what? you poor, bafe, rafcally, cheating, lack-linnen mate; away, you mouldy rogue, away, I'm meat for your mafter.

Pift. I know you, miftrefs Dorothy..

Dol. Away, you cut-purfe rafcal, you filthy bung, away by this wine, I'll thruft my knife in your mouldy chaps, if you play the fawcy cuttle with me, Away,you bottle-ale rafcal, you basket-hilt ftale jugler, you. Since when, I pray you, Sir? what, with two points on your fhoulder? much.

Pift. I will murther your ruff for this.

Fal. No more, Piftol; I wou'd not have you go off here discharge your felf of our company, Piftol.

Hoft. No, good captain Piftol: not here, fweet captain. Dol. Captain! thou abominable damn'd cheater, art thou not asham'd to be call'd captain? if Captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out of taking their names upon you, before you have earn'd them. You a captain! you flave! for what? for tearing a poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-houfe? he a captain! hang him, rogue, he lives upon mouldy ftew'd prunes and dry'd cakes. A captain! these villains will make the word captain as odious as the word occupy; which was an excellent good word, before it was ill forted: therefore captains had need look to it.

Bard. Pray thee, go down, good Ancient.
Fal. Hark thee hither, miftrefs Dol.

Pift. Not I: I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her : I'll be reveng'd on her.

Page. Pray thee, go down.

Pift. I'll fee her damn'd firft: to Pluto's damned lake, to the infernal deep, where Erebus and tortures vile alfo. Hold hook and line, fay I: down! down, dogs; down, fates: have we not Hiren here ?

Hoft. Good captain Peefeel, be quiet, it is very late: I beseech you now, aggravate your choler.

Pift. These be good humours, indeed. Shall packhorfes

And hollow-pamper'd jades of Afia,

Which cannot go but thirty miles a da y,

Compare

Compare with Cafars, and with Cannibals,
And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with
King Cerberus, and let the welkin roar :

Shall we fall foul for toys?

Hoft. By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.

Bard. Begone, good Ancient: this will grow to a brawl anon.

Pift. Die men, like dogs; give crowns like pins; (10) have we not Hiren here?

Hoft. O' my word, captain, there's none fuch here. What the good-jer? do you think, I would deny her? I pray, be quiet.

Pift. Then feed. and be fat, my fair Calipolis; come give me fome fack. Si fortuna me tormente, sperato me

contente.

Fear we broad fides? no, let the fiend give fire:

Give me some fack: and, fweet-heart, lye thou there : Come we to full points here; and are & cætera's nothing?

Fal. Piftol, I would be quiet.

(10) Have we not Hiren bere ?

Hoft. O' my Word, Captain, there's none fuch bere.] i. e. Shall I fear, that have this trufty and invincible Sword by my fide? For, as King Arthur's Swords were call'd Caliburne and Ron; as Edward the Confeffor's, Curtana: as Charlemagne's, Joyeuse; Orlando's, Durindana; Rinaldo's, Fusberta; and Rogero's, Balifarda; fo Piftel, in Imitation of thefe Heroes, calls his Sword Hiren. I have been told, Amadis du Gaul had a Sword of this Name. It seems to belong to fome Spanish Romance, and we may, perhaps, gather the Reason of the Name from that Language. LA CRUSCA explains biriendo, (the Gerund from birir, to strike;) en frappant, battendo, percotendo: From hence it seems probable that Hiren may be deriv'd; and fo fignify a fwashing, cutting Sword- But what wonderful Humour is

there in the good Hoftefs fo innocently mistaking Pistol's Drift, fancying that he meant to fight for a Whore in the Houfe, and therefore telling him. On my word, Captain, there's none Such here; what the good-jer! do you think, I would deny ber?

Pift. (11) Sweet knight, I kifs thy neif: what? we have seen the seven stars.

Dol. Thruft him down ftairs, I cannot endure fuch a fuftian rafcal.

Pift. Thruft him down Stairs; know we not galloway nags?

Fal. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a fhove-groat fhilling: nay, if he do nothing but fpeak nothing, he fhall be nothing here.

Bard. Come, get you down ftairs.

Pift. What, shall we have incifion! fhall we embrew ? then Death rock me afleep, abridge my doleful days: why, then let grievous, ghaftly, gaping wounds untwine the fifters three: come, Atropos, I fay.

[Drawing his Sword. Hoft. Here's goodly ftuff toward.

Fal. Give me my rapier, boy.

