P. Henry. O Villain, thou ftolleft a Cup of Sack eighteen Years ago, and wert taken with the Manner, and ever fince thou haft blush'd extempore; thou hadft Fire and Sword on thy Side, and yet thou ranneft away: What Inftinct hadst thou for it?

Bard. My Lord, do you see these Meteors? Do you be hold thefe Exhalations?

P. Henry. I do.

Bard. What think you they portend?

P. Henry. Hot Livers, and cold Purfes.
Bard. Choler, my Lord, if rightly taken.
P. Henry. No, if rightly taken, Halter.
Enter Falstaff.

Here comes lean Jack, here comes Bare-bone. How now my fweet Creature of Bombaft, how long is't ago, Jack, fince thou faw'ft thine own Knee?

Fal. My own Knee? When I was about thy Years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's Talon in the Wafte, I could have crept into any Alderman's Thumb-Ring: A plague of Sighing and Grief, it blows a Man up like a Bladder. There's villainous News abroad: Here was Sir John Braby · from your Father; you must go to the Court in the Morning. The fame mad Fellow of the North, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the Baftinado, and made Lucifer Cuckold, and fwore the Devil his true LiegeMan upon the Crofs of a Welsh-hook: What a plague call you him?

Poins. O, Glendower.

Fal. Owen, Owen; the fame, and his Son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and the fprightly Scot of Scots, Dowglafs, that runs a Horseback up a Hill perpendi

cular.

P. Henry. He that rides at high speed, and with a Pistol kills a Sparrow flying.

Fal. You have hit it.

P. Henry. So did he never the Sparrow.

Fal. Well, that Rafcal hath good Metal in him, he will

not'run.

P. Henry. Why, what a Rafcal art thou then, to praise him fo for running?

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Fal.

Fal. A Horfeback, ye Cuckow, but afoot he will not budge afoot.

P. Henry. Yes, Jack, upon Instinct.

Fal. I grant ye, upon Inftin&; Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blew-Caps more. Worcefter is ftoll'n away by Night: Thy Father's Beard is turn'd white with the News: You may buy Land now as cheap as ftinking Mackerel.

P. Henry. Then 'tis like, if there come a hot Sun, and this civil buffeting hold, we fhall buy Maidenheads as they buy Hob-nails, by the Hundreds.

Fal. By the Mafs, Lad, thou fay'ft true, it is like we fhall have good trading that Way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horribly afeard? thou being Heir apparent, could the World pick thee out three fuch Enemies again as that Fiend Dowglafs, that Spirit Percy, and that Devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy Blood thrill at it?

P. Henry. Not a whit: I lack fome of thy Instinct.

Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to morrow, when thou com'ft to thy Father: If thou do love me, practife an Answer.

P. Henry. Do thou ftand for my Father, and examine me upon the Particulars of my Life.

Fal, Shall I content: This Chair fhall be my State, this Dagger my Scepter, and this Cufhion my Crown.

P. Henry. Thy State is taken for a joint-Stool, thy gol den Scepter for a leaden Dagger, and thy precious rich Crown for a pitiful bald Crown.

Fal. Well, and the Fire of Grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved: Give me a Cup of Sack to make mine Eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept, for I must speak in paffion, and I will do it in King Cambyfes Vein.

P. Henry. Well, here is my Leg.

Fal. And here is my Speech; ftand afide Nobility.
Hoft. This is excellent Sport, i'faith.

Fal. Weep not, fweet Queen, for trickling Tears are vain.

Hoft. O the Father, how he holds his Countenance? Fal. For God's fake, Lords, convey my triftful Queen, for Tears do ftop the Flood-gates of her Eyes.

Hoft.

Hoft. O rare, he doth it as like one of these harlotry Players, as ever I fee.

Fal. Peace, good Pint-pot, peace good Tickle-brain. Harry, I do not only marvel, where thou fpendeft thy time; but alfo, how thou art accompany'd: For though the Camomil, the more it is trodder, the fafter it grows; yet Youth, the more it is wafted, the fooner it wears. Thou art my Son; I have partly thy Mother's Word, partly my Opinion; but chiefly, a villainous Trick of thine Eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether Lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be Son to me, here lyeth the Point; why, being Son to me, art thou fo pointed at? Shall the bleffed Son of Heav'n prove a Micher, and eat Black-berries? a Question not to be ask'd. Shall the Son of England prove a Thief, and take Purses? a Question to be ask❜d. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our Land, by the Name of Pitch: This Pitch, as ancient Writers do report, doth defile; fo doth the Company thou keepest; for Harry, now I do not fpeak to thee in Drink, but in Tears; not in Pleasure, but in Paffion; not in Words only, but in Woes alfo; and yet there is a virtuous Man, whom I have often noted in thy Company, but I know not his Name.

