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-coloured 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 Phœbus, he, that wand’ring knight

so fair. And I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art 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 sayest 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 say’st 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? O 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 humour, 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 sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?

Thou hast the most unsavoury 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.

O, 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 labour 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.—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.

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 visards 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

cam’st 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, thou 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, Bardolph, Peto, 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.

But 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

visards 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.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold

The unyok’d humour of your idleness.

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world,

That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work;

But, when they seldom come, they wish’d-for come,

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

So when this loose behaviour I throw off,

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am,

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;

And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes

Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill,

Redeeming time, when men think least I will.