must\n to France together: why the diuel should we keep kniues\n to cut one anothers throats?\n Pist. Let floods ore-swell, and fiends for food howle\n on\n \n Nym. You'l pay me the eight shillings I won of you\n at Betting?\n Pist. Base is the Slaue that payes\n \n Nym. That now I wil haue: that's the humor of it\n \n Pist. As manhood shal compound: push home.\n \n Draw\n \n Bard. By this sword, hee that makes the first thrust,\n Ile kill him: By this sword, I wil\n \n Pi. Sword is an Oath, & Oaths must haue their course\n Bar. Coporall Nym, & thou wilt be friends be frends,\n and thou wilt not, why then be enemies with me to: prethee\n put vp\n \n Pist. A Noble shalt thou haue, and present pay, and\n Liquor likewise will I giue to thee, and friendshippe\n shall combyne, and brotherhood. Ile liue by Nymme, &\n Nymme shall liue by me, is not this iust? For I shal Sutler\n be vnto the Campe, and profits will accrue. Giue mee\n thy hand\n \n Nym. I shall haue my Noble?\n Pist. In cash, most iustly payd\n \n Nym. Well, then that the humor of't.\n Enter Hostesse.\n \n Host. As euer you come of women, come in quickly\n to sir Iohn: A poore heart, hee is so shak'd of a burning\n quotidian Tertian, that it is most lamentable to behold.\n Sweet men, come to him\n \n Nym. The King hath run bad humors on the Knight,\n that's the euen of it\n \n Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right, his heart is fracted\n and corroborate\n \n Nym. The King is a good King, but it must bee as it\n may: he passes some humors, and carreeres\n \n Pist. Let vs condole the Knight, for (Lambekins) we\n will liue.\n Enter Exeter, Bedford, & Westmerland.\n \n Bed. Fore God his Grace is bold to trust these traitors\n Exe. They shall be apprehended by and by\n \n West. How smooth and euen they do bear themselues,\n As if allegeance in their bosomes sate\n Crowned with faith, and constant loyalty\n \n Bed. The King hath note of all that they intend,\n By interception, which they dreame not of\n \n Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,\n Whom he hath dull'd and cloy'd with gracious fauours;\n That he should for a forraigne purse, so sell\n His Soueraignes life to death and treachery.\n \n Sound Trumpets.\n \n Enter the King, Scroope, Cambridge, and Gray.\n \n King. Now sits the winde faire, and we will aboord.\n My Lord of Cambridge, and my kinde Lord of Masham,\n And you my gentle Knight, giue me your thoughts:\n Thinke you not that the powres we beare with vs\n Will cut their passage through the force of France?\n Doing the execution, and the acte,\n For which we haue in head assembled them\n \n Scro. No doubt my Liege, if each man do his best\n \n King. I doubt not that, since we are well perswaded\n We carry not a heart with vs from hence,\n That growes not in a faire consent with ours:\n Nor leaue not one behinde, that doth not wish\n Successe and Conquest to attend on vs\n \n Cam. Neuer was Monarch better fear'd and lou'd,\n Then is your Maiesty; there's not I thinke a subiect\n That sits in heart-greefe and vneasinesse\n Vnder the sweet shade of your gouernment\n \n Kni. True: those that were your Fathers enemies,\n Haue steep'd their gauls in hony, and do serue you\n With hearts create of duty, and of zeale\n \n King. We therefore haue great cause of thankfulnes,\n And shall forget the office of our hand\n Sooner then quittance of desert and merit,\n According to the weight and worthinesse\n \n Scro. So seruice shall with steeled sinewes toyle,\n And labour shall refresh it selfe with hope\n To do your Grace incessant seruices\n \n King. We Iudge no lesse. Vnkle of Exeter,\n Inlarge the man committed yesterday,\n That rayl'd against our person: We consider\n It was excesse of Wine that set him on,\n And on his more aduice, We pardon him\n \n Scro. That's mercy, but too much security:\n Let him be punish'd Soueraigne, least example\n Breed (by his sufferance) more of such a kind\n \n King. O let vs yet be mercifull\n \n Cam. So may your Highnesse, and yet punish too\n \n Grey. Sir, you shew great mercy if you giue him life,\n After the taste of much correction\n \n King. Alas, your too much loue and care of me,\n Are heauy Orisons 'gainst this poore wretch:\n If little faults proceeding on distemper,\n Shall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eye\n When capitall crimes, chew'd, swallow'd, and digested,\n Appeare before vs? Wee'l yet inlarge that man,\n Though Cambridge, Scroope, and Gray, in their deere care\n And tender preseruation of our person\n Wold haue him punish'd. And now to our French causes,\n Who are the late Commissioners?\n Cam. I one my Lord,\n Your Highnesse bad me aske for it to day\n \n Scro. So did you me my Liege\n \n Gray. And I my Royall Soueraigne\n \n King. Then Richard Earle of Cambridge, there is yours:\n There yours Lord Scroope of Masham, and Sir Knight:\n Gray of Northumberland, this same is yours:\n Reade them, and know I know your worthinesse.\n My Lord of Westmerland, and Vnkle Exeter,\n We will aboord to night. Why how now Gentlemen?\n What see you in those papers, that you loose\n So much complexion? Looke ye how they change:\n Their cheekes are paper. Why, what reade you there,\n That haue so cowarded and chac'd your blood\n Out of apparance\n \n Cam. I do confesse my fault,\n And do submit me to your Highnesse mercy\n \n Gray. Scro. To which we all appeale\n \n King. The mercy that was quicke in vs but late,\n By your owne counsaile is supprest and kill'd:\n You must not dare (for shame) to talke of mercy,\n For your owne reasons turne into your bosomes,\n As dogs vpon their maisters, worrying you:\n See you my Princes, and my Noble Peeres,\n These English monsters: My Lord of Cambridge heere,\n You know how apt our loue was, to accord\n To furnish with all appertinents\n Belonging to his Honour; and this man,\n Hath for a few light Crownes, lightly conspir'd\n And sworne vnto the practises of France\n To kill vs heere in Hampton. To the which,\n This Knight no lesse for bounty bound to Vs\n Then Cambridge is, hath likewise sworne. But O,\n What shall I say to thee Lord Scroope, thou cruell,\n Ingratefull, sauage, and inhumane Creature?\n Thou that didst beare the key of all my counsailes,\n That knew'st the very bottome of my soule,\n That (almost) might'st haue coyn'd me into Golde,\n Would'st thou haue practis'd on me, for thy vse?\n May it be possible, that forraigne hyer\n Could out of thee extract one sparke of euill\n That might annoy my finger? 'Tis so strange,\n That though the truth of it stands off as grosse\n As black and white, my eye will scarsely see it.\n Treason, and murther, euer kept together,\n As two yoake diuels sworne to eythers purpose,\n Working so grossely in an naturall cause,\n That admiration did not hoope at them.\n But thou (gainst all proportion) didst bring in\n Wonder to waite on treason, and on murther:\n And whatsoeuer cunning fiend it was\n That wrought vpon thee so preposterously,\n Hath got the voyce in hell for excellence:\n And other diuels that suggest by treasons,\n Do botch and bungle vp damnation,\n With patches, colours, and with formes being fetcht\n From glist'ring semblances of piety:\n But he that temper'd thee, bad thee stand vp,\n Gaue thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,\n Vnlesse to dub thee with the name of Traitor.\n If that same Daemon that hath gull'd thee thus,\n Should with his Lyon-gate walke the whole world,\n He might returne to vastie Tartar backe,\n And tell the Legions, I can neuer win\n A soule so easie as that Englishmans.\n Oh, how hast thou with iealousie infected\n The sweetnesse of affiance? Shew men dutifull,\n Why so didst thou: seeme they graue and learned?\n Why so didst thou. Come they of Noble Family?\n Why so didst thou. Seeme they religious?\n Why so didst thou. Or are they spare in diet,\n Free from grosse passion, or of mirth, or anger,\n Constant in spirit, not sweruing with the blood,\n Garnish'd and deck'd in modest complement,\n Not working with the eye, without the eare,\n And but in purged iudgement trusting neither,\n Such and so finely boulted didst thou seeme:\n And thus thy fall hath left a kinde of blot,\n To make thee full fraught man, and best indued\n With some suspition, I will weepe for thee.\n For this reuolt of thine, me thinkes is like\n Another fall of Man. Their faults are open,\n Arrest them to the answer of the Law,\n And God acquit them of their practises\n \n Exe. I arrest thee of High Treason, by the name of\n Richard Earle of Cambridge.\n I arrest thee of High Treason, by the name of Thomas\n Lord Scroope of Marsham.\n I arrest thee of High Treason, by the name of Thomas\n Grey, Knight of Northumberland\n \n Scro. Our purposes, God iustly hath discouer'd,\n And I repent my fault more then my death,\n Which I beseech your Highnesse to forgiue,\n Although my body pay the price of it\n \n Cam. For me, the Gold of France did not seduce,\n Although I did admit it as a motiue,\n The sooner to effect what I intended:\n But God be thanked for preuention,\n Which in sufferance heartily will reioyce,\n Beseeching God, and you, to pardon mee\n \n Gray. Neuer did faithfull subiect more reioyce\n At the discouery of most dangerous Treason,\n Then I do at this houre ioy ore my selfe,\n Preuented from a damned enterprize;\n My fault, but not my body, pardon Soueraigne\n \n King. God quit you in his mercy: Hear your sentence\n You haue conspir'd against Our Royall person,\n Ioyn'd with an enemy proclaim'd, and from his Coffers,\n Receyu'd the Golden Earnest of Our death:\n Wherein you would haue sold your King to slaughter,\n His Princes, and his Peeres to seruitude,\n His Subiects to oppression, and contempt,\n And his whole Kingdome into desolation:\n Touching our person, seeke we no reuenge,\n But we our Kingdomes safety must so tender,\n Whose ruine you sought, that to her Lawes\n We do deliuer you. Get you therefore hence,\n (Poore miserable wretches) to your death:\n The taste whereof, God of his mercy giue\n You patience to indure, and true Repentance\n Of all your deare offences. Beare them hence.\n Enter.\n \n Now Lords for France: the enterprise whereof\n Shall be to you as vs, like glorious.\n We doubt not of a faire and luckie Warre,\n Since God so graciously hath brought to light\n This dangerous Treason, lurking in our way,\n To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now,\n But euery Rubbe is smoothed on our way.\n Then forth, deare Countreymen: Let vs deliuer\n Our Puissance into the hand of God,\n Putting it straight in expedition.\n Chearely to Sea, the signes of Warre aduance,\n No King of England, if not King of France.\n \n Flourish.\n \n Enter Pistoll, Nim, Bardolph, Boy, and Hostesse.\n \n Hostesse. 'Prythee honey sweet Husband, let me bring\n thee to Staines\n \n Pistoll. No: for my manly heart doth erne. Bardolph,\n be blythe: Nim, rowse thy vaunting Veines: Boy, brissle\n thy Courage vp: for Falstaffe hee is dead, and wee must\n erne therefore\n \n Bard. Would I were with him, wheresomere hee is,\n eyther in Heauen, or in Hell\n \n Hostesse. Nay sure, hee's not in Hell: hee's in Arthurs\n Bosome, if euer man went to Arthurs Bosome: a made a\n finer end, and went away and it had beene any Christome\n Childe: a parted eu'n iust betweene Twelue and One, eu'n\n at the turning o'th' Tyde: for after I saw him fumble with\n the Sheets, and play with Flowers, and smile vpon his fingers\n end, I knew there was but one way: for his Nose was\n as sharpe as a Pen, and a Table of greene fields. How now\n Sir Iohn (quoth I?) what man? be a good cheare: so a\n cryed out, God, God, God, three or foure times: now I,\n to comfort him, bid him a should not thinke of God; I\n hop'd there was no neede to trouble himselfe with any\n such thoughts yet: so a bad me lay more Clothes on his\n feet: I put my hand into the Bed, and felt them, and they\n were as cold as any stone: then I felt to his knees, and so\n vp-peer'd, and vpward, and all was as cold as any stone\n \n Nim. They say he cryed out of Sack\n \n Hostesse. I, that a did\n \n Bard. And of Women\n \n Hostesse. Nay, that a did not\n \n Boy. Yes that a did, and said they were Deules incarnate\n \n Woman. A could neuer abide Carnation, 'twas a Colour\n he neuer lik'd\n \n Boy. A said once, the Deule would haue him about\n Women\n \n Hostesse. A did in some sort (indeed) handle Women:\n but then hee was rumatique, and talk'd of the Whore of\n Babylon\n \n Boy. Doe you not remember a saw a Flea sticke vpon\n Bardolphs Nose, and a said it was a blacke Soule burning\n in Hell\n \n Bard. Well, the fuell is gone that maintain'd that fire:\n that's all the Riches I got in his seruice\n \n Nim. Shall wee shogg? the King will be gone from\n Southampton\n \n Pist. Come, let's away. My Loue, giue me thy Lippes:\n Looke to my Chattels, and my Moueables: Let Sences\n rule: The world is, Pitch and pay: trust none: for Oathes\n are Strawes, mens Faiths are Wafer-Cakes, and hold-fast\n is the onely Dogge: My Ducke, therefore Caueto bee\n thy Counsailor. Goe, cleare thy Chrystalls. Yokefellowes\n in Armes, let vs to France, like Horseleeches\n my Boyes, to sucke, to sucke, the very blood to\n sucke\n \n Boy. And that's but vnwholesome food, they say\n \n Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march\n \n Bard. Farwell Hostesse\n \n Nim. I cannot kisse, that is the humor of it: but\n adieu\n \n Pist. Let Huswiferie appeare: keepe close, I thee\n command\n \n Hostesse. Farwell: adieu.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Flourish.\n \n Enter the French King, the Dolphin, the Dukes of Berry and\n Britaine.\n \n King. Thus comes the English with full power vpon vs,\n And more then carefully it vs concernes,\n To answer Royally in our defences.\n Therefore the Dukes of Berry and of Britaine,\n Of Brabant and of Orleance, shall make forth,\n And you Prince Dolphin, with all swift dispatch\n To lyne and new repayre our Townes of Warre\n With men of courage, and with meanes defendant:\n For England his approaches makes as fierce,\n As Waters to the sucking of a Gulfe.\n It fits vs then to be as prouident,\n As feare may teach vs, out of late examples\n Left by the fatall and neglected English,\n Vpon our fields\n \n Dolphin. My most redoubted Father,\n It is most meet we arme vs 'gainst the Foe:\n For Peace it selfe should not so dull a Kingdome,\n (Though War nor no knowne Quarrel were in question)\n But that Defences, Musters, Preparations,\n Should be maintain'd, assembled, and collected,\n As were a Warre in expectation.\n Therefore I say, 'tis meet we all goe forth,\n To view the sick and feeble parts of France:\n And let vs doe it with no shew of feare,\n No, with no more, then if we heard that England\n Were busied with a Whitson Morris-dance:\n For, my good Liege, shee is so idly King'd,\n Her Scepter so phantastically borne,\n By a vaine giddie shallow humorous Youth,\n That feare attends her not\n \n Const. O peace, Prince Dolphin,\n You are too much mistaken in this King:\n Question your Grace the late Embassadors,\n With what great State he heard their Embassie,\n How well supply'd with Noble Councellors,\n How modest in exception; and withall,\n How terrible in constant resolution:\n And you shall find, his Vanities fore-spent,\n Were but the out-side of the Roman Brutus,\n Couering Discretion with a Coat of Folly;\n As Gardeners doe with Ordure hide those Roots\n That shall first spring, and be most delicate\n \n Dolphin. Well, 'tis not so, my Lord High Constable.\n But though we thinke it so, it is no matter:\n In cases of defence, 'tis best to weigh\n The Enemie more mightie then he seemes,\n So the proportions of defence are fill'd:\n Which of a weake and niggardly proiection,\n Doth like a Miser spoyle his Coat, with scanting\n A little Cloth\n \n King. Thinke we King Harry strong:\n And Princes, looke you strongly arme to meet him.