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 base-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 honour 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.—Look down into the Pomegarnet, 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?

[_Here they both call him; the Drawer stands amazed, not knowing which

way to go._]

What, stand’st thou still, and hear’st 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 awhile, 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 humours that have showed themselves humours 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.

wine.

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

nether-stocks, 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 villanous 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, wool-sack, 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 drunk’st 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. 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

Ebrew 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.

[_aside to Poins._] 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.

O 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 the 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

sayest 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 upon compulsion, 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—O, 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 ran 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 say’st 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 spear-grass 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 ran’st 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 villanous 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?

O, 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 hill perpendicular—

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 metal 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 sayest 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 practise 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!

For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful Queen,

For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.

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, yet 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.—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 humours, 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 grey 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 villany?

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

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.

Now, master sheriff, what is your will with me?

First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry

Hath followed certain men unto this house.

What men?

One of them is well known, my gracious lord,

A gross fat man.

As fat as butter.

The man I do assure you is not here,

For I myself at this time have employ’d him.

And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee,

That I will by tomorrow dinner-time,

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For anything he shall be charged withal.

And so let me entreat you leave the house.

I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

It may be so. If he have robb’d these men,

He shall be answerable; and so, farewell.

Good night, my noble lord.

I think it is good morrow, is it not?

Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock.

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.

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.

O 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 honourable.

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.