Henry IV, Part One

Now Hal, what time of day is it lad?

Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Indeed you come near me now, Hal, for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, "he, that wand'ring knight so fair." And I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art a king, as god save thy grace — "majesty" I should say, for grace thou wilt have none —

What, none?

No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly.

Marry then, sweet wag, when thou art king let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon, and let men say we be men of good government, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

Thou sayst well, and it holds well too, for the fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed as the sea is by the moon. As for proof now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing "lay by!", and spent with crying "bring in!"; now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

By the lord, thou sayst true, lad; and is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

How now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

No, I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

Yea and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch, and where it would not I have used my credit.

Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent — but I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king, and resolution thus fubbed as it is with the rusty curb of old Father Antic the law? Do not thou when thou art king hang a thief.

No, thou shalt.

Shall I? Oh, rare! By the lord, I'll be a brave judge.

Thou judgest false already. I mean thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humor as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.

For obtaining of suits?

Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat, or a lugged bear.

Or an old lion, or a lover's lute.

Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

What sayst thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moorditch?

Thou hast the most unsavory similes, and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest sweet young prince. But Hal, I prithee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to god thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.

Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the streets and no man regards it.

Oh, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal, god forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over. By the lord, an I do not, I am a villain. I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?

Zounds, where thou wilt, lad, I'll make one; an I do not, call me villain and baffle me.

I see a good amendment of life in thee, from praying to purse-taking.

Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.

Poins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried "Stand!" to a true man.

Good morrow Ned.

Good morrow, sweet Hal. [To Falstaff] What says Monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack and Sugar: Jack? How agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good Friday last, for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?

Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs: he will give the devil his due.

[To Falstaff] Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.

Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.

But my lads, my lads, tomorrow morning by four o'clock early at Gad's Hill, there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies tonight in Rochester. I have bespoke supper tomorrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hanged.

Hear ye Yedward, if I tarry at home and go not I'll hang you for going.

You will, chops?

Hal, wilt thou make one?

Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap.

Why that's well said.

Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

By the lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king.

I care not.

Sir John, I prithee leave the prince and me alone. I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go.

Well, god give thee the spirit of persuasion and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may — for recreation sake — prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell, you shall find me in Eastcheap.

Farewell, the latter spring; farewell, All-Hallown summer.

Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us tomorrow. I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Peto, Bardolph, and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid — yourself and I will not be there — and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.

How shall we part with them in setting forth?

Why, we will set forth before or after them and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail. And then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves, which they shall have no sooner achieved but we'll set upon them.

Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment to be ourselves.

Tut, our horses they shall not see — I'll tie them in the wood; our vizards we will change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.

Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty at least he fought with, what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lives the jest.

Well, I'll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary, and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap; there I'll sup. Farewell.

Farewell, my lord.

Heigh-ho! An it be not four by the day, I'll be hanged. Charles's Wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not packed. What, ostler!

[Within] Anon, anon!

I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the point. Poor jade is wrung in the withers, out of all cess.

Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots. This house is turned upside down since Robin Ostler died.

Poor fellow never joyed since the price of oats rose; it was the death of him.

I think this be the most villainous house in all London road for fleas. I am stung like a tench.

Like a tench? By the mass, there is ne'er a king Christian could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.

Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we leak in your chimney, and your chamber-lye breeds fleas like a loach.

What, ostler! Come away and be hanged, come away!

I have a gammon of bacon and two races of ginger to be delivered as far as Charing Cross.

God's body, the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved! What, ostler! A plague on thee, hast thou never an eye in thy head? Canst not hear? An 'twere not as good deed as drink to break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged! Hast no faith in thee?

Good morrow, carriers. What's o'clock?

I think it be two o'clock.

I prithee lend me thy lantern to see my gelding in the stable.

Nay, by god, soft. I know a trick worth two of that, i'faith.

[To Second Carrier] I pray thee, lend me thine.

Ay, when? Canst tell? "Lend me thy lantern," quoth he. Marry, I'll see thee hanged first.

Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbor Mugs, we'll call up the gentlemen. They will along with company, for they have great charge.

What ho, chamberlain!

"At hand, quoth pickpurse."

That's even as fair as "at hand, quoth the chamberlain," for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from laboring: thou layest the plot how.

Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight. There's a franklin in the Weald of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold. I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper, a kind ofauditor, one that hath abundance of charge too, god knows what. They are up already, and call for eggs and butter; they will away presently.

Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas's clerks, I'll give thee this neck.

No, I'll none of it: I pray thee keep that for the hangman, for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may.