\n The Kindred of him hath beene flesht vpon vs:\n And he is bred out of that bloodie straine,\n That haunted vs in our familiar Pathes:\n Witnesse our too much memorable shame,\n When Cressy Battell fatally was strucke,\n And all our Princes captiu'd, by the hand\n Of that black Name, Edward, black Prince of Wales:\n Whiles that his Mountaine Sire, on Mountaine standing\n Vp in the Ayre, crown'd with the Golden Sunne,\n Saw his Heroicall Seed, and smil'd to see him\n Mangle the Worke of Nature, and deface\n The Patternes, that by God and by French Fathers\n Had twentie yeeres been made. This is a Stem\n Of that Victorious Stock: and let vs feare\n The Natiue mightinesse and fate of him.\n Enter a Messenger.\n \n Mess. Embassadors from Harry King of England,\n Doe craue admittance to your Maiestie\n \n King. Weele giue them present audience.\n Goe, and bring them.\n You see this Chase is hotly followed, friends\n \n Dolphin. Turne head, and stop pursuit: for coward Dogs\n Most spend their mouths, whe[n] what they seem to threaten\n Runs farre before them. Good my Soueraigne\n Take vp the English short, and let them know\n Of what a Monarchie you are the Head:\n Selfe-loue, my Liege, is not so vile a sinne,\n As selfe-neglecting.\n Enter Exeter.\n \n King. From our Brother of England?\n Exe. From him, and thus he greets your Maiestie:\n He wills you in the Name of God Almightie,\n That you deuest your selfe, and lay apart\n The borrowed Glories, that by gift of Heauen,\n By Law of Nature, and of Nations, longs\n To him and to his Heires, namely, the Crowne,\n And all wide-stretched Honors, that pertaine\n By Custome, and the Ordinance of Times,\n Vnto the Crowne of France: that you may know\n 'Tis no sinister, nor no awkward Clayme,\n Pickt from the worme-holes of long-vanisht dayes,\n Nor from the dust of old Obliuion rakt,\n He sends you this most memorable Lyne,\n In euery Branch truly demonstratiue;\n Willing you ouer-looke this Pedigree:\n And when you find him euenly deriu'd\n From his most fam'd, of famous Ancestors,\n Edward the third; he bids you then resigne\n Your Crowne and Kingdome, indirectly held\n From him, the Natiue and true Challenger\n \n King. Or else what followes?\n Exe. Bloody constraint: for if you hide the Crowne\n Euen in your hearts, there will he rake for it.\n Therefore in fierce Tempest is he comming,\n In Thunder and in Earth-quake, like a Ioue:\n That if requiring faile, he will compell.\n And bids you, in the Bowels of the Lord,\n Deliuer vp the Crowne, and to take mercie\n On the poore Soules, for whom this hungry Warre\n Opens his vastie Iawes: and on your head\n Turning the Widdowes Teares, the Orphans Cryes,\n The dead-mens Blood, the priuy Maidens Groanes,\n For Husbands, Fathers, and betrothed Louers,\n That shall be swallowed in this Controuersie.\n This is his Clayme, his Threatning, and my Message:\n Vnlesse the Dolphin be in presence here;\n To whom expressely I bring greeting to\n \n King. For vs, we will consider of this further:\n To morrow shall you beare our full intent\n Back to our Brother of England\n \n Dolph. For the Dolphin,\n I stand here for him: what to him from England?\n Exe. Scorne and defiance, sleight regard, contempt,\n And any thing that may not mis-become\n The mightie Sender, doth he prize you at.\n Thus sayes my King: and if your Fathers Highnesse\n Doe not, in graunt of all demands at large,\n Sweeten the bitter Mock you sent his Maiestie;\n Hee'le call you to so hot an Answer of it,\n That Caues and Wombie Vaultages of France\n Shall chide your Trespas, and returne your Mock\n In second Accent of his Ordinance\n \n Dolph. Say: if my Father render faire returne,\n It is against my will: for I desire\n Nothing but Oddes with England.\n To that end, as matching to his Youth and Vanitie,\n I did present him with the Paris-Balls\n \n Exe. Hee'le make your Paris Louer shake for it,\n Were it the Mistresse Court of mightie Europe:\n And be assur'd, you'le find a diff'rence,\n As we his Subiects haue in wonder found,\n Betweene the promise of his greener dayes,\n And these he masters now: now he weighes Time\n Euen to the vtmost Graine: that you shall reade\n In your owne Losses, if he stay in France\n \n King. To morrow shall you know our mind at full.\n \n Flourish.\n \n Exe. Dispatch vs with all speed, least that our King\n Come here himselfe to question our delay;\n For he is footed in this Land already\n \n King. You shalbe soone dispatcht, with faire conditions.\n A Night is but small breathe, and little pawse,\n To answer matters of this consequence.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Actus Secundus.\n \n Flourish. Enter Chorus.\n \n Thus with imagin'd wing our swift Scene flyes,\n In motion of no lesse celeritie then that of Thought.\n Suppose, that you haue seene\n The well-appointed King at Douer Peer,\n Embarke his Royaltie: and his braue Fleet,\n With silken Streamers, the young Phebus fayning;\n Play with your Fancies: and in them behold,\n Vpon the Hempen Tackle, Ship-boyes climbing;\n Heare the shrill Whistle, which doth order giue\n To sounds confus'd: behold the threaden Sayles,\n Borne with th' inuisible and creeping Wind,\n Draw the huge Bottomes through the furrowed Sea,\n Bresting the loftie Surge. O, doe but thinke\n You stand vpon the Riuage, and behold\n A Citie on th' inconstant Billowes dauncing:\n For so appeares this Fleet Maiesticall,\n Holding due course to Harflew. Follow, follow:\n Grapple your minds to sternage of this Nauie,\n And leaue your England as dead Mid-night, still,\n Guarded with Grandsires, Babyes, and old Women,\n Eyther past, or not arriu'd to pyth and puissance:\n For who is he, whose Chin is but enricht\n With one appearing Hayre, that will not follow\n These cull'd and choyse-drawne Caualiers to France?\n Worke, worke your Thoughts, and therein see a Siege:\n Behold the Ordenance on their Carriages,\n With fatall mouthes gaping on girded Harflew.\n Suppose th' Embassador from the French comes back:\n Tells Harry, That the King doth offer him\n Katherine his Daughter, and with her to Dowrie,\n Some petty and vnprofitable Dukedomes.\n The offer likes not: and the nimble Gunner\n With Lynstock now the diuellish Cannon touches,\n \n Alarum, and Chambers goe off.\n \n And downe goes all before them. Still be kind,\n And eech out our performance with your mind.\n Enter.\n \n Enter the King, Exeter, Bedford, and Gloucester. Alarum: Scaling\n Ladders\n at Harflew.\n \n King. Once more vnto the Breach,\n Deare friends, once more;\n Or close the Wall vp with our English dead:\n In Peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,\n As modest stillnesse, and humilitie:\n But when the blast of Warre blowes in our eares,\n Then imitate the action of the Tyger:\n Stiffen the sinewes, commune vp the blood,\n Disguise faire Nature with hard-fauour'd Rage:\n Then lend the Eye a terrible aspect:\n Let it pry through the portage of the Head,\n Like the Brasse Cannon: let the Brow o'rewhelme it,\n As fearefully, as doth a galled Rocke\n O're-hang and iutty his confounded Base,\n Swill'd with the wild and wastfull Ocean.\n Now set the Teeth, and stretch the Nosthrill wide,\n Hold hard the Breath, and bend vp euery Spirit\n To his full height. On, on, you Noblish English,\n Whose blood is fet from Fathers of Warre-proofe:\n Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,\n Haue in these parts from Morne till Euen fought,\n And sheath'd their Swords, for lack of argument.\n Dishonour not your Mothers: now attest,\n That those whom you call'd Fathers, did beget you.\n Be Coppy now to men of grosser blood,\n And teach them how to Warre. And you good Yeomen,\n Whose Lyms were made in England; shew vs here\n The mettell of your Pasture: let vs sweare,\n That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not:\n For there is none of you so meane and base,\n That hath not Noble luster in your eyes.\n I see you stand like Grey-hounds in the slips,\n Straying vpon the Start. The Game's afoot:\n Follow your Spirit; and vpon this Charge,\n Cry, God for Harry, England, and S[aint]. George.\n \n Alarum, and Chambers goe off.\n \n Enter Nim, Bardolph, Pistoll, and Boy.\n \n Bard. On, on, on, on, on, to the breach, to the breach\n \n Nim. 'Pray thee Corporall stay, the Knocks are too\n hot: and for mine owne part, I haue not a Case of Liues:\n the humor of it is too hot, that is the very plaine-Song\n of it\n \n Pist. The plaine-Song is most iust: for humors doe abound:\n Knocks goe and come: Gods Vassals drop and\n dye: and Sword and Shield, in bloody Field, doth winne\n immortall fame\n \n Boy. Would I were in a Ale-house in London, I\n would giue all my fame for a Pot of Ale, and safetie\n \n Pist. And I: If wishes would preuayle with me, my\n purpose should not fayle with me; but thither would I\n high\n \n Boy. As duly, but not as truly, as Bird doth sing on\n bough.\n Enter Fluellen.\n \n Flu. Vp to the breach, you Dogges; auaunt you\n Cullions\n \n Pist. Be mercifull great Duke to men of Mould: abate\n thy Rage, abate thy manly Rage; abate thy Rage,\n great Duke. Good Bawcock bate thy Rage: vse lenitie\n sweet Chuck\n \n Nim. These be good humors: your Honor wins bad\n humors.\n Enter.\n \n Boy. As young as I am, I haue obseru'd these three\n Swashers: I am Boy to them all three, but all they three,\n though they would serue me, could not be Man to me;\n for indeed three such Antiques doe not amount to a man:\n for Bardolph, hee is white-liuer'd, and red-fac'd; by the\n meanes whereof, a faces it out, but fights not: for Pistoll,\n hee hath a killing Tongue, and a quiet Sword; by the\n meanes whereof, a breakes Words, and keepes whole\n Weapons: for Nim, hee hath heard, that men of few\n Words are the best men, and therefore hee scornes to say\n his Prayers, lest a should be thought a Coward: but his\n few bad Words are matcht with as few good Deeds; for\n a neuer broke any mans Head but his owne, and that was\n against a Post, when he was drunke. They will steale any\n thing, and call it Purchase. Bardolph stole a Lute-case,\n bore it twelue Leagues, and sold it for three halfepence.\n Nim and Bardolph are sworne Brothers in filching: and\n in Callice they stole a fire-shouell. I knew by that peece\n of Seruice, the men would carry Coales. They would\n haue me as familiar with mens Pockets, as their Gloues\n or their Hand-kerchers: which makes much against my\n Manhood, if I should take from anothers Pocket, to put\n into mine; for it is plaine pocketting vp of Wrongs.\n I must leaue them, and seeke some better Seruice: their\n Villany goes against my weake stomacke, and therefore\n I must cast it vp.\n Enter.\n \n Enter Gower.\n \n Gower. Captaine Fluellen, you must come presently to\n the Mynes; the Duke of Gloucester would speake with\n you\n \n Flu. To the Mynes? Tell you the Duke, it is not so\n good to come to the Mynes: for looke you, the Mynes\n is not according to the disciplines of the Warre; the concauities\n of it is not sufficient: for looke you, th' athuersarie,\n you may discusse vnto the Duke, looke you, is digt\n himselfe foure yard vnder the Countermines: by Cheshu,\n I thinke a will plowe vp all, if there is not better directions\n \n Gower. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the Order\n of the Siege is giuen, is altogether directed by an Irish\n man, a very valiant Gentleman yfaith\n \n Welch. It is Captaine Makmorrice, is it not?\n Gower. I thinke it be\n \n Welch. By Cheshu he is an Asse, as in the World, I will\n verifie as much in his Beard: he ha's no more directions\n in the true disciplines of the Warres, looke you, of the\n Roman disciplines, then is a Puppy-dog.\n Enter Makmorrice, and Captaine Iamy.\n \n Gower. Here a comes, and the Scots Captaine, Captaine\n Iamy, with him\n \n Welch. Captaine Iamy is a maruellous falorous Gentleman,\n that is certain, and of great expedition and knowledge\n in th' aunchiant Warres, vpon my particular knowledge\n of his directions: by Cheshu he will maintaine his\n Argument as well as any Militarie man in the World, in\n the disciplines of the Pristine Warres of the Romans\n \n Scot. I say gudday, Captaine Fluellen\n \n Welch. Godden to your Worship, good Captaine\n Iames\n \n Gower. How now Captaine Mackmorrice, haue you\n quit the Mynes? haue the Pioners giuen o're?\n Irish. By Chrish Law tish ill done: the Worke ish\n giue ouer, the Trompet sound the Retreat. By my Hand\n I sweare, and my fathers Soule, the Worke ish ill done:\n it ish giue ouer: I would haue blowed vp the Towne,\n so Chrish saue me law, in an houre. O tish ill done, tish ill\n done: by my Hand tish ill done\n \n Welch. Captaine Mackmorrice, I beseech you now,\n will you voutsafe me, looke you, a few disputations with\n you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of\n the Warre, the Roman Warres, in the way of Argument,\n looke you, and friendly communication: partly to satisfie\n my Opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, looke you, of\n my Mind: as touching the direction of the Militarie discipline,\n that is the Point\n \n Scot. It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud Captens bath,\n and I sall quit you with gud leue, as I may pick occasion:\n that sall I mary\n \n Irish. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish saue me:\n the day is hot, and the Weather, and the Warres, and the\n King, and the Dukes: it is no time to discourse, the Town\n is beseech'd: and the Trumpet call vs to the breech, and\n we talke, and be Chrish do nothing, tis shame for vs all:\n so God sa'me tis shame to stand still, it is shame by my\n hand: and there is Throats to be cut, and Workes to be\n done, and there ish nothing done, so Christ sa'me law\n \n Scot. By the Mes, ere theise eyes of mine take themselues\n to slomber, ayle de gud seruice, or Ile ligge i'th'\n grund for it; ay, or goe to death: and Ile pay't as valorously\n as I may, that sal I suerly do, that is the breff and\n the long: mary, I wad full faine heard some question\n tween you tway\n \n Welch. Captaine Mackmorrice, I thinke, looke you,\n vnder your correction, there is not many of your Nation\n \n Irish. Of my Nation? What ish my Nation? Ish a\n Villaine, and a Basterd, and a Knaue, and a Rascall. What\n ish my Nation? Who talkes of my Nation?\n Welch. Looke you, if you take the matter otherwise\n then is meant, Captaine Mackmorrice, peraduenture I\n shall thinke you doe not vse me with that affabilitie, as in\n discretion you ought to vse me, looke you, being as good\n a man as your selfe, both in the disciplines of Warre, and\n in the deriuation of my Birth, and in other particularities\n \n Irish. I doe not know you so good a man as my selfe:\n so Chrish saue me, I will cut off your Head\n \n Gower. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other\n \n Scot. A, that's a foule fault.\n \n A Parley.\n \n Gower. The Towne sounds a Parley\n \n Welch. Captaine Mackmorrice, when there is more\n better oportunitie to be required, looke you, I will be\n so bold as to tell you, I know the disciplines of Warre:\n and there is an end.\n Enter.\n \n Enter the King and all his Traine before the Gates.\n \n King. How yet resolues the Gouernour of the Towne?\n This is the latest Parle we will admit:\n Therefore to our best mercy giue your selues,\n Or like to men prowd of destruction,\n Defie vs to our worst: for as I am a Souldier,\n A Name that in my thoughts becomes me best;\n If I begin the batt'rie once againe,\n I will not leaue the halfe-atchieued Harflew,\n Till in her ashes she lye buryed.\n The Gates of Mercy shall be all shut vp,\n And the flesh'd Souldier, rough and hard of heart,\n In libertie of bloody hand, shall raunge\n With Conscience wide as Hell, mowing like Grasse\n Your fresh faire Virgins, and your flowring Infants.\n What is it then to me, if impious Warre,\n Arrayed in flames like to the Prince of Fiends,\n Doe with his smyrcht complexion all fell feats,\n Enlynckt to wast and desolation?\n What is't to me, when you your selues are cause,\n If your pure Maydens fall into the hand\n Of hot and forcing Violation?\n What Reyne can hold licentious Wickednesse,\n When downe the Hill he holds his fierce Carriere?\n We may as bootlesse spend our vaine Command\n Vpon th' enraged Souldiers in their spoyle,\n As send Precepts to the Leuiathan, to come ashore.\n Therefore, you men of Harflew,\n Take pitty of your Towne and of your People,\n Whiles yet my Souldiers are in my Command,\n Whiles yet the coole and temperate Wind of Grace\n O're-blowes the filthy and contagious Clouds\n Of heady Murther, Spoyle, and Villany.