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doft thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father; nay, if I do, let my gridle break!

P. Henry. O, if it fhould, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But, Sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honefty, in this bofom of thine; it is all fill'd up with guts and midriff. Charge an honeft woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whorfon, impudent, imbofs'd rafcal, if there were any thing in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses, and one poor penny-worth of fugarcandy to make thee long-winded; if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but thefe, I am a vil lain; and yet you will stand to it, you will not pocket up wrongs. Art thou not afham'd?

Fal. Doft thou hear, Hal? thou know'ft, in the state of innocency Adam fell and what fnould poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany? thou feest, I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confefs, then, you pick'd my pocket?

P. Henry. It appears fo by the ftory.

Fal. Hoftefs, I forgive thee: go make ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy fervants, and cherish thy guests thou shalt find me tractable to any honeft reafon thou feeft, I am pacify'd ftill. Nay, I pr'ythee, be gone. [Exit Hoftefs.

:

Now, Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery, lad, -how is that answer'd?

P. Henry. O my fweet beef, I must still be good an gel to thee. The money is paid back again.

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

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

Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou do'st, and do it with unwafh'd hands too.

Bard. Do, my Lord.

P. Henry. I have procur'd thee, Jack, a charge of foot..

Fal. I would it had been of horfe. Where shall I find one that can fteal well? O, for a fine thief, of two and twenty, or thereabout; I am heinously unprovided.

Well,

Well, God be thank'd for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous; I laud them, I praise them.

P. Henry. Bardolph.

Bard. My Lord?

P. Henry. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Laneafter, to my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmorland. Go, Peto, to horfe, for thou and I have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time. Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple hall at two o'clock in the afternoon, there fhalt thou know thy charge, and there receive money and order for their furniture. The land is burning, Percy stands on high; And either they or we must lower lie.

Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hoftefs, my breakfast, come:

Oh, I could wish this tavern were my drum! [Exeunt.

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Hot.

Changes to Shrewsbury.

Enter Hot-fpur, Worcester, and Douglas.

WE

Ell faid, my Noble Scot; if speaking truth,
In this fine age, were not thought flattery,
Such attribution fhould the Douglas have,
As not a foldier of this season's stamp

Should go fo gen'ral current through the world.
By heav'n, I cannot flatter: I defy

The tongues of foothers. But a braver place
In my heart's love hath no man than yourself.
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, Lord.
Doug. Thou art the King of honour:

No man fo potent breathes upon the ground,
But I will beard him.

Enter a Messenger.

Hot. Do, and 'tis well.

-What letters haft thou

there?

I can but thank you.

Me. Thefe come from your

father.

Hot. Letters from him? why comes he not himself?

Meff.

Me. He cannot come, my Lord, he's grievous fick. Hot. Heav'ns! how has he the leifure to be fick In fuch a juftling time? who leads his power; Under whofe government come they along? Meff. His letters bear his mind, not I.

Hot. His mind!

Wor. I pr'ythee, tell me, doth he keep his bed? Me. He did, my Lord, four days ere I fet forth: And at the time of my departure thence,

He was much fear'd by his phyficians.

Wor. I would the ftate of time had first been whole, Ere he by fickness had been visited;

His health was never better worth than now.

Hot. Sick now! droop now! this fickness doth infect The very life-blood of our enterprise;

'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.
He writes me here, that inward ficknefs-
And that his friends by deputation

Could not fo foon be drawn: nor thought he meet
To lay fo dangerous and dear a trust
On any foul remov'd, but on his own.
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
That with our fmall conjunction we should on,
To fee how Fortune is difpos'd to us:
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now;
Because the King is certainly poffefs'd
Of all our purposes. What fay you to it?
Wor. Your father's ficknefs is a maim to us.
Hot. A perilous gafh, a very limb lopp'd off:
And yet, in faith, 'tis not; his prefent want
Seems more than we fhall find it.
Were it good,

To fet the exact wealth of all our states

All at one caft; to set so rich a main

On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
It were not good; for therein fhould we read
The very bottom, and the foul of hope,
The very lift, the very utmost bound
Of all our fortunes.

Doug. 'Faith, and fo we should;
Where now remains a fweet reverfion.
We now may boldly spend upon the hope
Of what is to come in:

A comfort of retirement lives in this.

Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the devil and mifchance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

Wor. But yet I would your father had been here:
The quality and hair of our attempt
Brooks no divifion: it would be thought
By fome, that know not why he is away,
That wisdom, loyalty, and mere diflike
Of our proceedings, kept the Earl from hence.
'And think how fuch an apprehenfion
May turn the tide of fearful faction,

And breed a kind of question in our caufe:
For well you know, we of th' offending fide
Muft keep aloof from strict arbitriment;
And top all fight-holes, every loop, from whence
The eye of reafon may pry in upon us.
This abfence of your father draws a curtain,
That thews the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dream'd upon.

Hot. You ftrain too far.

I rather of his abfence make this ufe:

It lends a luftre, and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprise,

Than if the Earl were here; for men must think,
If we without his help can make a head,
To pufh against the kingdom; with his help,
We shall o'erturn it toply-turvy down.
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.

Doug. As heart can think; there is not fuch a word Spoke of in Scotland, as this term of fear.

SCENE II. Enter Sir Richard Vernon. Hot. My coufin Vernon, welcome, by my foul! Ver. Pray God, my news be worth a welcome, Lord. The Earl of eftmorland, feven thoufand strong, Is marching hither, with Prince John of Lancatter. Hot. No harm;, what more?

Ver. And further, I have learn'd,

The King himself in perfon hath fet forth,
Or hitherwards intended speedily,
With itrong and mighty preparation.

VOL. IV.

Hot.

Hot. He fhall be welcome too: where is his fon,
The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daft the world aside,
And bid it pafs?

Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms,

*

All plum'd like eftridges, that with the wind
Baited like eagles, having lately bath'd:
Glittering in golden coats like images,

As full of fpirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the fun at midfummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I faw young Harry with his beaver up,
His cuiffes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rife from the ground like feather'd Mercury;
And vaulted with fuch eafe into his feat,
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horfemanfhip.
Hot. No more, no more; worse than the fun in
March,

This praife doth nourish agues; let them come.
They come like facrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of fmoaky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them.
The mailed Mars fhall on his altar fit
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprifal is fo nigh,
And yet not ours. Come, let me take
Who is to bear me like a thunder-bolt,
Against the bofom of the Prince of Wales.
Harry to Harry fhall (not horse to horse)

my

horfe,

Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a coarse. Oh, that Glendower were come !

Ver. There is more news:

I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his pow'r this fourteen days.
Doug. That's the worft tidings that I hear of yet.
Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty found.
Hot. What may the King's whole battle reach unto?
Ver. To thirty thousand.

ie. flutter'd the wings. Mr. Pope.
+ i. e. bewitch, charm. Mr. Pope.

Hot.

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