What talkest thou to me of the hangman? If I hang, I'll make a fat pair of gallows, for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he is no starveling. Tut, there are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which for sport's sake are content to do the profession some grace, that would, if matters should be looked into, for their own credit's sake make all whole. I am joined with no foot-landrakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquility, burgomasters and great oneyers; such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray. And yet, zounds, I lie, for they pray continually to their saint the commonwealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her; for they ride up and down on her and make her their boots.

What, the commonwealth their boots? Will she hold out water in foul way?

She will, she will, justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cocksure; we have the recipe of fernseed, we walk invisible.

Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fernseed for your walking invisible.

Give me thy hand; thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man.

Nay, rather let me have it as you are a false thief.

Go to, "homo" is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

Come, shelter, shelter! I have removed Falstaff's horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.

Stand close.

Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! What a brawling dost thou keep!

Where's Poins, Hal?

He is walked up to the top of the hill. I'll go seek him.

I am accursed to rob in that thief's company. The rascal hath removed my horse and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the square further afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death, for all this if I scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two-and-twenty years, and yet I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged. It could not be else — I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! A plagueupon you both! Bardolph! Peto! I'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me, and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough. A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!

Whew! A plague upon you all!

Give me my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hanged!

Peace, ye fat-guts. Lie down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travelers.

Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood, I'll not bear my own flesh so far afoot again for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

Thou liest: thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's son.

Out, ye rogue, shall I be your ostler?

Hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison. When a jest is so forward — and afoot too — I hate it.

Stand!

So I do, against my will.

Oh, 'tis our setter, I know his voice. Bardolph, what news?

Case ye, case ye, on with your vizards! There's money of the king's coming down the hill; 'tis going to the king's exchequer.

You lie, ye rogue, 'tis going to the king's tavern.

There's enough to make us all.

To be hanged.

Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane. Ned Poins and I will walk lower. If they scape from your encounter, then they light on us.

How many be there of them?

Some eight or ten.

Zounds, will they not rob us?

What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

Indeed I am not John of Gaunt your grandfather, but yet no coward, Hal.

Well, we leave that to the proof.

Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge. When thou need'st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.

Now cannot I strike him if I should be hanged.

[Aside to Poins] Ned, where are our disguises?

[Aside to the prince] Here, hard by, stand close.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every 810man to his business.

Come, neighbor, the boy shall lead our horses down the hill. We'll walk afoot a while, and ease their legs.

Stand!

Jesus bless us!

Strike, down with them, cut the villains' throats. Ah, whoreson caterpillars, bacon-fed knaves! They hate us youth. Down with them, fleece them!

Oh, we are undone, both we and ours forever!

Hang, ye gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs, I would your store were here. On, bacons, on! What, ye knaves, young men must live. You are grand-jurors, are ye? We'll jure ye, faith.

The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest forever.

Stand close, I hear them coming.

Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. An the prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's no equity stirring. There's no more valor in that Poins than in a wild duck.

Your money.

Villains!

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse. The thieves are all scattered and possessed with fear so strongly that they dare not meet each other. Each takes his fellow for an officer. Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death, and lards the lean earth as he walks along. Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

How the fat rogue roared!

"But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house." He could be contented; why is he not then? In respect of the love he bears our house! He shows in this he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous," — Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower safety. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition." Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! Bythe lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid, our friends true and constant; a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan! Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides the Douglas? Have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? And are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this, an infidel! Ha, you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the king, and lay open all our proceedings! Oh, I could divide myself and go to buffets for moving such a dish of skim-milk with so honorable an action! Hang him! Let him tell the king; we are prepared. I will set forward tonight.

How now, Kate? I must leave you within these two hours.

Ned, prithee come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

Where hast been, Hal?

With three or four loggerheads, amongst three or fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very bass-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their Christian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy, and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy (by the lord, so they call me) and when I am king of England I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep "dyeing scarlet," and when you breathe in your watering they cry "hem!" and bid you "play it off!" To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee Ned, thou hast lost much honor that thou wert not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned — to sweeten which name of Ned I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now into my hand by an underskinker, one that never spake other English in his life than "Eight shillings and sixpence," and "You are welcome," with this shrill addition, "Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon!" or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar, and do thou never leave calling "Francis!" that his tale to me may be nothing but "Anon!" Step aside, and I'll show thee a precedent.

[Within] Francis!

Thou art perfect.

[Within] Francis!

Anon, anon, sir! [Calling] Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph!

Come hither, Francis.

My lord.

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Forsooth, five years, and as much as to —

[Within] Francis!