\n If not: why in a moment looke to see\n The blind and bloody Souldier, with foule hand\n Desire the Locks of your shrill-shriking Daughters:\n Your Fathers taken by the siluer Beards,\n And their most reuerend Heads dasht to the Walls:\n Your naked Infants spitted vpon Pykes,\n Whiles the mad Mothers, with their howles confus'd,\n Doe breake the Clouds; as did the Wiues of Iewry,\n At Herods bloody-hunting slaughter-men.\n What say you? Will you yeeld, and this auoyd?\n Or guiltie in defence, be thus destroy'd.\n Enter Gouernour.\n \n Gouer. Our expectation hath this day an end:\n The Dolphin, whom of Succours we entreated,\n Returnes vs, that his Powers are yet not ready,\n To rayse so great a Siege: Therefore great King,\n We yeeld our Towne and Liues to thy soft Mercy:\n Enter our Gates, dispose of vs and ours,\n For we no longer are defensible\n \n King. Open your Gates: Come Vnckle Exeter,\n Goe you and enter Harflew; there remaine,\n And fortifie it strongly 'gainst the French:\n Vse mercy to them all for vs, deare Vnckle.\n The Winter comming on, and Sicknesse growing\n Vpon our Souldiers, we will retyre to Calis.\n To night in Harflew will we be your Guest,\n To morrow for the March are we addrest.\n \n Flourish, and enter the Towne.\n \n Enter Katherine and an old Gentlewoman.\n \n Kathe. Alice, tu as este en Angleterre, & tu bien parlas\n le Language\n \n Alice. En peu Madame\n \n Kath. Ie te prie m' ensigniez, il faut que ie apprend a parlen:\n Comient appelle vous le main en Anglois?\n Alice. Le main il & appelle de Hand\n \n Kath. De Hand\n \n Alice. E le doyts\n \n Kat. Le doyts, ma foy Ie oublie, e doyt mays, ie me souemeray\n le doyts ie pense qu'ils ont appelle de fingres, ou de fingres\n \n Alice. Le main de Hand, le doyts le Fingres, ie pense que ie\n suis le bon escholier\n \n Kath. I'ay gaynie diux mots d' Anglois vistement, coment\n appelle vous le ongles?\n Alice. Le ongles, les appellons de Nayles\n \n Kath. De Nayles escoute: dites moy, si ie parle bien: de\n Hand, de Fingres, e de Nayles\n \n Alice. C'est bien dict Madame, il & fort bon Anglois\n \n Kath. Dites moy l' Anglois pour le bras\n \n Alice. De Arme, Madame\n \n Kath. E de coudee\n \n Alice. D' Elbow\n \n Kath. D' Elbow: Ie men fay le repiticio de touts les mots\n que vous maves, apprins des a present\n \n Alice. Il & trop difficile Madame, comme Ie pense\n \n Kath. Excuse moy Alice escoute, d' Hand, de Fingre, de\n Nayles, d' Arma, de Bilbow\n \n Alice. D' Elbow, Madame\n \n Kath. O Seigneur Dieu, ie men oublie d' Elbow, coment appelle\n vous le col\n \n Alice. De Nick, Madame\n \n Kath. De Nick, e le menton\n \n Alice. De Chin\n \n Kath. De Sin: le col de Nick, le menton de Sin\n \n Alice. Ouy. Sauf vostre honneur en verite vous pronouncies\n les mots ausi droict, que le Natifs d' Angleterre\n \n Kath. Ie ne doute point d' apprendre par de grace de Dieu,\n & en peu de temps\n \n Alice. N' aue vos y desia oublie ce que ie vous a ensignie\n \n Kath. Nome ie recitera a vous promptement, d' Hand, de\n Fingre, de Maylees\n \n Alice. De Nayles, Madame\n \n Kath. De Nayles, de Arme, de Ilbow\n \n Alice. Sans vostre honeus d' Elbow\n \n Kath. Ainsi de ie d' Elbow, de Nick, & de Sin: coment appelle\n vous les pied & de roba\n \n Alice. Le Foot Madame, & le Count\n \n Kath. Le Foot, & le Count: O Seignieur Dieu, il sont le\n mots de son mauvais corruptible grosse & impudique, & non\n pour le Dames de Honeur d' vser: Ie ne voudray pronouncer ce\n mots deuant le Seigneurs de France, pour toute le monde, fo le\n Foot & le Count, neant moys, Ie recitera vn autrefoys ma lecon\n ensembe, d' Hand, de Fingre, de Nayles, d' Arme, d' Elbow, de\n Nick, de Sin, de Foot, le Count\n \n Alice. Excellent, Madame\n \n Kath. C'est asses pour vne foyes, alons nous a diner.\n Enter.\n \n Enter the King of France, the Dolphin, the Constable of France,\n and\n others.\n \n King. 'Tis certaine he hath past the Riuer Some\n \n Const. And if he be not fought withall, my Lord,\n Let vs not liue in France: let vs quit all,\n And giue our Vineyards to a barbarous People\n \n Dolph. O Dieu viuant: Shall a few Sprayes of vs,\n The emptying of our Fathers Luxurie,\n Our Syens, put in wilde and sauage Stock,\n Spirt vp so suddenly into the Clouds,\n And ouer-looke their Grafters?\n Brit. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards:\n Mort du ma vie, if they march along\n Vnfought withall, but I will sell my Dukedome,\n To buy a slobbry and a durtie Farme\n In that nooke-shotten Ile of Albion\n \n Const. Dieu de Battailes, where haue they this mettell?\n Is not their Clymate foggy, raw, and dull?\n On whom, as in despight, the Sunne lookes pale,\n Killing their Fruit with frownes. Can sodden Water,\n A Drench for sur-reyn'd Iades, their Barly broth,\n Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?\n And shall our quick blood, spirited with Wine,\n Seeme frostie? O, for honor of our Land,\n Let vs not hang like roping Isyckles\n Vpon our Houses Thatch, whiles a more frostie People\n Sweat drops of gallant Youth in our rich fields:\n Poore we call them, in their Natiue Lords\n \n Dolphin. By Faith and Honor,\n Our Madames mock at vs, and plainely say,\n Our Mettell is bred out, and they will giue\n Their bodyes to the Lust of English Youth,\n To new-store France with Bastard Warriors\n \n Brit. They bid vs to the English Dancing-Schooles,\n And teach Lauolta's high, and swift Carranto's,\n Saying, our Grace is onely in our Heeles,\n And that we are most loftie Run-awayes\n \n King. Where is Montioy the Herald? speed him hence,\n Let him greet England with our sharpe defiance.\n Vp Princes, and with spirit of Honor edged,\n More sharper then your Swords, high to the field:\n Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France,\n You Dukes of Orleance, Burbon, and of Berry,\n Alanson, Brabant, Bar, and Burgonie,\n Iaques Chattillion, Rambures, Vandemont,\n Beumont, Grand Pree, Roussi, and Faulconbridge,\n Loys, Lestrale, Bouciquall, and Charaloyes,\n High Dukes, great Princes, Barons, Lords, and Kings;\n For your great Seats, now quit you of great shames:\n Barre Harry England, that sweepes through our Land\n With Penons painted in the blood of Harflew:\n Rush on his Hoast, as doth the melted Snow\n Vpon the Valleyes, whose low Vassall Seat,\n The Alpes doth spit, and void his rhewme vpon.\n Goe downe vpon him, you haue Power enough,\n And in a Captiue Chariot, into Roan\n Bring him our Prisoner\n \n Const. This becomes the Great.\n Sorry am I his numbers are so few,\n His Souldiers sick, and famisht in their March:\n For I am sure, when he shall see our Army,\n Hee'le drop his heart into the sinck of feare,\n And for atchieuement, offer vs his Ransome\n \n King. Therefore Lord Constable, hast on Montioy,\n And let him say to England, that we send,\n To know what willing Ransome he will giue.\n Prince Dolphin, you shall stay with vs in Roan\n \n Dolph. Not so, I doe beseech your Maiestie\n \n King. Be patient, for you shall remaine with vs.\n Now forth Lord Constable, and Princes all,\n And quickly bring vs word of Englands fall.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter Captaines, English and Welch, Gower and Fluellen.\n \n Gower. How now Captaine Fluellen, come you from\n the Bridge?\n Flu. I assure you, there is very excellent Seruices committed\n at the Bridge\n \n Gower. Is the Duke of Exeter safe?\n Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon,\n and a man that I loue and honour with my soule,\n and my heart, and my dutie, and my liue, and my liuing,\n and my vttermost power. He is not, God be praysed and\n blessed, any hurt in the World, but keepes the Bridge\n most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an aunchient\n Lieutenant there at the Pridge, I thinke in my very\n conscience hee is as valiant a man as Marke Anthony, and\n hee is a man of no estimation in the World, but I did see\n him doe as gallant seruice\n \n Gower. What doe you call him?\n Flu. Hee is call'd aunchient Pistoll\n \n Gower. I know him not.\n Enter Pistoll.\n \n Flu. Here is the man\n \n Pist. Captaine, I thee beseech to doe me fauours: the\n Duke of Exeter doth loue thee well\n \n Flu. I, I prayse God, and I haue merited some loue at\n his hands\n \n Pist. Bardolph, a Souldier firme and sound of heart,\n and of buxome valour, hath by cruell Fate, and giddie\n Fortunes furious fickle Wheele, that Goddesse blind, that\n stands vpon the rolling restlesse Stone\n \n Flu. By your patience, aunchient Pistoll: Fortune is\n painted blinde, with a Muffler afore his eyes, to signifie\n to you, that Fortune is blinde; and shee is painted also\n with a Wheele, to signifie to you, which is the Morall of\n it, that shee is turning and inconstant, and mutabilitie,\n and variation: and her foot, looke you, is fixed vpon a\n Sphericall Stone, which rowles, and rowles, and rowles:\n in good truth, the Poet makes a most excellent description\n of it: Fortune is an excellent Morall\n \n Pist. Fortune is Bardolphs foe, and frownes on him:\n for he hath stolne a Pax, and hanged must a be: a damned\n death: let Gallowes gape for Dogge, let Man goe free,\n and let not Hempe his Wind-pipe suffocate: but Exeter\n hath giuen the doome of death, for Pax of little price.\n Therefore goe speake, the Duke will heare thy voyce;\n and let not Bardolphs vitall thred bee cut with edge of\n Penny-Cord, and vile reproach. Speake Captaine for\n his Life, and I will thee requite\n \n Flu. Aunchient Pistoll, I doe partly vnderstand your\n meaning\n \n Pist. Why then reioyce therefore\n \n Flu. Certainly Aunchient, it is not a thing to reioyce\n at: for if, looke you, he were my Brother, I would desire\n the Duke to vse his good pleasure, and put him to execution;\n for discipline ought to be vsed\n \n Pist. Dye, and be dam'd, and Figo for thy friendship\n \n Flu. It is well\n \n Pist. The Figge of Spaine.\n Enter.\n \n Flu. Very good\n \n Gower. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit Rascall, I\n remember him now: a Bawd, a Cut-purse\n \n Flu. Ile assure you, a vtt'red as praue words at the\n Pridge, as you shall see in a Summers day: but it is very\n well: what he ha's spoke to me, that is well I warrant you,\n when time is serue\n \n Gower. Why 'tis a Gull, a Foole, a Rogue, that now and\n then goes to the Warres, to grace himselfe at his returne\n into London, vnder the forme of a Souldier: and such\n fellowes are perfit in the Great Commanders Names, and\n they will learne you by rote where Seruices were done;\n at such and such a Sconce, at such a Breach, at such a Conuoy:\n who came off brauely, who was shot, who disgrac'd,\n what termes the Enemy stood on: and this they\n conne perfitly in the phrase of Warre; which they tricke\n vp with new-tuned Oathes: and what a Beard of the Generalls\n Cut, and a horride Sute of the Campe, will doe among\n foming Bottles, and Ale-washt Wits, is wonderfull\n to be thought on: but you must learne to know such\n slanders of the age, or else you may be maruellously mistooke\n \n Flu. I tell you what, Captaine Gower: I doe perceiue\n hee is not the man that hee would gladly make shew to\n the World hee is: if I finde a hole in his Coat, I will tell\n him my minde: hearke you, the King is comming, and I\n must speake with him from the Pridge.\n \n Drum and Colours. Enter the King and his poore Souldiers.\n \n Flu. God plesse your Maiestie\n \n King. How now Fluellen, cam'st thou from the Bridge?\n Flu. I, so please your Maiestie: The Duke of Exeter\n ha's very gallantly maintain'd the Pridge; the French is\n gone off, looke you, and there is gallant and most praue\n passages: marry, th' athuersarie was haue possession of\n the Pridge, but he is enforced to retyre, and the Duke of\n Exeter is Master of the Pridge: I can tell your Maiestie,\n the Duke is a praue man\n \n King. What men haue you lost, Fluellen?\n Flu. The perdition of th' athuersarie hath beene very\n great, reasonnable great: marry for my part, I thinke the\n Duke hath lost neuer a man, but one that is like to be executed\n for robbing a Church, one Bardolph, if your Maiestie\n know the man: his face is all bubukles and whelkes,\n and knobs, and flames a fire, and his lippes blowes at his\n nose, and it is like a coale of fire, sometimes plew, and\n sometimes red, but his nose is executed, and his fire's\n out\n \n King. Wee would haue all such offendors so cut off:\n and we giue expresse charge, that in our Marches through\n the Countrey, there be nothing compell'd from the Villages;\n nothing taken, but pay'd for: none of the French\n vpbrayded or abused in disdainefull Language; for when\n Leuitie and Crueltie play for a Kingdome, the gentler\n Gamester is the soonest winner.\n \n Tucket. Enter Mountioy.\n \n Mountioy. You know me by my habit\n \n King. Well then, I know thee: what shall I know of\n thee?\n Mountioy. My Masters mind\n \n King. Vnfold it\n \n Mountioy. Thus sayes my King: Say thou to Harry\n of England, Though we seem'd dead, we did but sleepe:\n Aduantage is a better Souldier then rashnesse. Tell him,\n wee could haue rebuk'd him at Harflewe, but that wee\n thought not good to bruise an iniurie, till it were full\n ripe. Now wee speake vpon our Q. and our voyce is imperiall:\n England shall repent his folly, see his weakenesse,\n and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider\n of his ransome, which must proportion the losses we\n haue borne, the subiects we haue lost, the disgrace we\n haue digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettinesse\n would bow vnder. For our losses, his Exchequer is\n too poore; for th' effusion of our bloud, the Muster of his\n Kingdome too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his\n owne person kneeling at our feet, but a weake and worthlesse\n satisfaction. To this adde defiance: and tell him for\n conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation\n is pronounc't: So farre my King and Master;\n so much my Office\n \n King. What is thy name? I know thy qualitie\n \n Mount. Mountioy\n \n King. Thou doo'st thy Office fairely. Turne thee backe,\n And tell thy King, I doe not seeke him now,\n But could be willing to march on to Callice,\n Without impeachment: for to say the sooth,\n Though 'tis no wisdome to confesse so much\n Vnto an enemie of Craft and Vantage,\n My people are with sicknesse much enfeebled,\n My numbers lessen'd: and those few I haue,\n Almost no better then so many French;\n Who when they were in health, I tell thee Herald,\n I thought, vpon one payre of English Legges\n Did march three Frenchmen. Yet forgiue me God,\n That I doe bragge thus; this your ayre of France\n Hath blowne that vice in me. I must repent:\n Goe therefore tell thy Master, heere I am;\n My Ransome, is this frayle and worthlesse Trunke;\n My Army, but a weake and sickly Guard:\n Yet God before, tell him we will come on,\n Though France himselfe, and such another Neighbor\n Stand in our way. There's for thy labour Mountioy.\n Goe bid thy Master well aduise himselfe.\n If we may passe, we will: if we be hindred,\n We shall your tawnie ground with your red blood\n Discolour: and so Mountioy, fare you well.\n The summe of all our Answer is but this:\n We would not seeke a Battaile as we are,\n Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it:\n So tell your Master\n \n Mount. I shall deliuer so: Thankes to your Highnesse\n \n Glouc. I hope they will not come vpon vs now\n \n King. We are in Gods hand, Brother, not in theirs:\n March to the Bridge, it now drawes toward night,\n Beyond the Riuer wee'le encampe our selues,\n And on to morrow bid them march away.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Ramburs, Orleance,\n Dolphin, with\n others.\n \n Const. Tut, I haue the best Armour of the World:\n would it were day\n \n Orleance. You haue an excellent Armour: but let my\n Horse haue his due\n \n Const. It is the best Horse of Europe\n \n Orleance. Will it neuer be Morning?\n Dolph. My Lord of Orleance, and my Lord High Constable,\n you talke of Horse and Armour?