Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story,

That I may prompt them; and of such as have,

I humbly pray them to admit the excuse

Of time, of numbers, and due course of things,

Which cannot in their huge and proper life

Be here presented. Now we bear the King

Toward Calais; grant him there; there seen,

Heave him away upon your winged thoughts

Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach

Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,

Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,

Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the King

Seems to prepare his way. So let him land,

And solemnly see him set on to London.

So swift a pace hath thought that even now

You may imagine him upon Blackheath,

Where that his lords desire him to have borne

His bruised helmet and his bended sword

Before him through the city. He forbids it,

Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride;

Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent

Quite from himself to God. But now behold,

In the quick forge and working-house of thought,

How London doth pour out her citizens!

The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,

Like to the senators of th’ antique Rome,

With the plebeians swarming at their heels,

Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in;

As, by a lower but loving likelihood,

Were now the general of our gracious empress,

As in good time he may, from Ireland coming,

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,

How many would the peaceful city quit,

To welcome him! Much more, and much more cause,

Did they this Harry. Now in London place him;

As yet the lamentation of the French

Invites the King of England’s stay at home,

The Emperor’s coming in behalf of France,

To order peace between them;—and omit

All the occurrences, whatever chanc’d,

Till Harry’s back-return again to France.

There must we bring him; and myself have play’d

The interim, by rememb’ring you ’tis past.

Then brook abridgement, and your eyes advance

After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek today?

Saint Davy’s day is past.

There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things. I will

tell you ass my friend, Captain Gower. The rascally, scald, beggarly,

lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and all the world

know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is

come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me

eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not breed no contention

with him; but I will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him

once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.

Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.

’Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you,

Anchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!

Ha! art thou bedlam? Dost thou thirst, base Trojan,

To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web?

Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

I peseech you heartily, scurfy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my

requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek. Because, look

you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and

your digestions does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.

Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

There is one goat for you. [_Strikes him._] Will you be so good, scald

knave, as eat it?

Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

You say very true, scald knave, when God’s will is. I will desire you

to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals. Come, there is sauce

for it. [_Strikes him._] You call’d me yesterday mountain-squire; but I

will make you today a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you

can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

Enough, captain; you have astonish’d him.

I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his

pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and

your ploody coxcomb.

Must I bite?

Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and

ambiguities.

By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I eat and eat, I swear—

Eat, I pray you. Will you have some more sauce to your leek? There is

not enough leek to swear by.

Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.

Much good do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, pray you, throw none

away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions

to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; that is all.

Good.

Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate.

Me a groat!

Yes, verily and in truth you shall take it; or I have another leek in

my pocket, which you shall eat.

I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.

If I owe you anything I will pay you in cudgels. You shall be a

woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. God be wi’ you, and keep

you, and heal your pate.

All hell shall stir for this.

Go, go; you are a couterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an

ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a

memorable trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not avouch in your

deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this

gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak

English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English

cudgel. You find it otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction

teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well.

Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?

News have I, that my Doll is dead i’ the spital

Of malady of France;

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.

Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs

Honour is cudgell’d. Well, bawd I’ll turn,

And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.

To England will I steal, and there I’ll steal;

And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars,

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.