Dol. I pr'ythee, Jack, I pr'ythee, do not draw.
Fal. Get you down ftairs.

[Drawing, and driving Pistol out.

(11) Sweet Knight, I kifs thy Neif.] i. e. I kifs thy Fist. Mr. Pope will have it, that neif here is from nativa; i. e. a Woman-Slave that is born in one's house; and that Piftol would kifs Falfaff's domeftick Mistress Dol Tearsheet. But I appeal to every One that shall but read the Scene over, whether This could poffibly be the Poet's Meaning. There is a perfec Fray betwixt Doland Piftol; She calls him an hundred the worst Names fhe can think of: He threatens to murder her ruff, and fays, he could tear her. Bardolph would have him be gone; but He fays, he'll fee her damn'd firft: And Dol, on' the other hand, wants him to be thrust down stairs, and says, She can't endure fuch a Fustian Rafcal. I fhould very little expect, that these Parties, in fuch a Ferment, should come to kiffing. And I am perfuaded, Shakespear thought of no Reconciliation : For the Brawl is kept on, 'till it rifes to drawing Swords; and Pistol, among 'em, is huftled down stairs. I can't think, any more is intended by the Poet than This: that Falfaff, Weary of Piftol's wrangling, tells him, He would be quiet and that Piftol, who had no Quarrel with Sir Joba but a fort of Dependence on him, fpeaks the Knight fair, and tells, him that be kisses bis Fist.

Hoft. Here's a goodly tumult; I'll forfwear keeping houfe, before I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So: murther, I warrant now. Alas, alas, put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons.

Dol. I pr'ythee, Jack, be quiet, the rafcal is ah, you whorson, little valiant villain, you!

gone:

Hoft. Are you not hurt i'th' groin? methought, he made a fhrewd thrust at your belly.

Fal. Have you turn'd him out of doors?

Bard. Yes, Sir, the rafcal's drunk; you have hurt him, Sir, in the shoulder.

Fal. A rafcal, to brave me!

Dol. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you: alas, poor ape, how thou sweat'ft? come, let me wipe thy face come on, you whorfon chops-ah, rogue! I love thee,

-thou art as valourous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon; and ten times better than the nine Worthies: a villain !

Fal. A rafcally flave! I will tofs the rogue in a blanket. Dol. Do, if thou dar'ft for thy heart: if thou do'st, I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

Enter Mufick.

Page. The mufick is come, Sir,

Fal. Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my knee, Dol. A rafcal, bragging flave! the rogue fied from me like quick-filver.

Dol. I'faith, and thou follow'd'ft him like a church: thou whorfon little tidie Bartholomew Boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting on days and foining on nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?

Enter Prince Henry and Poins.

Fal. Peace, good Dol, do not speak like a death'shead: do not bid me remember mine end.

Dol. Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of? Fal. A good fhallow young fellow he would have made a good Pantler, he would have chipp'd bread well. Dol. They fay, Poins has a good wit.

Fal. He a good wit? hang him, baboon !

his wit

is as thick as Tewksbury mustard: there is no more conceit in him, than is in a mallet.

Dol. Why doth the Prince love him fo then?

Fal. Because their legs are both of a bignefs: and he plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles' ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint-ftools, and fwears with a good grace, and wears his boot very smooth like unto the fign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of difcreet ftories; and fuch other gambol faculties he hath, that fhew a weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him: for the Prince himself is fuch another: the weight of an hair will turn the fcales between their Averdupois.

P. Henry. Would not this Nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?

Poins. Let us beat him before his whore.

P. Henry. Look, if the wither'd Elder hath not his poll claw'd like a Parrot.

Poins. Is it not ftrange, that defire fhould fo many years out-live performance?

Fal. Kifs me, Dol.

P. Henry. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! what fays the almanack to that?

Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon his man be not lifping to his mafter's old Tables, his note-book, his counfel-keeper?

Fal. Thou doft give me flattering buffes.

Dol. By my troth I kifs thee with a moft conftant heart.

Fal. I am old, I am old..

Dol. I love thee better than I love e'er a fcurvy young boy of them all.

Fal. What ftuff wilt thou have a kirtle of? I fhall receive mony on Thursday: Thou shalt have a cap to morrow. A merry fong, come: it grows late, we will to bed. Thou wilt forget me, when I am gone.

Dol. By my troth, thou wilt fet me a weeping if thou fay'ft fo: prove, that ever I drefs my felf handsom till thy return Well, hearken the end.

Fal,