\n Orleance. You are as well prouided of both, as any\n Prince in the World\n \n Dolph. What a long Night is this? I will not change\n my Horse with any that treades but on foure postures:\n ch' ha: he bounds from the Earth, as if his entrayles were\n hayres: le Cheual volante, the Pegasus, ches les narines de\n feu. When I bestryde him, I soare, I am a Hawke: he trots\n the ayre: the Earth sings, when he touches it: the basest\n horne of his hoofe, is more Musicall then the Pipe of\n Hermes\n \n Orleance. Hee's of the colour of the Nutmeg\n \n Dolph. And of the heat of the Ginger. It is a Beast\n for Perseus: hee is pure Ayre and Fire; and the dull Elements\n of Earth and Water neuer appeare in him, but only\n in patient stillnesse while his Rider mounts him: hee\n is indeede a Horse, and all other Iades you may call\n Beasts\n \n Const. Indeed my Lord, it is a most absolute and excellent\n Horse\n \n Dolph. It is the Prince of Palfrayes, his Neigh is like\n the bidding of a Monarch, and his countenance enforces\n Homage\n \n Orleance. No more Cousin\n \n Dolph. Nay, the man hath no wit, that cannot from\n the rising of the Larke to the lodging of the Lambe,\n varie deserued prayse on my Palfray: it is a Theame as\n fluent as the Sea: Turne the Sands into eloquent tongues,\n and my Horse is argument for them all: 'tis a subiect\n for a Soueraigne to reason on, and for a Soueraignes Soueraigne\n to ride on: And for the World, familiar to vs,\n and vnknowne, to lay apart their particular Functions,\n and wonder at him, I once writ a Sonnet in his prayse,\n and began thus, Wonder of Nature\n \n Orleance. I haue heard a Sonnet begin so to ones Mistresse\n \n Dolph. Then did they imitate that which I compos'd\n to my Courser, for my Horse is my Mistresse\n \n Orleance. Your Mistresse beares well\n \n Dolph. Me well, which is the prescript prayse and perfection\n of a good and particular Mistresse\n \n Const. Nay, for me thought yesterday your Mistresse\n shrewdly shooke your back\n \n Dolph. So perhaps did yours\n \n Const. Mine was not bridled\n \n Dolph. O then belike she was old and gentle, and you\n rode like a Kerne of Ireland, your French Hose off, and in\n your strait Strossers\n \n Const. You haue good iudgement in Horsemanship\n \n Dolph. Be warn'd by me then: they that ride so, and\n ride not warily, fall into foule Boggs: I had rather haue\n my Horse to my Mistresse\n \n Const. I had as liue haue my Mistresse a Iade\n \n Dolph. I tell thee Constable, my Mistresse weares his\n owne hayre\n \n Const. I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a\n Sow to my Mistresse\n \n Dolph. Le chien est retourne a son propre vemissement est\n la leuye lauee au bourbier: thou mak'st vse of any thing\n \n Const. Yet doe I not vse my Horse for my Mistresse,\n or any such Prouerbe, so little kin to the purpose\n \n Ramb. My Lord Constable, the Armour that I saw in\n your Tent to night, are those Starres or Sunnes vpon it?\n Const. Starres my Lord\n \n Dolph. Some of them will fall to morrow, I hope\n \n Const. And yet my Sky shall not want\n \n Dolph. That may be, for you beare a many superfluously,\n and 'twere more honor some were away\n \n Const. Eu'n as your Horse beares your prayses, who\n would trot as well, were some of your bragges dismounted\n \n Dolph. Would I were able to loade him with his desert.\n Will it neuer be day? I will trot to morrow a mile,\n and my way shall be paued with English Faces\n \n Const. I will not say so, for feare I should be fac't out\n of my way: but I would it were morning, for I would\n faine be about the eares of the English\n \n Ramb. Who will goe to Hazard with me for twentie\n Prisoners?\n Const. You must first goe your selfe to hazard, ere you\n haue them\n \n Dolph. 'Tis Mid-night, Ile goe arme my selfe.\n Enter.\n \n Orleance. The Dolphin longs for morning\n \n Ramb. He longs to eate the English\n \n Const. I thinke he will eate all he kills\n \n Orleance. By the white Hand of my Lady, hee's a gallant\n Prince\n \n Const. Sweare by her Foot, that she may tread out the\n Oath\n \n Orleance. He is simply the most actiue Gentleman of\n France\n \n Const. Doing is actiuitie, and he will still be doing\n \n Orleance. He neuer did harme, that I heard of\n \n Const. Nor will doe none to morrow: hee will keepe\n that good name still\n \n Orleance. I know him to be valiant\n \n Const. I was told that, by one that knowes him better\n then you\n \n Orleance. What's hee?\n Const. Marry hee told me so himselfe, and hee sayd hee\n car'd not who knew it\n \n Orleance. Hee needes not, it is no hidden vertue in\n him\n \n Const. By my faith Sir, but it is: neuer any body saw\n it, but his Lacquey: 'tis a hooded valour, and when it\n appeares, it will bate\n \n Orleance. Ill will neuer sayd well\n \n Const. I will cap that Prouerbe with, There is flatterie\n in friendship\n \n Orleance. And I will take vp that with, Giue the Deuill\n his due\n \n Const. Well plac't: there stands your friend for the\n Deuill: haue at the very eye of that Prouerbe with, A\n Pox of the Deuill\n \n Orleance. You are the better at Prouerbs, by how much\n a Fooles Bolt is soone shot\n \n Const. You haue shot ouer\n \n Orleance. 'Tis not the first time you were ouer-shot.\n Enter a Messenger.\n \n Mess. My Lord high Constable, the English lye within\n fifteene hundred paces of your Tents\n \n Const. Who hath measur'd the ground?\n Mess. The Lord Grandpree\n \n Const. A valiant and most expert Gentleman. Would\n it were day? Alas poore Harry of England: hee longs\n not for the Dawning, as wee doe\n \n Orleance. What a wretched and peeuish fellow is this\n King of England, to mope with his fat-brain'd followers\n so farre out of his knowledge\n \n Const. If the English had any apprehension, they\n would runne away\n \n Orleance. That they lack: for if their heads had any intellectuall\n Armour, they could neuer weare such heauie\n Head-pieces\n \n Ramb. That Iland of England breedes very valiant\n Creatures; their Mastiffes are of vnmatchable courage\n \n Orleance. Foolish Curres, that runne winking into\n the mouth of a Russian Beare, and haue their heads crusht\n like rotten Apples: you may as well say, that's a valiant\n Flea, that dare eate his breakefast on the Lippe of a\n Lyon\n \n Const. Iust, iust: and the men doe sympathize with\n the Mastiffes, in robustious and rough comming on,\n leauing their Wits with their Wiues: and then giue\n them great Meales of Beefe, and Iron and Steele; they\n will eate like Wolues, and fight like Deuils\n \n Orleance. I, but these English are shrowdly out of\n Beefe\n \n Const. Then shall we finde to morrow, they haue only\n stomackes to eate, and none to fight. Now is it time to\n arme: come, shall we about it?\n Orleance. It is now two a Clock: but let me see, by ten\n Wee shall haue each a hundred English men.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Actus Tertius.\n \n Chorus.\n \n Now entertaine coniecture of a time,\n When creeping Murmure and the poring Darke\n Fills the wide Vessell of the Vniuerse.\n From Camp to Camp, through the foule Womb of Night\n The Humme of eyther Army stilly sounds;\n That the fixt Centinels almost receiue\n The secret Whispers of each others Watch.\n Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames\n Each Battaile sees the others vmber'd face.\n Steed threatens Steed, in high and boastfull Neighs\n Piercing the Nights dull Eare: and from the Tents,\n The Armourers accomplishing the Knights,\n With busie Hammers closing Riuets vp,\n Giue dreadfull note of preparation.\n The Countrey Cocks doe crow, the Clocks doe towle:\n And the third howre of drowsie Morning nam'd,\n Prowd of their Numbers, and secure in Soule,\n The confident and ouer-lustie French,\n Doe the low-rated English play at Dice;\n And chide the creeple-tardy-gated Night,\n Who like a foule and ougly Witch doth limpe\n So tediously away. The poore condemned English,\n Like Sacrifices, by their watchfull Fires\n Sit patiently, and inly ruminate\n The Mornings danger: and their gesture sad,\n Inuesting lanke-leane Cheekes, and Warre-worne Coats,\n Presented them vnto the gazing Moone\n So many horride Ghosts. O now, who will behold\n The Royall Captaine of this ruin'd Band\n Walking from Watch to Watch, from Tent to Tent;\n Let him cry, Prayse and Glory on his head:\n For forth he goes, and visits all his Hoast,\n Bids them good morrow with a modest Smyle,\n And calls them Brothers, Friends, and Countreymen.\n Vpon his Royall Face there is no note,\n How dread an Army hath enrounded him;\n Nor doth he dedicate one iot of Colour\n Vnto the wearie and all-watched Night:\n But freshly lookes, and ouer-beares Attaint,\n With chearefull semblance, and sweet Maiestie:\n That euery Wretch, pining and pale before,\n Beholding him, plucks comfort from his Lookes.\n A Largesse vniuersall, like the Sunne,\n His liberall Eye doth giue to euery one,\n Thawing cold feare, that meane and gentle all\n Behold, as may vnworthinesse define.\n A little touch of Harry in the Night,\n And so our Scene must to the Battaile flye:\n Where, O for pitty, we shall much disgrace,\n With foure or fiue most vile and ragged foyles,\n (Right ill dispos'd, in brawle ridiculous)\n The Name of Agincourt: Yet sit and see,\n Minding true things, by what their Mock'ries bee.\n Enter.\n \n Enter the King, Bedford, and Gloucester.\n \n King. Gloster, 'tis true that we are in great danger,\n The greater therefore should our Courage be.\n God morrow Brother Bedford: God Almightie,\n There is some soule of goodnesse in things euill,\n Would men obseruingly distill it out.\n For our bad Neighbour makes vs early stirrers,\n Which is both healthfull, and good husbandry.\n Besides, they are our outward Consciences,\n And Preachers to vs all; admonishing,\n That we should dresse vs fairely for our end.\n Thus may we gather Honey from the Weed,\n And make a Morall of the Diuell himselfe.\n Enter Erpingham.\n \n Good morrow old Sir Thomas Erpingham:\n A good soft Pillow for that good white Head,\n Were better then a churlish turfe of France\n \n Erping. Not so my Liege, this Lodging likes me better,\n Since I may say, now lye I like a King\n \n King. 'Tis good for men to loue their present paines,\n Vpon example, so the Spirit is eased:\n And when the Mind is quickned, out of doubt\n The Organs, though defunct and dead before,\n Breake vp their drowsie Graue, and newly moue\n With casted slough, and fresh legeritie.\n Lend me thy Cloake Sir Thomas: Brothers both,\n Commend me to the Princes in our Campe;\n Doe my good morrow to them, and anon\n Desire them all to my Pauillion\n \n Gloster. We shall, my Liege\n \n Erping. Shall I attend your Grace?\n King. No, my good Knight:\n Goe with my Brothers to my Lords of England:\n I and my Bosome must debate a while,\n And then I would no other company\n \n Erping. The Lord in Heauen blesse thee, Noble\n Harry.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n King. God a mercy old Heart, thou speak'st chearefully.\n Enter Pistoll\n \n Pist. Che vous la?\n King. A friend\n \n Pist. Discusse vnto me, art thou Officer, or art thou\n base, common, and popular?\n King. I am a Gentleman of a Company\n \n Pist. Trayl'st thou the puissant Pyke?\n King. Euen so: what are you?\n Pist. As good a Gentleman as the Emperor\n \n King. Then you are a better then the King\n \n Pist. The King's a Bawcock, and a Heart of Gold, a\n Lad of Life, an Impe of Fame, of Parents good, of Fist\n most valiant: I kisse his durtie shooe, and from heartstring\n I loue the louely Bully. What is thy Name?\n King. Harry le Roy\n \n Pist. Le Roy? a Cornish Name: art thou of Cornish Crew?\n King. No, I am a Welchman\n \n Pist. Know'st thou Fluellen?\n King. Yes\n \n Pist. Tell him Ile knock his Leeke about his Pate vpon\n S[aint]. Dauies day\n \n King. Doe not you weare your Dagger in your Cappe\n that day, least he knock that about yours\n \n Pist. Art thou his friend?\n King. And his Kinsman too\n \n Pist. The Figo for thee then\n \n King. I thanke you: God be with you\n \n Pist. My name is Pistol call'd.\n Enter.\n \n King. It sorts well with your fiercenesse.\n \n Manet King.\n \n Enter Fluellen and Gower.\n \n Gower. Captaine Fluellen\n \n Flu. 'So, in the Name of Iesu Christ, speake fewer: it\n is the greatest admiration in the vniuersall World, when\n the true and aunchient Prerogatifes and Lawes of the\n Warres is not kept: if you would take the paines but to\n examine the Warres of Pompey the Great, you shall finde,\n I warrant you, that there is no tiddle tadle nor pibble bable\n in Pompeyes Campe: I warrant you, you shall finde\n the Ceremonies of the Warres, and the Cares of it, and\n the Formes of it, and the Sobrietie of it, and the Modestie\n of it, to be otherwise\n \n Gower. Why the Enemie is lowd, you heare him all\n Night\n \n Flu. If the Enemie is an Asse and a Foole, and a prating\n Coxcombe; is it meet, thinke you, that wee should\n also, looke you, be an Asse and a Foole, and a prating Coxcombe,\n in your owne conscience now?\n Gow. I will speake lower\n \n Flu. I pray you, and beseech you, that you will.\n Enter.\n \n King. Though it appeare a little out of fashion,\n There is much care and valour in this Welchman.\n Enter three Souldiers, Iohn Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael\n Williams.\n \n \n Court. Brother Iohn Bates, is not that the Morning\n which breakes yonder?\n Bates. I thinke it be: but wee haue no great cause to\n desire the approach of day\n \n Williams. Wee see yonder the beginning of the day,\n but I thinke wee shall neuer see the end of it. Who goes\n there?\n King. A Friend\n \n Williams. Vnder what Captaine serue you?\n King. Vnder Sir Iohn Erpingham\n \n Williams. A good old Commander, and a most kinde\n Gentleman: I pray you, what thinkes he of our estate?\n King. Euen as men wrackt vpon a Sand, that looke to\n be washt off the next Tyde\n \n Bates. He hath not told his thought to the King?\n King. No: nor it is not meet he should: for though I\n speake it to you, I thinke the King is but a man, as I am:\n the Violet smells to him, as it doth to me; the Element\n shewes to him, as it doth to me; all his Sences haue but\n humane Conditions: his Ceremonies layd by, in his Nakednesse\n he appeares but a man; and though his affections\n are higher mounted then ours, yet when they stoupe,\n they stoupe with the like wing: therefore, when he sees\n reason of feares, as we doe; his feares, out of doubt, be of\n the same rellish as ours are: yet in reason, no man should\n possesse him with any appearance of feare; least hee, by\n shewing it, should dis-hearten his Army\n \n Bates. He may shew what outward courage he will:\n but I beleeue, as cold a Night as 'tis, hee could wish himselfe\n in Thames vp to the Neck; and so I would he were,\n and I by him, at all aduentures, so we were quit here\n \n King. By my troth, I will speake my conscience of the\n King: I thinke hee would not wish himselfe any where,\n but where hee is\n \n Bates. Then I would he were here alone; so should he be\n sure to be ransomed, and a many poore mens liues saued\n \n King. I dare say, you loue him not so ill, to wish him\n here alone: howsoeuer you speake this to feele other\n mens minds, me thinks I could not dye any where so contented,\n as in the Kings company; his Cause being iust, and\n his Quarrell honorable\n \n Williams. That's more then we know\n \n Bates. I, or more then wee should seeke after; for wee\n know enough, if wee know wee are the Kings Subiects:\n if his Cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes\n the Cryme of it out of vs\n \n Williams. But if the Cause be not good, the King himselfe\n hath a heauie Reckoning to make, when all those\n Legges, and Armes, and Heads, chopt off in a Battaile,\n shall ioyne together at the latter day, and cry all, Wee dyed\n at such a place, some swearing, some crying for a Surgean;\n some vpon their Wiues, left poore behind them;\n some vpon the Debts they owe, some vpon their Children\n rawly left: I am afear'd, there are few dye well, that dye\n in a Battaile: for how can they charitably dispose of any\n thing, when Blood is their argument? Now, if these men\n doe not dye well, it will be a black matter for the King,\n that led them to it; who to disobey, were against all proportion\n of subiection\n \n King. So, if a Sonne that is by his Father sent about\n Merchandize, doe sinfully miscarry vpon the Sea; the imputation\n of his wickednesse, by your rule, should be imposed\n vpon his Father that sent him: or if a Seruant, vnder\n his Masters command, transporting a summe of Money,\n be assayled by Robbers, and dye in many irreconcil'd\n Iniquities; you may call the businesse of the Master the\n author of the Seruants damnation: but this is not so:\n The King is not bound to answer the particular endings\n of his Souldiers, the Father of his Sonne, nor the Master\n of his Seruant; for they purpose not their death, when\n they purpose their seruices. Besides, there is no King, be\n his Cause neuer so spotlesse, if it come to the arbitrement\n of Swords, can trye it out with all vnspotted Souldiers:\n some (peraduenture) haue on them the guilt of\n premeditated and contriued Murther; some, of beguiling\n Virgins with the broken Seales of Periurie; some,\n making the Warres their Bulwarke, that haue before gored\n the gentle Bosome of Peace with Pillage and Robberie.