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    Act 3. Scene II

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    Chapter 9
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    SCENE II. London. The palace.

    Enter KING HENRY IV, PRINCE HENRY, and others
    Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I
    Must have some private conference; but be near at hand,
    For we shall presently have need of you.

    Exeunt Lords

    I know not whether God will have it so,
    For some displeasing service I have done,
    That, in his secret doom, out of my blood
    He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
    But thou dost in thy passages of life
    Make me believe that thou art only mark'd
    For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven
    To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,
    Could such inordinate and low desires,
    Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,
    Such barren pleasures, rude society,
    As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,
    Accompany the greatness of thy blood
    And hold their level with thy princely heart?

    So please your majesty, I would I could
    Quit all offences with as clear excuse
    As well as I am doubtless I can purge
    Myself of many I am charged withal:
    Yet such extenuation let me beg,
    As, in reproof of many tales devised,
    which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,
    By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,
    I may, for some things true, wherein my youth
    Hath faulty wander'd and irregular,
    Find pardon on my true submission.

    God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,
    At thy affections, which do hold a wing
    Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
    Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost.
    Which by thy younger brother is supplied,
    And art almost an alien to the hearts
    Of all the court and princes of my blood:
    The hope and expectation of thy time
    Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man
    Prophetically doth forethink thy fall.
    Had I so lavish of my presence been,
    So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,
    So stale and cheap to vulgar company,
    Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
    Had still kept loyal to possession
    And left me in reputeless banishment,
    A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.
    By being seldom seen, I could not stir
    But like a comet I was wonder'd at;
    That men would tell their children 'This is he;'
    Others would say 'Where, which is Bolingbroke?'
    And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
    And dress'd myself in such humility
    That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
    Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,
    Even in the presence of the crowned king.
    Thus did I keep my person fresh and new;
    My presence, like a robe pontifical,
    Ne'er seen but wonder'd at: and so my state,
    Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast
    And won by rareness such solemnity.
    The skipping king, he ambled up and down
    With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,
    Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,
    Mingled his royalty with capering fools,
    Had his great name profaned with their scorns
    And gave his countenance, against his name,
    To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push
    Of every beardless vain comparative,
    Grew a companion to the common streets,
    Enfeoff'd himself to popularity;
    That, being daily swallow'd by men's eyes,
    They surfeited with honey and began
    To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
    More than a little is by much too much.
    So when he had occasion to be seen,
    He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
    Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes
    As, sick and blunted with community,
    Afford no extraordinary gaze,
    Such as is bent on sun-like majesty
    When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;
    But rather drowzed and hung their eyelids down,
    Slept in his face and render'd such aspect
    As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
    Being with his presence glutted, gorged and full.
    And in that very line, Harry, standest thou;
    For thou has lost thy princely privilege
    With vile participation: not an eye
    But is a-weary of thy common sight,
    Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more;
    Which now doth that I would not have it do,
    Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

    I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord,
    Be more myself.

    For all the world
    As thou art to this hour was Richard then
    When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh,
    And even as I was then is Percy now.
    Now, by my sceptre and my soul to boot,
    He hath more worthy interest to the state
    Than thou the shadow of succession;
    For of no right, nor colour like to right,
    He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
    Turns head against the lion's armed jaws,
    And, being no more in debt to years than thou,
    Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on
    To bloody battles and to bruising arms.
    What never-dying honour hath he got
    Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds,
    Whose hot incursions and great name in arms
    Holds from all soldiers chief majority
    And military title capital
    Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ:
    Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,
    This infant warrior, in his enterprises
    Discomfited great Douglas, ta'en him once,
    Enlarged him and made a friend of him,
    To fill the mouth of deep defiance up
    And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
    And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
    The Archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,
    Capitulate against us and are up.
    But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?
    Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
    Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?
    Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
    Base inclination and the start of spleen
    To fight against me under Percy's pay,
    To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,
    To show how much thou art degenerate.

    Do not think so; you shall not find it so:
    And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
    Your majesty's good thoughts away from me!
    I will redeem all this on Percy's head
    And in the closing of some glorious day
    Be bold to tell you that I am your son;
    When I will wear a garment all of blood
    And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
    Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it:
    And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
    That this same child of honour and renown,
    This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
    And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.
    For every honour sitting on his helm,
    Would they were multitudes, and on my head
    My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
    That I shall make this northern youth exchange
    His glorious deeds for my indignities.
    Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
    To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
    And I will call him to so strict account,
    That he shall render every glory up,
    Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
    Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
    This, in the name of God, I promise here:
    The which if He be pleased I shall perform,
    I do beseech your majesty may salve
    The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:
    If not, the end of life cancels all bands;
    And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
    Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

    A hundred thousand rebels die in this:
    Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

    Enter BLUNT

    How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.

    So hath the business that I come to speak of.
    Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word
    That Douglas and the English rebels met
    The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury
    A mighty and a fearful head they are,
    If promises be kept on every hand,
    As ever offer'd foul play in the state.

    The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;
    With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;
    For this advertisement is five days old:
    On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;
    On Thursday we ourselves will march: our meeting
    Is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you shall march
    Through Gloucestershire; by which account,
    Our business valued, some twelve days hence
    Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.
    Our hands are full of business: let's away;
    Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay.


    Scene III
    Eastcheap. The Boar's-Head Tavern.


    Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last
    action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why my
    skin hangs about me like an like an old lady's loose
    gown; I am withered like an old apple-john. Well,
    I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some
    liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I
    shall have no strength to repent. An I have not
    forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I
    am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a
    church! Company, villanous company, hath been the
    spoil of me.

    Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

    Why, there is it: come sing me a bawdy song; make
    me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman
    need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not
    above seven times a week; went to a bawdy-house once
    in a quarter--of an hour; paid money that I
    borrowed, three of four times; lived well and in
    good compass: and now I live out of all order, out
    of all compass.

    Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs
    be out of all compass, out of all reasonable
    compass, Sir John.

    Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life:
    thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in
    the poop, but 'tis in the nose of thee; thou art the
    Knight of the Burning Lamp.

    Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

    No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many
    a man doth of a Death's-head or a memento mori: I
    never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire and
    Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his
    robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way
    given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath
    should be 'By this fire, that's God's angel:' but
    thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but
    for the light in thy face, the son of utter
    darkness. When thou rannest up Gadshill in the
    night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou
    hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire,
    there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a
    perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light!
    Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and
    torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt
    tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast
    drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap
    at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have
    maintained that salamander of yours with fire any
    time this two and thirty years; God reward me for

    'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!

    God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burned.

    Enter Hostess

    How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you inquired
    yet who picked my pocket?

    Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you
    think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched,
    I have inquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy
    by boy, servant by servant: the tithe of a hair
    was never lost in my house before.

    Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved and lost many
    a hair; and I'll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go
    to, you are a woman, go.

    Who, I? no; I defy thee: God's light, I was never
    called so in mine own house before.

    Go to, I know you well enough.

    No, Sir John; You do not know me, Sir John. I know
    you, Sir John: you owe me money, Sir John; and now
    you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought
    you a dozen of shirts to your back.

    Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to
    bakers' wives, and they have made bolters of them.

    Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight
    shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir
    John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent
    you, four and twenty pound.

    He had his part of it; let him pay.

    He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.

    How! poor? look upon his face; what call you rich?
    let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks:
    Ill not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker
    of me? shall I not take mine case in mine inn but I
    shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a
    seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.

    O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell him, I know not
    how oft, that ring was copper!

    How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup: 'sblood, an
    he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he
    would say so.

    Enter PRINCE HENRY and PETO, marching, and FALSTAFF meets them playing on his truncheon like a life

    How now, lad! is the wind in that door, i' faith?
    must we all march?

    Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

    My lord, I pray you, hear me.

    What sayest thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy
    husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.

    Good my lord, hear me.

    Prithee, let her alone, and list to me.

    What sayest thou, Jack?

    The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras
    and had my pocket picked: this house is turned
    bawdy-house; they pick pockets.

    What didst thou lose, Jack?

    Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of
    forty pound apiece, and a seal-ring of my

    A trifle, some eight-penny matter.

    So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your
    grace say so: and, my lord, he speaks most vilely
    of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is; and said
    he would cudgel you.

    What! he did not?

    There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.

    There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed
    prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn
    fox; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the
    deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing,

    Say, what thing? what thing?

    What thing! why, a thing to thank God on.

    I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou
    shouldst know it; I am an honest man's wife: and,
    setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to
    call me so.

    Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say

    Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

    What beast! why, an otter.

    An otter, Sir John! Why an otter?

    Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not
    where to have her.

    Thou art an unjust man in saying so: thou or any
    man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou!

    Thou sayest true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly.

    So he doth you, my lord; and said this other day you
    ought him a thousand pound.

    Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

    A thousand pound, Ha! a million: thy love is worth
    a million: thou owest me thy love.

    Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he would
    cudgel you.

    Did I, Bardolph?

    Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

    Yea, if he said my ring was copper.

    I say 'tis copper: darest thou be as good as thy word now?

    Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare:
    but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the
    roaring of a lion's whelp.

    And why not as the lion?

    The king is to be feared as the lion: dost thou
    think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay, an
    I do, I pray God my girdle break.

    O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy
    knees! But, sirrah, there's no room for faith,
    truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all
    filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest
    woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whoreson,
    impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in
    thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, memorandums of
    bawdy-houses, and one poor penny-worth of
    sugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if thy pocket
    were enriched with any other injuries but these, I
    am a villain: and yet you will stand to if; you will
    not pocket up wrong: art thou not ashamed?

    Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest in the state of
    innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack
    Falstaff do in the days of villany? Thou seest I
    have more flesh than another man, and therefore more
    frailty. You confess then, you picked my pocket?

    It appears so by the story.

    Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready breakfast;
    love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy
    guests: thou shalt find me tractable to any honest
    reason: thou seest I am pacified still. Nay,
    prithee, be gone.

    Exit Hostess

    Now Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery,
    lad, how is that answered?

    O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to
    thee: the money is paid back again.

    O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labour.

    I am good friends with my father and may do any thing.

    Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and
    do it with unwashed hands too.

    Do, my lord.

    I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.

    I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find
    one that can steal well? O for a fine thief, of the
    age of two and twenty or thereabouts! I am
    heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for
    these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous: I
    laud them, I praise them.


    My lord?

    Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, to my
    brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.

    Exit Bardolph

    Go, Peto, to horse, to horse; for thou and I have
    thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.

    Exit Peto

    Jack, meet me to-morrow in the temple hall at two
    o'clock in the afternoon.
    There shalt thou know thy charge; and there receive
    Money and order for their furniture.
    The land is burning; Percy stands on high;
    And either we or they must lower lie.


    Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come!
    O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!

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