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 plague upon

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! [_They whistle._] Whew! A

plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues, give me my horse and

be hanged!

[_Coming forward._] Peace, you fat guts, lie down, lay thine ear close

to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

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.

O, ’tis our setter. I know his voice.

Comes forward with Bardolph and Peto.

What news?

Case ye, case ye, on with your visards. 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 Prince Henry._] Here, hard by. Stand close.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I. Every man to his

business.

Come, neighbour, the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we’ll

walk afoot awhile and ease our legs.

Stand!

Jesu 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!

O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever!

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 grandjurors, 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 for ever.

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 valour in that Poins than in a wild duck.

Your money!

Villains!

[_Falstaff after a blow or two, and the others run away, leaving the

booty behind them._]

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse.

The thieves are all scatter’d, and possess’d 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!