\n Now, if these men haue defeated the Law, and outrunne\n Natiue punishment; though they can out-strip\n men, they haue no wings to flye from God. Warre is\n his Beadle, Warre is his Vengeance: so that here men\n are punisht, for before breach of the Kings Lawes, in\n now the Kings Quarrell: where they feared the death,\n they haue borne life away; and where they would bee\n safe, they perish. Then if they dye vnprouided, no more\n is the King guiltie of their damnation, then hee was before\n guiltie of those Impieties, for the which they are\n now visited. Euery Subiects Dutie is the Kings, but\n euery Subiects Soule is his owne. Therefore should\n euery Souldier in the Warres doe as euery sicke man in\n his Bed, wash euery Moth out of his Conscience: and\n dying so, Death is to him aduantage; or not dying,\n the time was blessedly lost, wherein such preparation was\n gayned: and in him that escapes, it were not sinne to\n thinke, that making God so free an offer, he let him outliue\n that day, to see his Greatnesse, and to teach others\n how they should prepare\n \n Will. 'Tis certaine, euery man that dyes ill, the ill vpon\n his owne head, the King is not to answer it\n \n Bates. I doe not desire hee should answer for me, and\n yet I determine to fight lustily for him\n \n King. I my selfe heard the King say he would not be\n ransom'd\n \n Will. I, hee said so, to make vs fight chearefully: but\n when our throats are cut, hee may be ransom'd, and wee\n ne're the wiser\n \n King. If I liue to see it, I will neuer trust his word after\n \n Will. You pay him then: that's a perillous shot out\n of an Elder Gunne, that a poore and a priuate displeasure\n can doe against a Monarch: you may as well goe about\n to turne the Sunne to yce, with fanning in his face with a\n Peacocks feather: You'le neuer trust his word after;\n come, 'tis a foolish saying\n \n King. Your reproofe is something too round, I should\n be angry with you, if the time were conuenient\n \n Will. Let it bee a Quarrell betweene vs, if you\n liue\n \n King. I embrace it\n \n Will. How shall I know thee againe?\n King. Giue me any Gage of thine, and I will weare it\n in my Bonnet: Then if euer thou dar'st acknowledge it,\n I will make it my Quarrell\n \n Will. Heere's my Gloue: Giue mee another of\n thine\n \n King. There\n \n Will. This will I also weare in my Cap: if euer thou\n come to me, and say, after to morrow, This is my Gloue,\n by this Hand I will take thee a box on the eare\n \n King. If euer I liue to see it, I will challenge it\n \n Will. Thou dar'st as well be hang'd\n \n King. Well, I will doe it, though I take thee in the\n Kings companie\n \n Will. Keepe thy word: fare thee well\n \n Bates. Be friends you English fooles, be friends, wee\n haue French Quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.\n \n Exit Souldiers.\n \n King. Indeede the French may lay twentie French\n Crownes to one, they will beat vs, for they beare them\n on their shoulders: but it is no English Treason to cut\n French Crownes, and to morrow the King himselfe will\n be a Clipper.\n Vpon the King, let vs our Liues, our Soules,\n Our Debts, our carefull Wiues,\n Our Children, and our Sinnes, lay on the King:\n We must beare all.\n O hard Condition, Twin-borne with Greatnesse,\n Subiect to the breath of euery foole, whose sence\n No more can feele, but his owne wringing.\n What infinite hearts-ease must Kings neglect,\n That priuate men enioy?\n And what haue Kings, that Priuates haue not too,\n Saue Ceremonie, saue generall Ceremonie?\n And what art thou, thou Idoll Ceremonie?\n What kind of God art thou? that suffer'st more\n Of mortall griefes, then doe thy worshippers.\n What are thy Rents? what are thy Commings in?\n O Ceremonie, shew me but thy worth.\n What? is thy Soule of Odoration?\n Art thou ought else but Place, Degree, and Forme,\n Creating awe and feare in other men?\n Wherein thou art lesse happy, being fear'd,\n Then they in fearing.\n What drink'st thou oft, in stead of Homage sweet,\n But poyson'd flatterie? O, be sick, great Greatnesse,\n And bid thy Ceremonie giue thee cure.\n Thinks thou the fierie Feuer will goe out\n With Titles blowne from Adulation?\n Will it giue place to flexure and low bending?\n Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggers knee,\n Command the health of it? No, thou prowd Dreame,\n That play'st so subtilly with a Kings Repose.\n I am a King that find thee: and I know,\n 'Tis not the Balme, the Scepter, and the Ball,\n The Sword, the Mase, the Crowne Imperiall,\n The enter-tissued Robe of Gold and Pearle,\n The farsed Title running 'fore the King,\n The Throne he sits on: nor the Tyde of Pompe,\n That beates vpon the high shore of this World:\n No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremonie;\n Not all these, lay'd in Bed Maiesticall,\n Can sleepe so soundly, as the wretched Slaue:\n Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,\n Gets him to rest, cram'd with distressefull bread,\n Neuer sees horride Night, the Child of Hell:\n But like a Lacquey, from the Rise to Set,\n Sweates in the eye of Phebus; and all Night\n Sleepes in Elizium: next day after dawne,\n Doth rise and helpe Hiperio[n] to his Horse,\n And followes so the euer-running yeere\n With profitable labour to his Graue:\n And but for Ceremonie, such a Wretch,\n Winding vp Dayes with toyle, and Nights with sleepe,\n Had the fore-hand and vantage of a King.\n The Slaue, a Member of the Countreyes peace,\n Enioyes it; but in grosse braine little wots,\n What watch the King keepes, to maintaine the peace;\n Whose howres, the Pesant best aduantages.\n Enter Erpingham.\n \n Erp. My Lord, your Nobles iealous of your absence,\n Seeke through your Campe to find you\n \n King. Good old Knight, collect them all together\n At my Tent: Ile be before thee\n \n Erp. I shall doo't, my Lord.\n Enter.\n \n King. O God of Battailes, steele my Souldiers hearts,\n Possesse them not with feare: Take from them now\n The sence of reckning of th' opposed numbers:\n Pluck their hearts from them. Not to day, O Lord,\n O not to day, thinke not vpon the fault\n My Father made, in compassing the Crowne.\n I Richards body haue interred new,\n And on it haue bestowed more contrite teares,\n Then from it issued forced drops of blood.\n Fiue hundred poore I haue in yeerely pay,\n Who twice a day their wither'd hands hold vp\n Toward Heauen, to pardon blood:\n And I haue built two Chauntries,\n Where the sad and solemne Priests sing still\n For Richards Soule. More will I doe:\n Though all that I can doe, is nothing worth;\n Since that my Penitence comes after all,\n Imploring pardon.\n Enter Gloucester.\n \n Glouc. My Liege\n \n King. My Brother Gloucesters voyce? I:\n I know thy errand, I will goe with thee:\n The day, my friend, and all things stay for me.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter the Dolphin, Orleance, Ramburs, and Beaumont.\n \n Orleance. The Sunne doth gild our Armour vp, my\n Lords\n \n Dolph. Monte Cheual: My Horse, Verlot Lacquay:\n Ha\n \n Orleance. Oh braue Spirit\n \n Dolph. Via les ewes & terre\n \n Orleance. Rien puis le air & feu\n \n Dolph. Cein, Cousin Orleance.\n Enter Constable.\n \n Now my Lord Constable?\n Const. Hearke how our Steedes, for present Seruice\n neigh\n \n Dolph. Mount them, and make incision in their Hides,\n That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,\n And doubt them with superfluous courage: ha\n \n Ram. What, wil you haue them weep our Horses blood?\n How shall we then behold their naturall teares?\n Enter Messenger.\n \n Messeng. The English are embattail'd, you French\n Peeres\n \n Const. To Horse you gallant Princes, straight to Horse.\n Doe but behold yond poore and starued Band,\n And your faire shew shall suck away their Soules,\n Leauing them but the shales and huskes of men.\n There is not worke enough for all our hands,\n Scarce blood enough in all their sickly Veines,\n To giue each naked Curtleax a stayne,\n That our French Gallants shall to day draw out,\n And sheath for lack of sport. Let vs but blow on them,\n The vapour of our Valour will o're-turne them.\n 'Tis positiue against all exceptions, Lords,\n That our superfluous Lacquies, and our Pesants,\n Who in vnnecessarie action swarme\n About our Squares of Battaile, were enow\n To purge this field of such a hilding Foe;\n Though we vpon this Mountaines Basis by,\n Tooke stand for idle speculation:\n But that our Honours must not. What's to say?\n A very little little let vs doe,\n And all is done: then let the Trumpets sound\n The Tucket Sonuance, and the Note to mount:\n For our approach shall so much dare the field,\n That England shall couch downe in feare, and yeeld.\n Enter Graundpree.\n \n Grandpree. Why do you stay so long, my Lords of France?\n Yond Iland Carrions, desperate of their bones,\n Ill-fauoredly become the Morning field:\n Their ragged Curtaines poorely are let loose,\n And our Ayre shakes them passing scornefully.\n Bigge Mars seemes banqu'rout in their begger'd Hoast,\n And faintly through a rustie Beuer peepes.\n The Horsemen sit like fixed Candlesticks,\n With Torch-staues in their hand: and their poore Iades\n Lob downe their heads, dropping the hides and hips:\n The gumme downe roping from their pale-dead eyes,\n And in their pale dull mouthes the Iymold Bitt\n Lyes foule with chaw'd-grasse, still and motionlesse.\n And their executors, the knauish Crowes,\n Flye o're them all, impatient for their howre.\n Description cannot sute it selfe in words,\n To demonstrate the Life of such a Battaile,\n In life so liuelesse, as it shewes it selfe\n \n Const. They haue said their prayers,\n And they stay for death\n \n Dolph. Shall we goe send them Dinners, and fresh Sutes,\n And giue their fasting Horses Prouender,\n And after fight with them?\n Const. I stay but for my Guard: on\n To the field, I will the Banner from a Trumpet take,\n And vse it for my haste. Come, come away,\n The Sunne is high, and we out-weare the day.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham with all his Hoast:\n Salisbury, and Westmerland.\n \n Glouc. Where is the King?\n Bedf. The King himselfe is rode to view their Battaile\n \n West. Of fighting men they haue full threescore thousand\n \n Exe. There's fiue to one, besides they all are fresh\n \n Salisb. Gods Arme strike with vs, 'tis a fearefull oddes.\n God buy' you Princes all; Ile to my Charge:\n If we no more meet, till we meet in Heauen;\n Then ioyfully, my Noble Lord of Bedford,\n My deare Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,\n And my kind Kinsman, Warriors all, adieu\n \n Bedf. Farwell good Salisbury, & good luck go with thee:\n And yet I doe thee wrong, to mind thee of it,\n For thou art fram'd of the firme truth of valour\n \n Exe. Farwell kind Lord: fight valiantly to day\n \n Bedf. He is as full of Valour as of Kindnesse,\n Princely in both.\n Enter the King.\n \n West. O that we now had here\n But one ten thousand of those men in England,\n That doe no worke to day\n \n King. What's he that wishes so?\n My Cousin Westmerland. No, my faire Cousin:\n If we are markt to dye, we are enow\n To doe our Countrey losse: and if to liue,\n The fewer men, the greater share of honour.\n Gods will, I pray thee wish not one man more.\n By Ioue, I am not couetous for Gold,\n Nor care I who doth feed vpon my cost:\n It yernes me not, if men my Garments weare;\n Such outward things dwell not in my desires.\n But if it be a sinne to couet Honor,\n I am the most offending Soule aliue.\n No 'faith, my Couze, wish not a man from England:\n Gods peace, I would not loose so great an Honor,\n As one man more me thinkes would share from me,\n For the best hope I haue. O, doe not wish one more:\n Rather proclaime it (Westmerland) through my Hoast,\n That he which hath no stomack to this fight,\n Let him depart, his Pasport shall be made,\n And Crownes for Conuoy put into his Purse:\n We would not dye in that mans companie,\n That feares his fellowship, to dye with vs.\n This day is call'd the Feast of Crispian:\n He that out-liues this day, and comes safe home,\n Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,\n And rowse him at the Name of Crispian.\n He that shall see this day, and liue old age,\n Will yeerely on the Vigil feast his neighbours,\n And say, to morrow is Saint Crispian.\n Then will he strip his sleeue, and shew his skarres:\n Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot:\n But hee'le remember, with aduantages,\n What feats he did that day. Then shall our Names,\n Familiar in his mouth as household words,\n Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,\n Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,\n Be in their flowing Cups freshly remembred.\n This story shall the good man teach his sonne:\n And Crispine Crispian shall ne're goe by,\n From this day to the ending of the World,\n But we in it shall be remembred;\n We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:\n For he to day that sheds his blood with me,\n Shall be my brother: be he ne're so vile,\n This day shall gentle his Condition.\n And Gentlemen in England, now a bed,\n Shall thinke themselues accurst they were not here;\n And hold their Manhoods cheape, whiles any speakes,\n That fought with vs vpon Saint Crispines day.\n Enter Salisbury.\n \n Sal. My Soueraign Lord, bestow your selfe with speed:\n The French are brauely in their battailes set,\n And will with all expedience charge on vs\n \n King. All things are ready, if our minds be so\n \n West. Perish the man, whose mind is backward now\n \n King. Thou do'st not wish more helpe from England,\n Couze?\n West. Gods will, my Liege, would you and I alone,\n Without more helpe, could fight this Royall battaile\n \n King. Why now thou hast vnwisht fiue thousand men:\n Which likes me better, then to wish vs one.\n You know your places: God be with you all.\n \n Tucket. Enter Montioy.\n \n Mont. Once more I come to know of thee King Harry,\n If for thy Ransome thou wilt now compound,\n Before thy most assured Ouerthrow:\n For certainly, thou art so neere the Gulfe,\n Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy\n The Constable desires thee, thou wilt mind\n Thy followers of Repentance; that their Soules\n May make a peacefull and a sweet retyre\n From off these fields: where (wretches) their poore bodies\n Must lye and fester\n \n King. Who hath sent thee now?\n Mont. The Constable of France\n \n King. I pray thee beare my former Answer back:\n Bid them atchieue me, and then sell my bones.\n Good God, why should they mock poore fellowes thus?\n The man that once did sell the Lyons skin\n While the beast liu'd, was kill'd with hunting him.\n A many of our bodyes shall no doubt\n Find Natiue Graues: vpon the which, I trust\n Shall witnesse liue in Brasse of this dayes worke.\n And those that leaue their valiant bones in France,\n Dying like men, though buryed in your Dunghills,\n They shall be fam'd: for there the Sun shall greet them,\n And draw their honors reeking vp to Heauen,\n Leauing their earthly parts to choake your Clyme,\n The smell whereof shall breed a Plague in France.