Act 2. Scene IV - Page 2

How old art thou, Francis?

FRANCIS
Let me see--about Michaelmas next I shall be--

POINS
[Within] Francis!

FRANCIS
Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord.

PRINCE HENRY
Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou
gavest me,'twas a pennyworth, wast't not?

FRANCIS
O Lord, I would it had been two!

PRINCE HENRY
I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me
when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

POINS
[Within] Francis!

FRANCIS
Anon, anon.

PRINCE HENRY
Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis;
or, Francis, o' Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when
thou wilt. But, Francis!

FRANCIS
My lord?

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

FRANCIS
O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

PRINCE HENRY
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.

FRANCIS
What, sir?

POINS
[Within] Francis!

PRINCE HENRY
Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call?

Here they both call him; the drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go

Enter Vintner

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

Exit Francis

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

PRINCE HENRY
Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.

Exit Vintner

Poins!

Re-enter POINS

POINS
Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE HENRY
Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at
the door: shall we be merry?

POINS
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?

PRINCE HENRY
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.

Re-enter FRANCIS

What's o'clock, Francis?

FRANCIS
Anon, anon, sir.

Exit

PRINCE HENRY
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