Anon, anon, sir.

Five year! By'r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture, and show it a fair pair of heels, and run from it?

O lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart —

[Within] Francis!

Anon sir.

How old art thou Francis?

Let me see, about Michaelmas next I shall be —

[Within] Francis!

Anon sir. Pray stay a little my lord.

Nay, but hark you, Francis. For the sugar thou gavest me, 'twas a pennyworth, was't not?

O lord, I would it had been two!

I will give thee for it a thousand pound. Ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

[Within] Francis!

Anon, anon.

Anon, Francis? No, Francis, but tomorrow, Francis; or, Francis, a-Thursday; or, indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But Francis —

My lord?

Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue Spanish pouch?

O lord, sir, who do you mean?

Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink! For look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully. In Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.

What sir?

[Within] Francis!

Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them call?

What, standest thou still, and hearest such a calling? Look to the guests within.

My lord, old Sir John with half a dozen more are at the door. Shall I let them in?

Let them alone a while, and then open the door.

Poins!

Anon, anon sir!

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door. Shall we be merry?

As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye, what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come, what's the issue?

I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.

What's o'clock Francis?

Anon, anon, sir.

That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, "Fie upon this quiet life! I want work." "O my sweet Harry," says she, "how many hast thou killed today?" "Give my roan horse a drench," says he, and answers, "Some fourteen," an hour after; "a trifle, a trifle." I prithee call in Falstaff. I'll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. "Rivo!" says the drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow.

Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?

A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew netherstocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant?

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter (pitiful hearted Titan!) that melted at the sweet tale of the sun's? If thou didst, then behold that compound.

You rogue, here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man, yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villainous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack, die when thou wilt. If manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There lives not three good men unhanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows old, god help the while. A bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver, I could sing psalms, or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still.

How now, woolsack, what mutter you?

A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You, Prince of Wales!

Why, you whoreson round man, what's the matter?

Are not you a coward? Answer me to that. And Poins there?

Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the lord I'll stab thee.

I call thee coward? I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward, but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack. I am a rogue if I drunk today.

O villain, thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last.

All is one for that.

A plague of all cowards, still say I.

What's the matter?

What's the matter? There be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning.

Where is it, Jack, where is it?

Where is it? Taken from us it is. A hundred upon poor four of us.

What, a hundred, man?

I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them, two hours together. I have scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hacked like a handsaw. Ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak. [Indicates Gadshill, Peto, and Bardolph.] If they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.

Speak sirs, how was it?

We four set upon some dozen —

Sixteen at least, my lord.

And bound them.

No, no, they were not bound.

You rogue, they were bound every man of them, or I am a Jew else, an Hebrew Jew.

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.

And unbound the rest; and then come in the other.

What, fought you with them all?

All? I know not what you call all, but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish. If there were not two- or three-and-fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

Pray god you have not murdered some of them.

Nay, that's past praying for. I have peppered two of them. Two I am sure I have paid — two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.

What, four? Thou saidst but two even now.

Four, Hal, I told thee four.

Ay, ay, he said four.

These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

Seven? Why, there were but four even now.

In buckram?

Ay, four in buckram suits.

Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

Prithee, let him alone. We shall have more anon.

Dost thou hear me, Hal?

Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of —

So, two more already.

Their points being broken —

Down fell their hose.

Began to give me ground. But I followed me close, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

Oh, monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two!

But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

These lies are like their father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch —

What, art thou mad? Art thou mad? Is not the truth the truth?

Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason. What sayst thou to this?

Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

What, upon compulsion? Zounds, an I were at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion? If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason uponcompulsion, I.

I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh —

'Sblood, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish. Oh, for breath to utter what is like thee! You tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!

Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again, and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Mark, Jack.

We two saw you four set on four, and bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house. And Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still run and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now?

By the lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear you, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true prince — instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life: I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But by the lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch tonight, pray tomorrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry, shall we have a play extempore?

Content, and the argument shall be thy running away.

Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.

O Jesu, my lord the prince!

How now, my lady the hostess, what sayst thou to me?

Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door would speak with you. He says he comes from your father.

Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him back again to my mother.

What manner of man is he?

An old man.

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his answer?

Prithee do, Jack.

Faith, and I'll send him packing.

Now sirs, by'r Lady, you fought fair; so did you, Peto; so did you, Bardolph. You are lions, too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince, no fie!

Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's sword so hacked?

Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and said he would swear truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like.

Yea, and to tickle our noses with speargrass, to make them bleed; and then to beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before — I blushed to hear his monstrous devices.