\n Marke then abounding valour in our English:\n That being dead, like to the bullets crasing,\n Breake out into a second course of mischiefe,\n Killing in relapse of Mortalitie.\n Let me speake prowdly: Tell the Constable,\n We are but Warriors for the working day:\n Our Gaynesse and our Gilt are all besmyrcht\n With raynie Marching in the painefull field.\n There's not a piece of feather in our Hoast:\n Good argument (I hope) we will not flye:\n And time hath worne vs into slouenrie.\n But by the Masse, our hearts are in the trim:\n And my poore Souldiers tell me, yet ere Night,\n They'le be in fresher Robes, or they will pluck\n The gay new Coats o're the French Souldiers heads,\n And turne them out of seruice. If they doe this,\n As if God please, they shall; my Ransome then\n Will soone be leuyed.\n Herauld, saue thou thy labour:\n Come thou no more for Ransome, gentle Herauld,\n They shall haue none, I sweare, but these my ioynts:\n Which if they haue, as I will leaue vm them,\n Shall yeeld them little, tell the Constable\n \n Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:\n Thou neuer shalt heare Herauld any more.\n Enter.\n \n King. I feare thou wilt once more come againe for a\n Ransome.\n Enter Yorke.\n \n Yorke. My Lord, most humbly on my knee I begge\n The leading of the Vaward\n \n King. Take it, braue Yorke.\n Now Souldiers march away,\n And how thou pleasest God, dispose the day.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistoll, French Souldier, Boy.\n \n Pist. Yeeld Curre\n \n French. Ie pense que vous estes le Gentilhome de bon qualitee\n \n Pist. Qualtitie calmie custure me. Art thou a Gentleman?\n What is thy Name? discusse\n \n French. O Seigneur Dieu\n \n Pist. O Signieur Dewe should be a Gentleman: perpend\n my words O Signieur Dewe, and marke: O Signieur\n Dewe, thou dyest on point of Fox, except O Signieur\n thou doe giue to me egregious Ransome\n \n French. O prennes miserecordie aye pitez de moy\n \n Pist. Moy shall not serue, I will haue fortie Moyes: for\n I will fetch thy rymme out at thy Throat, in droppes of\n Crimson blood\n \n French. Est il impossible d' eschapper le force de ton bras\n \n Pist. Brasse, Curre? thou damned and luxurious Mountaine\n Goat, offer'st me Brasse?\n French. O perdonne moy\n \n Pist. Say'st thou me so? is that a Tonne of Moyes?\n Come hither boy, aske me this slaue in French what is his\n Name\n \n Boy. Escoute comment estes vous appelle?\n French. Mounsieur le Fer\n \n Boy. He sayes his Name is M. Fer\n \n Pist. M. Fer: Ile fer him, and firke him, and ferret him:\n discusse the same in French vnto him\n \n Boy. I doe not know the French for fer, and ferret, and\n firke\n \n Pist. Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat\n \n French. Que dit il Mounsieur?\n Boy. Il me commande a vous dire que vous faite vous\n prest, car ce soldat icy est disposee tout asture de couppes vostre\n gorge\n \n Pist. Owy, cuppele gorge permafoy pesant, vnlesse\n thou giue me Crownes, braue Crownes; or mangled shalt\n thou be by this my Sword\n \n French. O Ie vous supplie pour l' amour de Dieu: ma pardonner,\n Ie suis le Gentilhome de bon maison, garde ma vie, & Ie\n vous donneray deux cent escus\n \n Pist. What are his words?\n Boy. He prayes you to saue his life, he is a Gentleman\n of a good house, and for his ransom he will giue you two\n hundred Crownes\n \n Pist. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the Crownes\n will take\n \n Fren. Petit Monsieur que dit il?\n Boy. Encore qu'il et contra son Iurement, de pardonner aucune\n prisonner: neantmons pour les escues que vous layt a promets,\n il est content a vous donnes le liberte le franchisement\n \n Fre. Sur mes genoux se vous donnes milles remercious, et\n Ie me estime heurex que Ie intombe, entre les main d' vn Cheualier\n Ie pense le plus braue valiant et tres distime signieur\n d' Angleterre\n \n Pist. Expound vnto me boy\n \n Boy. He giues you vpon his knees a thousand thanks,\n and he esteemes himselfe happy, that he hath falne into\n the hands of one (as he thinkes) the most braue, valorous\n and thrice-worthy signeur of England\n \n Pist. As I sucke blood, I will some mercy shew. Follow\n mee\n \n Boy. Saaue vous le grand Capitaine?\n I did neuer know so full a voyce issue from so emptie a\n heart: but the saying is true, The empty vessel makes the\n greatest sound, Bardolfe and Nym had tenne times more\n valour, then this roaring diuell i'th olde play, that euerie\n one may payre his nayles with a woodden dagger, and\n they are both hang'd, and so would this be, if hee durst\n steale any thing aduenturously. I must stay with the\n Lackies with the luggage of our camp, the French might\n haue a good pray of vs, if he knew of it, for there is none\n to guard it but boyes.\n Enter.\n \n Enter Constable, Orleance, Burbon, Dolphin, and Rambures.\n \n Con. O Diable\n \n Orl. O signeur le iour et perdia, toute et perdie\n \n Dol. Mor Dieu ma vie, all is confounded all,\n Reproach, and euerlasting shame\n Sits mocking in our Plumes.\n \n A short Alarum.\n \n O meschante Fortune, do not runne away\n \n Con. Why all our rankes are broke\n \n Dol. O perdurable shame, let's stab our selues:\n Be these the wretches that we plaid at dice for?\n Orl. Is this the King we sent too, for his ransome?\n Bur. Shame, and eternall shame, nothing but shame,\n Let vs dye in once more backe againe,\n And he that will not follow Burbon now,\n Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand\n Like a base Pander hold the Chamber doore,\n Whilst a base slaue, no gentler then my dogge,\n His fairest daughter is contaminated\n \n Con. Disorder that hath spoyl'd vs, friend vs now,\n Let vs on heapes go offer vp our liues\n \n Orl. We are enow yet liuing in the Field,\n To smother vp the English in our throngs,\n If any order might be thought vpon\n \n Bur. The diuell take Order now, Ile to the throng;\n Let life be short, else shame will be too long.\n Enter.\n \n Alarum. Enter the King and his trayne, with Prisoners.\n \n King. Well haue we done, thrice-valiant Countrimen,\n But all's not done, yet keepe the French the field\n \n Exe. The D[uke]. of York commends him to your Maiesty\n King. Liues he good Vnckle: thrice within this houre\n I saw him downe; thrice vp againe, and fighting,\n From Helmet to the spurre, all blood he was\n \n Exe. In which array (braue Soldier) doth he lye,\n Larding the plaine: and by his bloody side,\n (Yoake-fellow to his honour-owing-wounds)\n The Noble Earle of Suffolke also lyes.\n Suffolke first dyed, and Yorke all hagled ouer\n Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped,\n And takes him by the Beard, kisses the gashes\n That bloodily did yawne vpon his face.\n He cryes aloud; Tarry my Cosin Suffolke,\n My soule shall thine keepe company to heauen:\n Tarry (sweet soule) for mine, then flye a-brest:\n As in this glorious and well-foughten field\n We kept together in our Chiualrie.\n Vpon these words I came, and cheer'd him vp,\n He smil'd me in the face, raught me his hand,\n And with a feeble gripe, sayes: Deere my Lord,\n Commend my seruice to my Soueraigne,\n So did he turne, and ouer Suffolkes necke\n He threw his wounded arme, and kist his lippes,\n And so espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd\n A Testament of Noble-ending-loue:\n The prettie and sweet manner of it forc'd\n Those waters from me, which I would haue stop'd,\n But I had not so much of man in mee,\n And all my mother came into mine eyes,\n And gaue me vp to teares\n \n King. I blame you not,\n For hearing this, I must perforce compound\n With mixtfull eyes, or they will issue to.\n \n Alarum\n \n But hearke, what new alarum is this same?\n The French haue re-enforc'd their scatter'd men:\n Then euery souldiour kill his Prisoners,\n Giue the word through.\n \n Exit\n \n \n Actus Quartus.\n \n Enter Fluellen and Gower.\n \n Flu. Kill the poyes and the luggage, 'Tis expressely\n against the Law of Armes, tis as arrant a peece of knauery\n marke you now, as can bee offert in your Conscience\n now, is it not?\n Gow. Tis certaine, there's not a boy left aliue, and the\n Cowardly Rascalls that ranne from the battaile ha' done\n this slaughter: besides they haue burned and carried away\n all that was in the Kings Tent, wherefore the King\n most worthily hath caus'd euery soldiour to cut his prisoners\n throat. O 'tis a gallant King\n \n Flu. I, hee was porne at Monmouth Captaine Gower:\n What call you the Townes name where Alexander the\n pig was borne?\n Gow. Alexander the Great\n \n Flu. Why I pray you, is not pig, great? The pig, or\n the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous,\n are all one reckonings, saue the phrase is a litle variations\n \n Gower. I thinke Alexander the Great was borne in\n Macedon, his Father was called Phillip of Macedon, as I\n take it\n \n Flu. I thinke it is in Macedon where Alexander is\n porne: I tell you Captaine, if you looke in the Maps of\n the Orld, I warrant you sall finde in the comparisons betweene\n Macedon & Monmouth, that the situations looke\n you, is both alike. There is a Riuer in Macedon, & there\n is also moreouer a Riuer at Monmouth, it is call'd Wye at\n Monmouth: but it is out of my praines, what is the name\n of the other Riuer: but 'tis all one, tis alike as my fingers\n is to my fingers, and there is Salmons in both. If you\n marke Alexanders life well, Harry of Monmouthes life is\n come after it indifferent well, for there is figures in all\n things. Alexander God knowes, and you know, in his\n rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his chollers, and\n his moodes, and his displeasures, and his indignations,\n and also being a little intoxicates in his praines, did in\n his Ales and his angers (looke you) kill his best friend\n Clytus\n \n Gow. Our King is not like him in that, he neuer kill'd\n any of his friends\n \n Flu. It is not well done (marke you now) to take the\n tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak\n but in the figures, and comparisons of it: as Alexander\n kild his friend Clytus, being in his Ales and his Cuppes; so\n also Harry Monmouth being in his right wittes, and his\n good iudgements, turn'd away the fat Knight with the\n great belly doublet: he was full of iests, and gypes, and\n knaueries, and mockes, I haue forgot his name\n \n Gow. Sir Iohn Falstaffe\n \n Flu. That is he: Ile tell you, there is good men porne\n at Monmouth\n \n Gow. Heere comes his Maiesty.\n \n Alarum. Enter King Harry and Burbon with prisoners. Flourish.\n \n King. I was not angry since I came to France,\n Vntill this instant. Take a Trumpet Herald,\n Ride thou vnto the Horsemen on yond hill:\n If they will fight with vs, bid them come downe,\n Or voyde the field: they do offend our sight.\n If they'l do neither, we will come to them,\n And make them sker away, as swift as stones\n Enforced from the old Assyrian slings:\n Besides, wee'l cut the throats of those we haue,\n And not a man of them that we shall take,\n Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.\n Enter Montioy.\n \n Exe. Here comes the Herald of the French, my Liege\n Glou. His eyes are humbler then they vs'd to be\n \n King. How now, what meanes this Herald? Knowst\n thou not,\n That I haue fin'd these bones of mine for ransome?\n Com'st thou againe for ransome?\n Her. No great King:\n I come to thee for charitable License,\n That we may wander ore this bloody field,\n To booke our dead, and then to bury them,\n To sort our Nobles from our common men.\n For many of our Princes (woe the while)\n Lye drown'd and soak'd in mercenary blood:\n So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbes\n In blood of Princes, and with wounded steeds\n Fret fet-locke deepe in gore, and with wilde rage\n Yerke out their armed heeles at their dead masters,\n Killing them twice. O giue vs leaue great King,\n To view the field in safety, and dispose\n Of their dead bodies\n \n Kin. I tell thee truly Herald,\n I know not if the day be ours or no,\n For yet a many of your horsemen peere,\n And gallop ore the field\n \n Her. The day is yours\n \n Kin. Praised be God, and not our strength for it:\n What is this Castle call'd that stands hard by\n \n Her. They call it Agincourt\n \n King. Then call we this the field of Agincourt,\n Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus\n \n Flu. Your Grandfather of famous memory (an't please\n your Maiesty) and your great Vncle Edward the Placke\n Prince of Wales, as I haue read in the Chronicles, fought\n a most praue pattle here in France\n \n Kin. They did Fluellen\n \n Flu. Your Maiesty sayes very true: If your Maiesties\n is remembred of it, the Welchmen did good seruice in a\n Garden where Leekes did grow, wearing Leekes in their\n Monmouth caps, which your Maiesty know to this houre\n is an honourable badge of the seruice: And I do beleeue\n your Maiesty takes no scorne to weare the Leeke vppon\n S[aint]. Tauies day\n \n King. I weare it for a memorable honor:\n For I am Welch you know good Countriman\n \n Flu. All the water in Wye, cannot wash your Maiesties\n Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that:\n God plesse it, and preserue it, as long as it pleases his\n Grace, and his Maiesty too\n \n Kin. Thankes good my Countrymen\n \n Flu. By Ieshu, I am your Maiesties Countreyman, I\n care not who know it: I will confesse it to all the Orld, I\n need not to be ashamed of your Maiesty, praised be God\n so long as your Maiesty is an honest man\n \n King. Good keepe me so.\n Enter Williams.\n \n Our Heralds go with him,\n Bring me iust notice of the numbers dead\n On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither\n \n Exe. Souldier, you must come to the King\n \n Kin. Souldier, why wear'st thou that Gloue in thy\n Cappe?\n Will. And't please your Maiesty, tis the gage of one\n that I should fight withall, if he be aliue\n \n Kin. An Englishman?\n Wil. And't please your Maiesty, a Rascall that swagger'd\n with me last night: who if aliue, and euer dare to\n challenge this Gloue, I haue sworne to take him a boxe\n a'th ere: or if I can see my Gloue in his cappe, which he\n swore as he was a Souldier he would weare (if aliue) I wil\n strike it out soundly\n \n Kin. What thinke you Captaine Fluellen, is it fit this\n souldier keepe his oath\n \n Flu. Hee is a Crauen and a Villaine else, and't please\n your Maiesty in my conscience\n \n King. It may bee, his enemy is a Gentleman of great\n sort quite from the answer of his degree\n \n Flu. Though he be as good a Ientleman as the diuel is,\n as Lucifer and Belzebub himselfe, it is necessary (looke\n your Grace) that he keepe his vow and his oath: If hee\n bee periur'd (see you now) his reputation is as arrant a\n villaine and a Iacke sawce, as euer his blacke shoo trodd\n vpon Gods ground, and his earth, in my conscience law\n King. Then keepe thy vow sirrah, when thou meet'st\n the fellow\n \n Wil. So, I wil my Liege, as I liue\n \n King. Who seru'st thou vnder?\n Will. Vnder Captaine Gower, my Liege\n \n Flu. Gower is a good Captaine, and is good knowledge\n and literatured in the Warres\n \n King. Call him hither to me, Souldier\n \n Will. I will my Liege.\n Enter.\n \n King. Here Fluellen, weare thou this fauour for me, and\n sticke it in thy Cappe: when Alanson and my selfe were\n downe together, I pluckt this Gloue from his Helme: If\n any man challenge this, hee is a friend to Alanson, and an\n enemy to our Person; if thou encounter any such, apprehend\n him, and thou do'st me loue\n \n Flu. Your Grace doo's me as great Honors as can be\n desir'd in the hearts of his Subiects: I would faine see\n the man, that ha's but two legges, that shall find himselfe\n agreefd at this Gloue; that is all: but I would faine see\n it once, and please God of his grace that I might see\n \n King. Know'st thou Gower?\n Flu. He is my deare friend, and please you\n \n King. Pray thee goe seeke him, and bring him to my\n Tent\n \n Flu. I will fetch him.\n Enter.\n \n King. My Lord of Warwick, and my Brother Gloster,\n Follow Fluellen closely at the heeles.\n The Gloue which I haue giuen him for a fauour,\n May haply purchase him a box a'th' eare.