P. Henry. What manner of Man, and it like your Majesty? Fal. A goodly portly Man i'faith, and corpulent, of a chearful Look, a pleafing Eye, and a moft noble Carri age, and as I think, his. Age fome fifty, or, by'rlady, inclining to threefcore; and now I remember me, his Name is Falstaff: If that Man fhould be lewdly given, he deceives me; for Harry, I fee Virtue in his Looks. If then the Tree may be known by the Fruit, as the Fruit by the Tree, then peremptorily I fpeak it, there is Virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the reft banish. And tell me now, thou naughty Varlet, tell me, where haft thou been this Month?

P. Henry. Doft thou speak like a King? Do thou ftand for me, and I'll play my Father.

Fal. Depofe me! if thou doft it half fo gravely, fo majeftically, both in Word and Matter, hang me up by the Heels for a Rabbet-fucker, or a Poulterers Hare.

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P. Henry.

P. Henry. Well, here I am fet.

Fal. And here I ftand; judge, my Masters.
P. Henry. Now Harry, whence come you?
Fal. My noble Lord, from Eaft-cheap.

P. Henry. The Complaints I hear of thee are grievous. Fal. I'faith, my Lord, they are falfe. Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young Prince.

P. Henry. Sweareft thou, ungracious Boy? Henceforth ne'er look on me; thou art violently carry'd away from Grace; there's a Devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old Man; a Tun of Man is thy Companion: Why doft thou converfe with that Trunk of Humours, that Boulting-Hutch of Beaftlinefs, that fwoln Parcel of Dropfies, that huge Bombard of Sack, that stuft Cloak-bag of Guts, that rofted Manning-Tree Ox with the Puddings in his Belly, that reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that Father Ruffian, that Vanity in Years; wherein is he good, but to tafte Sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a Capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in Craft? Wherein crafty but in Villany? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

Fal. I would your Grace would take me with you: What means your Grace?

P. Henry. That villainous abominable Mif-leader of Youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Sathan.

Fal. My Lord, the Man I know.

P. Henry. I know thou doft.

Fal. But to fay, I know more harm in him than in my felf, were to fay more than I know. That he is old the more's the pity, his white Hairs do witness it; But that he is, faving your Reverence, a Whore-mafter, that I utterly deny. If Sack and Sugar be a Fault, Heav'n help the Wicked: If to be old and merry, be a Sin, then many a Hoft that I know is damn'd: If to be fat, be to be hated, then Pharoah's lean Kine are to be lov'd. No, my good Lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for fweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's Company, banish not him thy Harry's Company; banish plump Jack, and banish all the World.

P. Henry. I do, I will.

Enter Bardolph running.

Bard. O, my Lord, my Lord, the Sheriff with a most monftrous Watch, is at the Door.

Fal. Out you Rogue, play out the Play: I have much to fay in the behalf of that Falstaff.

Enter the Hoftefs.

Hoft. O, my Lord, my Lord.

Fal. Heigh, heigh, the Devil rides upon a Fiddle-stick: What's the Matter?

Hoft. The Sheriff and all the Watch are at the Door: they are come to fearch the Houfe, fhall I let them in?

Fal. Doft thou hear, Hal? never call a true Piece of Gold a Counterfeit: Thou art effentially mad, without feeming fo.

P. Henry. And thou a natural Coward, without Instinct. Fal. I deny your Major; if you will deny the Sheriff, fo; if not, let him enter. If I become not a Cart as well as another Man, a plague on my bringing up; I hope I fhall as foon be ftrangled with a Halter, as another.

P. Henry. Go hide thee behind the Arras, the reft walk above. Now my Mafters, for a true Face and good Confcience.

Fal. Both which I have had; but their Date is out, and therefore I'll hide me.

[Exeunt Falstaff, Bardolph, &c.

P. Henry. Call in the Sheriff.

Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.

P. Henry. Now Mafter Sheriff, what is your Will with me? Sher. Fift, pardon me, my Lord. A Hue and Cry hath follow'd certain Men unto this House.

P. Henry. What Men?

Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious Lord, a grofs fat Man.

Car. As fat as Butter.

P. Henry. The Man, I do affure you is not here,
For I my felf at this time have imploy'd him;
And, Sheriff, I will engage my Word to thee,
That I will, by to Morrow Dinner time,
Send him to answer thee, or any Man,

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