O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rannest away. What instinct hadst thou for it?

My lord, do you see these meteors? Do you behold these exhalations?

I do.

What think you they portend?

Hot livers, and cold purses.

Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

No, if rightly taken, halter. Here comes lean Jack; here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?

My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the waist; 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 Bracy from your father; you must to the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the North, Percy, and he of Wales that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook — what a plague call you him?

Owen Glendower.

Owen, Owen, the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs a-horseback up a hillperpendicular —

He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying.

You have hit it.

So did he never the sparrow.

Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him, he will not run.

Why, what a rascal art thou, then, to praise him so for running!

A-horseback, ye cuckoo, but afoot he will not budge a foot.

Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester is stolen away tonight. Thy father's beard is turned white with the news. You may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.

Why then, it is like, if there come a hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hobnails: by the hundreds.

By the mass, lad, thou sayst true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? Thou being heir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?

Not a whit, i'faith. I lack some of thy instinct.

Well, thou wilt be horribly chid tomorrow when thou comest to thy father. If thou love me, practice an answer.

Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life.

Shall I? Content. This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown.

Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept;for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein.

Well, here is my leg.

And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility.

O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i'faith.

Weep not, sweet Queen, for trickling tears are vain.

O the Father, how he holds his countenance!

O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see!

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain. —Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, so youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own 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 lies the point. Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? A question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? A question to be asked. 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. So doth the company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

What manner of man, an it like your majesty?

A goodly, portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore. And now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then peremptorily I speak it: there is virtue in that Falstaff. Him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?

Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my father.

Depose me. If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit sucker, or a poulter's hare.

Well, here I am set.

And here I stand. Judge, my masters.

Now, Harry, whence come you?

My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

'Sblood, my lord, they are false. [Aside] Nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince i'faith.

Swearest thou, ungracious boy? Henceforth ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace. There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humors, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that gray Iniquity, that father Ruffian, that Vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in craft? Wherein crafty, but in villainy? Wherein villainous, but in all things? Wherein worthy, but in nothing?

I would your grace would take me with you. Whom means your grace?

That villainous, abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff; that old white-bearded Satan.

My lord, the man I know.

I know thou dost.

But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it. But that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, god help the wicked. If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet 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.

I do, I will.

O my lord, my lord, the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.

Out, ye rogue! Play out the play! I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

O Jesu! My lord, my lord!

Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick! What's the matter?

The sheriff and all the watch are at the door. They are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?

Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit. Thou art essentially made, without seeming so.

And thou a natural coward without instinct.

I deny your major. If you will deny the sheriff, so. 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 shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.

Go, hide thee behind the arras. The rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

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

Call in the sheriff.

This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's. Go call him forth.

Falstaff!

Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.

Hark how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

What hast thou found?

Nothing but papers, my lord.

Let's see what they be, read them.

[reading] Item: a capon. 2s. 2d.

Item: sauce. 4d.

Item: sack, two gallons. 5s. 8d.

Item: anchovies and sack after supper. 2s. 6d.

Item: bread. ob.

Oh, monstrous! But one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we'll read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day. I'll to the court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honorable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot, and I know his death will be a march of twelve score. The money shall be paid back again, with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so good morrow, Peto.

Good morrow, good my lord.

Lord Mortimer and cousin Glendower, will you sit down? And uncle Worcester — a plague upon it, I have forgot the map!

Why, so it would have done at the same season if your mother's cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born.

'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so come in when ye will.

Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown. I am withered like an old apple-john. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.

Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long.

Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy song, make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous enough: swore little, diced not above seven times — a week, went to a bawdy-house not above once in a quarter — of an hour, paid money that I borrowed — three or four times, lived well, and in good compass. And now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop — but 'tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.

Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death's head, or a memento mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire and Dives that lived in purple — for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be "By this fire that's god's angel!" But thou art altogether given over, and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rannest up Gad's Hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. Oh, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern — but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years, god reward me for it.

'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!

God-a-mercy! So should I be sure to be heartburnt.

How now, Dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired yet who picked my pocket?

Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? Do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I have enquired; so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.

Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved and lost many a hair, and I'll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go.

Who, I? No, I defy thee! God's light, I was never called so in mine own house before.

Go to, I know you well enough.

No, Sir John, you do not know me, Sir John; I know you, Sir John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

Dowlas, filthy dowlas. I have given them away to bakers' wives; they have made bolters of them.

Now as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John: for your diet, and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.

[Indicating Bardolph.] He had his part of it, let him pay.

He? Alas he is poor, he hath nothing.

How, poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks, I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.

[To Bardolph] O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper.

How? The prince is a Jack, a sneak-up. 'Sblood, an he were here I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so.

How now, lad, is the wind in that door, i'faith? Must we all march?

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

My lord, I pray you hear me.

What sayst thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well, he is an honest man.

Good my lord, hear me!

Prithee, let her alone, and list to me.

What sayst thou, Jack?

The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras, and had my pocket picked. This house is turned bawdy-house: they pick pockets.

What didst thou lose, Jack?

Wilt thou believe me, Hal, three or four bonds of forty pound apiece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.

A trifle, some eightpenny matter.

So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your grace say so; and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.

What? He did not!

There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and, for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go!

Say, what thing, what thing?

What thing? Why, a thing to thank god on.

I am no thing to thank god on. I would thou shouldst know it, I am an honest man's wife; and setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.

Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.

Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

What beast? Why an otter.

An otter, Sir John? Why an otter?

Why? She's neither fish nor flesh, a man knows not where to have her.

Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou.

Thou sayst true, hostess, and he slanders thee most grossly.

So he doth you my lord, and said this other day you owed him a thousand pound.

Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

A thousand pound, Hal? A million! Thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy love.

Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.

Did I, Bardolph?

Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

Yea, if he said my ring was copper.

I say 'tis copper, darest thou be as good as thy word now?

Why, Hal, thou knowest as thou art but man I dare, but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp.

And why not as the lion?

The king himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray god my girdle break.

Oh, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses, and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded — if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am a villain. And yet you will stand to it, you will not pocket up wrong. Art thou not ashamed?

Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell, and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confess, then, you picked my pocket?

It appears so by the story.

Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast. Love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason; thou seest I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, be gone.

Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the robbery, lad, how is that answered?

Oh, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee. The money is paid back again.

Oh, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labor.

I am good friends with my father and may do anything.

Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou dost, and do it with unwashed hands too.

Do, my lord.

I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.

I would it had been of horse! Where shall I find one that can steal well? Oh, for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, god be thanked for these rebels: they offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.

Bardolph!

My lord?

What letters hast thou there? [To Douglas] I can but thank you.

Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton Coldfield tonight.

Will you give me money, captain?

Lay out, lay out.

This bottle makes an angel.

An if it do, take it for thy labor; an if it make twenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town's end.

I will, captain. Farewell.

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press damnably. I have got in exchange of one hundred and fifty soldiers three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons, enquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice on the banns, such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lief hear the devil as a drum, such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I pressed me none but such toasts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ensigns, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies — slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores — and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fallen, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dishonorable-ragged than an old faz'd ancient. And such have I to fill up the rooms of them as have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on, for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's not a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Albans, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on every hedge.

How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?

What, Hal! How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good lord of Westmorland, I cry you mercy! I thought your honor had already been at Shrewsbury.

Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my powers are there already. The king, I can tell you, looks for us all. We must away all night.

Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.

I think to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?

Mine, Hal, mine.

I did never see such pitiful rascals.

Tut, tut, good enough to toss, food for powder, food for powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

Ay, but Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly.

Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that, and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me.

No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers in the ribs bare. But sirrah, make haste. Percy is already in the field.

Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, and bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship.

Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell.

I would 'twere bed-time, Hal, and all well.

Why, thou owest god a death.

'Tis not due yet — I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word "honor"? What is that "honor"? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a'Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. 'Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.

Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here. Here's no scoring but upon the pate. Soft! Who are you? Sir Walter Blunt. There's honor for you. Here's no vanity. I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered; there's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here?

O Hal, I prithee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.

Nay, before god, Hal, if Percy be alive thou gets not my sword; but take my pistol if thou wilt.

Ay, Hal, 'tis hot, 'tis hot. There's that will sack a city.

Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so. If he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath. Give me life, which if I can save, so; if not, honor comes unlooked for, and there's an end.

Well said, Hal! To it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy's play here, I can tell you.

Embowelled? If thou embowel me today, I'll give you leave to powder me, and eat me too, tomorrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me, scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man. But to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure; yea, and I'll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah, [stabbing him] with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.

No, that's certain: I am not a double man. But if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a jack.

There is Percy. If your father will do me any honor, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.

Didst thou? Lord, lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I was down and out of breath, and so was he; but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valor bear the sin upon their own heads. I'll take it upon my death I gave him this wound in the thigh. If the man were alive and would deny it, zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword.

I'll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, god reward him. If I do grow great, I'll grow less; for I'll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly, as a nobleman should do.