\n It is the Souldiers: I by bargaine should\n Weare it my selfe. Follow good Cousin Warwick:\n If that the Souldier strike him, as I iudge\n By his blunt bearing, he will keepe his word;\n Some sodaine mischiefe may arise of it:\n For I doe know Fluellen valiant,\n And toucht with Choler, hot as Gunpowder,\n And quickly will returne an iniurie.\n Follow, and see there be no harme betweene them.\n Goe you with me, Vnckle of Exeter.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n Enter Gower and Williams.\n \n Will. I warrant it is to Knight you, Captaine.\n Enter Fluellen.\n \n Flu. Gods will, and his pleasure, Captaine, I beseech\n you now, come apace to the King: there is more good\n toward you peraduenture, then is in your knowledge to\n dreame of\n \n Will. Sir, know you this Gloue?\n Flu. Know the Gloue? I know the Gloue is a Gloue\n \n Will. I know this, and thus I challenge it.\n \n Strikes him.\n \n Flu. 'Sblud, an arrant Traytor as anyes in the Vniuersall\n World, or in France, or in England\n \n Gower. How now Sir? you Villaine\n \n Will. Doe you thinke Ile be forsworne?\n Flu. Stand away Captaine Gower, I will giue Treason\n his payment into plowes, I warrant you\n \n Will. I am no Traytor\n \n Flu. That's a Lye in thy Throat. I charge you in his\n Maiesties Name apprehend him, he's a friend of the Duke\n Alansons.\n Enter Warwick and Gloucester.\n \n Warw. How now, how now, what's the matter?\n Flu. My Lord of Warwick, heere is, praysed be God\n for it, a most contagious Treason come to light, looke\n you, as you shall desire in a Summers day. Heere is his\n Maiestie.\n Enter King and Exeter.\n \n King. How now, what's the matter?\n Flu. My Liege, heere is a Villaine, and a Traytor,\n that looke your Grace, ha's strooke the Gloue which\n your Maiestie is take out of the Helmet of Alanson\n \n Will. My Liege, this was my Gloue, here is the fellow\n of it: and he that I gaue it to in change, promis'd to weare\n it in his Cappe: I promis'd to strike him, if he did: I met\n this man with my Gloue in his Cappe, and I haue been as\n good as my word\n \n Flu. Your Maiestie heare now, sauing your Maiesties\n Manhood, what an arrant rascally, beggerly, lowsie\n Knaue it is: I hope your Maiestie is peare me testimonie\n and witnesse, and will auouchment, that this is the Gloue\n of Alanson, that your Maiestie is giue me, in your Conscience\n now\n \n King. Giue me thy Gloue Souldier;\n Looke, heere is the fellow of it:\n 'Twas I indeed thou promised'st to strike,\n And thou hast giuen me most bitter termes\n \n Flu. And please your Maiestie, let his Neck answere\n for it, if there is any Marshall Law in the World\n \n King. How canst thou make me satisfaction?\n Will. All offences, my Lord, come from the heart: neuer\n came any from mine, that might offend your Maiestie\n \n King. It was our selfe thou didst abuse\n \n Will. Your Maiestie came not like your selfe: you\n appear'd to me but as a common man; witnesse the\n Night, your Garments, your Lowlinesse: and what\n your Highnesse suffer'd vnder that shape, I beseech you\n take it for your owne fault, and not mine: for had you\n beene as I tooke you for, I made no offence; therefore I\n beseech your Highnesse pardon me\n \n King. Here Vnckle Exeter, fill this Gloue with Crownes,\n And giue it to this fellow. Keepe it fellow,\n And weare it for an Honor in thy Cappe,\n Till I doe challenge it. Giue him the Crownes:\n And Captaine, you must needs be friends with him\n \n Flu. By this Day and this Light, the fellow ha's mettell\n enough in his belly: Hold, there is twelue-pence for\n you, and I pray you to serue God, and keepe you out of\n prawles and prabbles, and quarrels and dissentions, and I\n warrant you it is the better for you\n \n Will. I will none of your Money\n \n Flu. It is with a good will: I can tell you it will serue\n you to mend your shooes: come, wherefore should you\n be so pashfull, your shooes is not so good: 'tis a good\n silling I warrant you, or I will change it.\n Enter Herauld.\n \n King. Now Herauld, are the dead numbred?\n Herald. Heere is the number of the slaught'red\n French\n \n King. What Prisoners of good sort are taken,\n Vnckle?\n Exe. Charles Duke of Orleance, Nephew to the King,\n Iohn Duke of Burbon, and Lord Bouchiquald:\n Of other Lords and Barons, Knights and Squires,\n Full fifteene hundred, besides common men\n \n King. This Note doth tell me of ten thousand French\n That in the field lye slaine: of Princes in this number,\n And Nobles bearing Banners, there lye dead\n One hundred twentie six: added to these,\n Of Knights, Esquires, and gallant Gentlemen,\n Eight thousand and foure hundred: of the which,\n Fiue hundred were but yesterday dubb'd Knights.\n So that in these ten thousand they haue lost,\n There are but sixteene hundred Mercenaries:\n The rest are Princes, Barons, Lords, Knights, Squires,\n And Gentlemen of bloud and qualitie.\n The Names of those their Nobles that lye dead:\n Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France,\n Iaques of Chatilion, Admirall of France,\n The Master of the Crosse-bowes, Lord Rambures,\n Great Master of France, the braue Sir Guichard Dolphin,\n Iohn Duke of Alanson, Anthonie Duke of Brabant,\n The Brother to the Duke of Burgundie,\n And Edward Duke of Barr: of lustie Earles,\n Grandpree and Roussie, Fauconbridge and Foyes,\n Beaumont and Marle, Vandemont and Lestrale.\n Here was a Royall fellowship of death.\n Where is the number of our English dead?\n Edward the Duke of Yorke, the Earle of Suffolke,\n Sir Richard Ketly, Dauy Gam Esquire;\n None else of name: and of all other men,\n But fiue and twentie.\n O God, thy Arme was heere:\n And not to vs, but to thy Arme alone,\n Ascribe we all: when, without stratagem,\n But in plaine shock, and euen play of Battaile,\n Was euer knowne so great and little losse?\n On one part and on th' other, take it God,\n For it is none but thine\n \n Exet. 'Tis wonderfull\n \n King. Come, goe we in procession to the Village:\n And be it death proclaymed through our Hoast,\n To boast of this, or take that prayse from God,\n Which is his onely\n \n Flu. Is it not lawfull and please your Maiestie, to tell\n how many is kill'd?\n King. Yes Captaine: but with this acknowledgement,\n That God fought for vs\n \n Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did vs great good\n \n King. Doe we all holy Rights:\n Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum,\n The dead with charitie enclos'd in Clay:\n And then to Callice, and to England then,\n Where ne're from France arriu'd more happy men.\n \n Exeunt.\n \n \n Actus Quintus.\n \n Enter Chorus.\n \n Vouchsafe to those that haue not read the Story,\n That I may prompt them: and of such as haue,\n I humbly pray them to admit th' excuse\n Of time, of numbers, and due course of things,\n Which cannot in their huge and proper life,\n Be here presented. Now we beare the King\n Toward Callice: Graunt him there; there seene,\n Heaue him away vpon your winged thoughts,\n Athwart the Sea: Behold the English beach\n Pales in the flood; with Men, Wiues, and Boyes,\n Whose shouts & claps out-voyce the deep-mouth'd Sea,\n Which like a mightie Whiffler 'fore the King,\n Seemes to prepare his way: So let him land,\n And solemnly see him set on to London.\n So swift a pace hath Thought, that euen now\n You may imagine him vpon Black-Heath:\n Where, that his Lords desire him, to haue borne\n His bruised Helmet, and his bended Sword\n Before him, through the Citie: he forbids it,\n Being free from vainnesse, and selfe-glorious pride;\n Giuing full Trophee, Signall, and Ostent,\n Quite from himselfe, to God. But now behold,\n In the quick Forge and working-house of Thought,\n How London doth powre out her Citizens,\n The Maior and all his Brethren in best sort,\n Like to the Senatours of th' antique Rome,\n With the Plebeians swarming at their heeles,\n Goe forth and fetch their Conqu'ring C\u00e6sar in:\n As by a lower, but by louing likelyhood,\n Were now the Generall of our gracious Empresse,\n As in good time he may, from Ireland comming,\n Bringing Rebellion broached on his Sword;\n How many would the peacefull Citie quit,\n To welcome him? much more, and much more cause,\n Did they this Harry. Now in London place him.\n As yet the lamentation of the French\n Inuites the King of Englands stay at home:\n The Emperour's comming in behalfe of France,\n To order peace betweene them: and omit\n All the occurrences, what euer chanc't,\n Till Harryes backe returne againe to France:\n There must we bring him; and my selfe haue play'd\n The interim, by remembring you 'tis past.\n Then brooke abridgement, and your eyes aduance,\n After your thoughts, straight backe againe to France.\n Enter.\n \n Enter Fluellen and Gower.\n \n Gower. Nay, that's right: but why weare you your\n Leeke to day? S[aint]. Dauies day is past\n \n Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore\n in all things: I will tell you asse my friend, Captaine\n Gower; the rascally, scauld, beggerly, lowsie, pragging\n Knaue Pistoll, which you and your selfe, and all the World,\n know to be no petter then a fellow, looke you now, of no\n merits: hee is come to me, and prings me pread and\n sault yesterday, looke you, and bid me eate my Leeke:\n it was in a place where I could not breed no contention\n with him; but I will be so bold as to weare it in my Cap\n till I see him once againe, and then I will tell him a little\n piece of my desires.\n Enter Pistoll.\n \n Gower. Why heere hee comes, swelling like a Turkycock\n \n Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings, nor his Turkycocks.\n God plesse you aunchient Pistoll: you scuruie lowsie\n Knaue, God plesse you\n \n Pist. Ha, art thou bedlam? doest thou thirst, base\n Troian, to haue me fold vp Parcas fatall Web? Hence;\n I am qualmish at the smell of Leeke\n \n Flu. I peseech you heartily, scuruie lowsie Knaue, at\n my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eate,\n looke you, this Leeke; because, looke you, you doe not\n loue it, nor your affections, and your appetites and your\n disgestions doo's not agree with it, I would desire you\n to eate it\n \n Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his Goats\n \n Flu. There is one Goat for you.\n \n Strikes him.\n \n Will you be so good, scauld Knaue, as eate it?\n Pist. Base Troian, thou shalt dye\n \n Flu. You say very true, scauld Knaue, when Gods\n will is: I will desire you to liue in the meane time, and\n eate your Victuals: come, there is sawce for it. You\n call'd me yesterday Mountaine-Squier, but I will make\n you to day a squire of low degree. I pray you fall too, if\n you can mocke a Leeke, you can eate a Leeke\n \n Gour. Enough Captaine, you haue astonisht him\n \n Flu. I say, I will make him eate some part of my leeke,\n or I will peate his pate foure dayes: bite I pray you, it is\n good for your greene wound, and your ploodie Coxecombe\n \n Pist. Must I bite\n \n Flu. Yes certainly, and out of doubt and out of question\n too, and ambiguities\n \n Pist. By this Leeke, I will most horribly reuenge I\n eate and eate I sweare\n \n Flu. Eate I pray you, will you haue some more sauce\n to your Leeke: there is not enough Leeke to sweare by\n \n Pist. Quiet thy Cudgell, thou dost see I eate\n \n Flu. Much good do you scald knaue, heartily. Nay,\n pray you throw none away, the skinne is good for your\n broken Coxcombe; when you take occasions to see\n Leekes heereafter, I pray you mocke at 'em, that is all\n \n Pist. Good\n \n Flu. I, Leekes is good: hold you, there is a groat to\n heale your pate\n \n Pist. Me a groat?\n Flu. Yes verily, and in truth you shall take it, or I haue\n another Leeke in my pocket, which you shall eate\n \n Pist. I take thy groat in earnest of reuenge\n \n Flu. If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in Cudgels,\n you shall be a Woodmonger, and buy nothing of\n me but cudgels: God bu'y you, and keepe you, & heale\n your pate.\n \n Exit\n \n Pist. All hell shall stirre for this\n \n Gow. Go, go, you are a counterfeit cowardly Knaue,\n will you mocke at an ancient Tradition began vppon an\n honourable respect, and worne as a memorable Trophee\n of predeceased valor, and dare not auouch in your deeds\n any of your words. I haue seene you gleeking & galling\n at this Gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because\n he could not speake English in the natiue garb, he could\n not therefore handle an English Cudgell: you finde it otherwise,\n and henceforth let a Welsh correction, teach\n you a good English condition, fare ye well.\n \n Exit\n \n Pist. Doeth fortune play the huswife with me now?\n Newes haue I that my Doll is dead i'th Spittle of a malady\n of France, and there my rendeuous is quite cut off:\n Old I do waxe, and from my wearie limbes honour is\n Cudgeld. Well, Baud Ile turne, and something leane to\n Cut-purse of quicke hand: To England will I steale, and\n there Ile steale:\n And patches will I get vnto these cudgeld scarres,\n And swore I got them in the Gallia warres.\n Enter.\n \n Enter at one doore, King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Warwicke, and\n other\n Lords. At another, Queene Isabel, the King, the Duke of\n Bourgougne, and\n other French.\n \n King. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met;\n Vnto our brother France, and to our Sister\n Health and faire time of day: Ioy and good wishes\n To our most faire and Princely Cosine Katherine:\n And as a branch and member of this Royalty,\n By whom this great assembly is contriu'd,\n We do salute you Duke of Burgogne,\n And Princes French and Peeres health to you all\n \n Fra. Right ioyous are we to behold your face,\n Most worthy brother England, fairely met,\n So are you Princes (English) euery one\n \n Quee. So happy be the Issue brother Ireland\n Of this good day, and of this gracious meeting,\n As we are now glad to behold your eyes,\n Your eyes which hitherto haue borne\n In them against the French that met them in their bent,\n The fatall Balls of murthering Basiliskes:\n The venome of such Lookes we fairely hope\n Haue lost their qualitie, and that this day\n Shall change all griefes and quarrels into loue\n \n Eng. To cry Amen to that, thus we appeare\n \n Quee. You English Princes all, I doe salute you\n \n Burg. My dutie to you both, on equall loue.\n Great Kings of France and England: that I haue labour'd\n With all my wits, my paines, and strong endeuors,\n To bring your most Imperiall Maiesties\n Vnto this Barre, and Royall enterview;\n Your Mightinesse on both parts best can witnesse.\n Since then my Office hath so farre preuayl'd,\n That Face to Face, and Royall Eye to Eye,\n You haue congreeted: let it not disgrace me,\n If I demand before this Royall view,\n What Rub, or what Impediment there is,\n Why that the naked, poore, and mangled Peace,\n Deare Nourse of Arts, Plentyes, and ioyfull Births,\n Should not in this best Garden of the World,\n Our fertile France, put vp her louely Visage?\n Alas, shee hath from France too long been chas'd,\n And all her Husbandry doth lye on heapes,\n Corrupting in it owne fertilitie.\n Her Vine, the merry chearer of the heart,\n Vnpruned, dyes: her Hedges euen pleach'd,\n Like Prisoners wildly ouer-growne with hayre,\n Put forth disorder'd Twigs: her fallow Leas,\n The Darnell, Hemlock, and ranke Femetary,\n Doth root vpon; while that the Culter rusts,\n That should deracinate such Sauagery:\n The euen Meade, that erst brought sweetly forth\n The freckled Cowslip, Burnet, and greene Clouer,\n Wanting the Sythe, withall vncorrected, ranke;\n Conceiues by idlenesse, and nothing teemes,\n But hatefull Docks, rough Thistles, Keksyes, Burres,\n Loosing both beautie and vtilitie;\n And all our Vineyards, Fallowes, Meades, and Hedges,\n Defectiue in their natures, grow to wildnesse.\n Euen so our Houses, and our selues, and Children,\n Haue lost, or doe not learne, for want of time,\n The Sciences that should become our Countrey;\n But grow like Sauages, as Souldiers will,\n That nothing doe, but meditate on Blood,\n To Swearing, and sterne Lookes, defus'd Attyre,\n And euery thing that seemes vnnaturall.\n Which to reduce into our former fauour,\n You are assembled: and my speech entreats,\n That I may know the Let, why gentle Peace\n Should not expell these inconueniences,\n And blesse vs with her former qualities\n \n Eng. If Duke of Burgonie, you would the Peace,\n Whose want giues growth to th' imperfections\n Which you haue cited; you must buy that Peace\n With full accord to all our iust demands,\n Whose Tenures and particular effects\n You haue enschedul'd briefely in your hands\n \n Burg. The King hath heard them: to the which, as yet\n There is no Answer made\n \n Eng. Well then: the Peace which you before so vrg'd,\n Lyes in his Answer\n \n France. I haue but with a curselarie eye\n O're-glanc't the Articles: Pleaseth your Grace\n To appoint some of your Councell presently\n To sit with vs once more, with better heed\n To re-suruey them; we will suddenly\n Passe our accept and peremptorie Answer\n \n England. Brother we shall. Goe Vnckle Exeter,\n And Brother Clarence, and you Brother Gloucester,\n Warwick, and Huntington, goe with the King,\n And take with you free power, to ratifie,\n Augment, or alter, as your Wisdomes best\n Shall see aduantageable for our Dignitie,\n Any thing in or out of our Demands,\n And wee'le consigne thereto. Will you, faire Sister,\n Goe with the Princes, or stay here with vs?\n Quee. Our gracious Brother, I will goe with them:\n Happily a Womans Voyce may doe some good,\n When Articles too nicely vrg'd, be stood on\n \n England. Yet leaue our Cousin Katherine here with vs,\n She is our capitall Demand, compris'd\n Within the fore-ranke of our Articles\n \n Quee. She hath good leaue.\n \n Exeunt. omnes.\n \n Manet King and Katherine\n \n King. Faire Katherine, and most faire,\n Will you vouchsafe to teach a Souldier tearmes,\n Such as will enter at a Ladyes eare,\n And pleade his Loue-suit to her gentle heart\n \n Kath. Your Maiestie shall mock at me, I cannot speake\n your England\n \n King. O faire Katherine, if you will loue me soundly\n with your French heart, I will be glad to heare you confesse\n it brokenly with your English Tongue. Doe you\n like me, Kate?\n Kath. Pardonne moy, I cannot tell wat is like me\n \n King. An Angell is like you Kate, and you are like an\n Angell\n \n Kath. Que dit il que Ie suis semblable a les Anges?\n Lady. Ouy verayment (sauf vostre Grace) ainsi dit il\n \n King. I said so, deare Katherine, and I must not blush\n to affirme it\n \n Kath. O bon Dieu, les langues des hommes sont plein de\n tromperies\n \n King. What sayes she, faire one? that the tongues of\n men are full of deceits?\n Lady. Ouy, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits:\n dat is de Princesse\n \n King. The Princesse is the better English-woman:\n yfaith Kate, my wooing is fit for thy vnderstanding, I am\n glad thou canst speake no better English, for if thou\n could'st, thou would'st finde me such a plaine King, that\n thou wouldst thinke, I had sold my Farme to buy my\n Crowne. I know no wayes to mince it in loue, but directly\n to say, I loue you; then if you vrge me farther,\n then to say, Doe you in faith? I weare out my suite: Giue\n me your answer, yfaith doe, and so clap hands, and a bargaine:\n how say you, Lady?\n Kath. Sauf vostre honeur, me vnderstand well\n \n King. Marry, if you would put me to Verses, or to\n Dance for your sake, Kate, why you vndid me: for the one\n I haue neither words nor measure; and for the other, I\n haue no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in\n strength. If I could winne a Lady at Leape-frogge, or by\n vawting into my Saddle, with my Armour on my backe;\n vnder the correction of bragging be it spoken. I should\n quickly leape into a Wife: Or if I might buffet for my\n Loue, or bound my Horse for her fauours, I could lay on\n like a Butcher, and sit like a Iack an Apes, neuer off. But\n before God Kate, I cannot looke greenely, nor gaspe out\n my eloquence, nor I haue no cunning in protestation;\n onely downe-right Oathes, which I neuer vse till vrg'd,\n nor neuer breake for vrging. If thou canst loue a fellow\n of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth Sunne-burning?\n that neuer lookes in his Glasse, for loue of any\n thing he sees there? let thine Eye be thy Cooke. I speake\n to thee plaine Souldier: If thou canst loue me for this,\n take me? if not? to say to thee that I shall dye, is true; but\n for thy loue, by the L[ord]. No: yet I loue thee too. And\n while thou liu'st, deare Kate, take a fellow of plaine and\n vncoyned Constancie, for he perforce must do thee right,\n because he hath not the gift to wooe in other places: for\n these fellowes of infinit tongue, that can ryme themselues\n into Ladyes fauours, they doe alwayes reason themselues\n out againe. What? a speaker is but a prater, a Ryme is\n but a Ballad; a good Legge will fall, a strait Backe will\n stoope, a blacke Beard will turne white, a curl'd Pate will\n grow bald, a faire Face will wither, a full Eye will wax\n hollow: but a good Heart, Kate, is the Sunne and the\n Moone, or rather the Sunne, and not the Moone; for it\n shines bright, and neuer changes, but keepes his course\n truly. If thou would haue such a one, take me? and\n take me; take a Souldier: take a Souldier; take a King.\n And what say'st thou then to my Loue? speake my faire,\n and fairely, I pray thee\n \n Kath. Is it possible dat I sould loue de ennemie of\n Fraunce?\n King. No, it is not possible you should loue the Enemie\n of France, Kate; but in louing me, you should loue\n the Friend of France: for I loue France so well, that I\n will not part with a Village of it; I will haue it all mine:\n and Kate, when France is mine, and I am yours; then yours\n is France, and you are mine\n \n Kath. I cannot tell wat is dat\n \n King. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French, which I am\n sure will hang vpon my tongue, like a new-married Wife\n about her Husbands Necke, hardly to be shooke off; Ie\n quand sur le possession de Fraunce, & quand vous aues le\n possession\n de moy. (Let mee see, what then? Saint Dennis bee\n my speede) Donc vostre est Fraunce, & vous estes mienne.\n It is as easie for me, Kate, to conquer the Kingdome, as to\n speake so much more French: I shall neuer moue thee in\n French, vnlesse it be to laugh at me\n \n Kath. Sauf vostre honeur, le Francois ques vous parleis, il\n & melieus que l' Anglois le quel Ie parle\n \n King. No faith is't not, Kate: but thy speaking of\n my Tongue, and I thine, most truely falsely, must\n needes be graunted to be much at one. But Kate, doo'st\n thou vnderstand thus much English? Canst thou loue\n mee?\n Kath. I cannot tell\n \n King. Can any of your Neighbours tell, Kate? Ile\n aske them. Come, I know thou louest me: and at night,\n when you come into your Closet, you'le question this\n Gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to\n her disprayse those parts in me, that you loue with your\n heart: but good Kate, mocke me mercifully, the rather\n gentle Princesse, because I loue thee cruelly. If euer thou\n beest mine, Kate, as I haue a sauing Faith within me tells\n me thou shalt; I get thee with skambling, and thou\n must therefore needes proue a good Souldier-breeder:\n Shall not thou and I, betweene Saint Dennis and Saint\n George, compound a Boy, halfe French halfe English,\n that shall goe to Constantinople, and take the Turke by\n the Beard. Shall wee not? what say'st thou, my faire\n Flower-de-Luce\n \n Kate. I doe not know dat\n \n King. No: 'tis hereafter to know, but now to promise:\n doe but now promise Kate, you will endeauour for your\n French part of such a Boy; and for my English moytie,\n take the Word of a King, and a Batcheler. How answer\n you. La plus belle Katherine du monde mon trescher & deuin\n deesse\n \n Kath. Your Maiestee aue fause Frenche enough to\n deceiue de most sage Damoiseil dat is en Fraunce\n \n King. Now fye vpon my false French: by mine Honor\n in true English, I loue thee Kate; by which Honor, I dare\n not sweare thou louest me, yet my blood begins to flatter\n me, that thou doo'st; notwithstanding the poore and\n vntempering effect of my Visage. Now beshrew my\n Fathers Ambition, hee was thinking of Ciuill Warres\n when hee got me, therefore was I created with a stubborne\n out-side, with an aspect of Iron, that when I come\n to wooe Ladyes, I fright them: but in faith Kate, the elder\n I wax, the better I shall appeare. My comfort is, that\n Old Age, that ill layer vp of Beautie, can doe no more\n spoyle vpon my Face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at\n the worst; and thou shalt weare me, if thou weare me,\n better and better: and therefore tell me, most faire Katherine,\n will you haue me? Put off your Maiden Blushes,\n auouch the Thoughts of your Heart with the Lookes of\n an Empresse, take me by the Hand, and say, Harry of\n England, I am thine: which Word thou shalt no sooner\n blesse mine Eare withall, but I will tell thee alowd, England\n is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry\n Plantaginet is thine; who, though I speake it before his\n Face, if he be not Fellow with the best King, thou shalt\n finde the best King of Good-fellowes. Come your Answer\n in broken Musick; for thy Voyce is Musick, and\n thy English broken: Therefore Queene of all, Katherine,\n breake thy minde to me in broken English; wilt thou\n haue me?\n Kath. Dat is as it shall please de Roy mon pere\n \n King. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please\n him, Kate\n \n Kath. Den it sall also content me\n \n King. Vpon that I kisse your Hand, and I call you my\n Queene\n \n Kath. Laisse mon Seigneur, laisse, laisse, may foy: Ie ne\n veus point que vous abbaisse vostre grandeus, en baisant le\n main d' une nostre Seigneur indignie seruiteur excuse moy. Ie\n vous supplie mon tres-puissant Seigneur\n \n King. Then I will kisse your Lippes, Kate\n \n Kath. Les Dames & Damoisels pour estre baisee deuant\n leur nopcese il net pas le costume de Fraunce\n \n King. Madame, my Interpreter, what sayes shee?\n Lady. Dat it is not be de fashon pour le Ladies of\n Fraunce; I cannot tell wat is buisse en Anglish\n \n King. To kisse\n \n Lady. Your Maiestee entendre bettre que moy\n \n King. It is not a fashion for the Maids in Fraunce to\n kisse before they are marryed, would she say?\n Lady. Ouy verayment\n \n King. O Kate, nice Customes cursie to great Kings.\n Deare Kate, you and I cannot bee confin'd within the\n weake Lyst of a Countreyes fashion: wee are the makers\n of Manners, Kate; and the libertie that followes\n our Places, stoppes the mouth of all finde-faults, as I\n will doe yours, for vpholding the nice fashion of your\n Countrey, in denying me a Kisse: therefore patiently,\n and yeelding. You haue Witch-craft in your Lippes,\n Kate: there is more eloquence in a Sugar touch of\n them, then in the Tongues of the French Councell; and\n they should sooner perswade Harry of England, then a\n generall Petition of Monarchs. Heere comes your\n Father.\n Enter the French Power, and the English Lords.\n \n Burg. God saue your Maiestie, my Royall Cousin,\n teach you our Princesse English?\n King. I would haue her learne, my faire Cousin, how\n perfectly I loue her, and that is good English\n \n Burg. Is shee not apt?\n King. Our Tongue is rough, Coze, and my Condition\n is not smooth: so that hauing neyther the Voyce nor\n the Heart of Flatterie about me, I cannot so coniure vp\n the Spirit of Loue in her, that hee will appeare in his true\n likenesse\n \n Burg. Pardon the franknesse of my mirth, if I answer\n you for that. If you would coniure in her, you must\n make a Circle: if coniure vp Loue in her in his true\n likenesse, hee must appeare naked, and blinde. Can you\n blame her then, being a Maid, yet ros'd ouer with the\n Virgin Crimson of Modestie, if shee deny the apparance\n of a naked blinde Boy in her naked seeing selfe? It were\n (my Lord) a hard Condition for a Maid to consigne\n to\n \n King. Yet they doe winke and yeeld, as Loue is blind\n and enforces\n \n Burg. They are then excus'd, my Lord, when they see\n not what they doe\n \n King. Then good my Lord, teach your Cousin to\n consent winking\n \n Burg. I will winke on her to consent, my Lord, if you\n will teach her to know my meaning: for Maides well\n Summer'd, and warme kept, are like Flyes at Bartholomew-tyde,\n blinde, though they haue their eyes, and then\n they will endure handling, which before would not abide\n looking on\n \n King. This Morall tyes me ouer to Time, and a hot\n Summer; and so I shall catch the Flye, your Cousin, in\n the latter end, and she must be blinde to\n \n Burg. As Loue is my Lord, before it loues\n \n King. It is so: and you may, some of you, thanke\n Loue for my blindnesse, who cannot see many a faire\n French Citie for one faire French Maid that stands in my\n way\n \n French King. Yes my Lord, you see them perspectiuely:\n the Cities turn'd into a Maid; for they are\n all gyrdled with Maiden Walls, that Warre hath entred\n \n England. Shall Kate be my Wife?\n France. So please you\n \n England. I am content, so the Maiden Cities you\n talke of, may wait on her: so the Maid that stood in\n the way for my Wish, shall shew me the way to my\n Will\n \n France. Wee haue consented to all tearmes of reason\n \n England. Is't so, my Lords of England?\n West. The King hath graunted euery Article:\n His Daughter first; and in sequele, all,\n According to their firme proposed natures\n \n Exet. Onely he hath not yet subscribed this:\n Where your Maiestie demands, That the King of France\n hauing any occasion to write for matter of Graunt, shall\n name your Highnesse in this forme, and with this addition,\n in French: Nostre trescher filz Henry Roy d' Angleterre\n Heretere de Fraunce: and thus in Latine; Praeclarissimus\n Filius noster Henricus Rex Angli\u00e6 & Heres Franciae\n \n France. Nor this I haue not Brother so deny'd,\n But your request shall make me let it passe\n \n England. I pray you then, in loue and deare allyance,\n Let that one Article ranke with the rest,\n And thereupon giue me your Daughter\n \n France. Take her faire Sonne, and from her blood rayse vp\n Issue to me, that the contending Kingdomes\n Of France and England, whose very shoares looke pale,\n With enuy of each others happinesse,\n May cease their hatred; and this deare Coniunction\n Plant Neighbour-hood and Christian-like accord\n In their sweet Bosomes: that neuer Warre aduance\n His bleeding Sword 'twixt England and faire France\n \n Lords. Amen\n \n King. Now welcome Kate: and beare me witnesse all,\n That here I kisse her as my Soueraigne Queene.\n \n Flourish.\n \n Quee. God, the best maker of all Marriages,\n Combine your hearts in one, your Realmes in one:\n As Man and Wife being two, are one in loue,\n So be there 'twixt your Kingdomes such a Spousall,\n That neuer may ill Office, or fell Iealousie,\n Which troubles oft the Bed of blessed Marriage,\n Thrust in betweene the Paction of these Kingdomes,\n To make diuorce of their incorporate League:\n That English may as French, French Englishmen,\n Receiue each other. God speake this Amen\n \n All. Amen\n \n King. Prepare we for our Marriage: on which day,\n My Lord of Burgundy wee'le take your Oath\n And all the Peeres, for suretie of our Leagues.\n Then shall I sweare to Kate, and you to me,\n And may our Oathes well kept and prosp'rous be.\n \n Senet. Exeunt.\n \n Enter Chorus.\n \n Thus farre with rough, and all-vnable Pen,\n Our bending Author hath pursu'd the Story,\n In little roome confining mightie men,\n Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.\n Small time: but in that small, most greatly liued\n This Starre of England. Fortune made his Sword;\n By which, the Worlds best Garden he atchieued:\n And of it left his Sonne Imperiall Lord.\n Henry the Sixt, in Infant Bands crown'd King\n Of France and England, did this King succeed:\n Whose State so many had the managing,\n That they lost France, and made his England bleed:\n Which oft our Stage hath showne; and for their sake,\n In your faire minds let this acceptance take.\n \n FINIS. The Life of Henry the Fift.\n \n \n \n \n Next: The first Part of Henry the Sixt","title":"The Second Part of Henry the Fourth","type":"page"}