1 Car. Poor fellow never joy'd fince the price of oats rofe, it was the death of him.

2 Car. I think, this be the moft villainous house in all. London road for fleas : I am ftung like a Tench.

1 Car. Like a Tench? by th' Mafs, there's ne'er a King in Christendom could be better bit than I have been fince the firft cock.

2 Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a jourden, and then we leak in your chimney: and your chamber-lie breeds fleas like a Loach.

1 Car. What, oftler, come away, and be hang'd, come away.

2 Car. I have a gammon of bacon, (7) and two razes of ginger to be deliver'd as far as Charing cross.

I Car. 'Odsbody, the Turkies in my panniers are quite ftarv'd. What, oftler? a plague on thee! haft thou never an eye in thy head: canft not hear? an 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to break the pate of thee, I am a very villian. Come and be hang'd, haft no faith in thee?

Enter Gads-hill.

Gads. Good-morrow, carriers. What's o' Clock?
Car. I think, it be two o'clock.

Gads. I pr'ythee, lend me thy lanthorn, to fee my gelding in the ftable.

1 Car. Nay, foft, I pray ye; I know a trick worth two of that, i'faith.

Gads. I pr'ythee, lend me thine.

2 Car. Ay, when? canft tell? lend me thy lanthorn, quoth-a! marry, I'll fee thee hang'd first.

Gads. Sirrah, carrier, what time do you mean to come to London ?

(7) And two Razes of Ginger] As our Author in feveral Paffages mentions a Race of Ginger, I thought proper to diftinguish it from the Raze mention'd here. The former fignifies no more than a fingle Root of it, from the Italian Term Two Radice; but a Raze is the Indian Term for a Bale of it. Roots of this Spice, 'tis obvious, would hardly have been fent from Rechefter to London by the Carrier,

2 Car. Time enough to go to bed with a Candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbour Mugges, we'll call up the gentlemen; they will along with Company, for they have great Charge. [Exeunt Carriers.

Enter Chamberlain.

Gads. What, ho, chamberlain !
Cham. At hand, quoth pick-purse.

Gads. That's ev'n as fair, as at hand, quoth the chamberlain; for thou varieft no more from picking of purfes, than giving direction doth from labouring. Thou lay'ft the plot how.

Chamb. Good morrow, master Gads-hill; it holds currant, that I told you yefternight. There's a Franklin, in the wild of Kent, hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold; I heard him tell it to one of his company laft night at fupper; a kind of auditor, one that hath abundance of Charge too, God knows what : they are up already, and call for eggs and better. They will away presently.

Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with St. Nicholas' clarks, I'll give thee this neck.

Cham. No, I'll none of it: I pr'ythee, keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worshipp'ft St. Nicholas as truly as a man of falfhood may.

Gads. What talk'ft thou to me, of the hangman? if I hang, I'll make a fat pair of gallows. For if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know'ft, he's no ftarveling. Tut, there are other Trojans that thou dream'ft not of, the which, for fport-fake, are content to do the profeffion fome grace; that would, if matters fhould be look'd into, for their own credit fake, make all whole. I am join'd with no foot-land-rakers, no long-staff-fix-penny-strikers, none of thofe mad Mustachio-purple-hu'd-malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity; (8) burgomafters, and great Moneyers; fuch

(8) Burgo-mafters, and great one-eyers.] Perhaps, oneraires, Trustees, or Commissioners; fays Mr Pope. But how this Word

comes

fuch as can hold in, fuch as will ftrike fooner than fpeak; and speak fooner than drink; and drink fooner than pray; and yet I lye, for they pray continually unto their Saint the Common-wealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her; for they ride up and down on her, and make her their boots.

Cham. What; the common-wealth their boots ? will fhe hold out water in foul way?

Gads. She will, fhe will; juftice hath liquor'd her. We fteal as in a caftle, cock-fure; we have the receipt of Fern feed, we walk invifible.

Cham. Nay, I think rather, you are more beholden to the night, than the Fern-feed, for your walking invifible.

Gads. Give me thy hand; thou shalt have a fhare in our purchase, as I am a true man.

Cham. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

Gads. Go to,- Homo is a common name to all men. Bid the oftler bring my Gelding out of the stable. Farewel, ye muddy knave. [Exeunt.

SCENE, changes to the Highway.

Poins.

Enter Prince Henry, Poins, and Peto.

NOME, fhelter, fhelter; I have removed Fal-
Staff horfe, and he frets like

P. Henry. Stand close.

a gumm'd velvet.

comes to admit of any fuch Construction, I am at a lofs to know. To Mr. Pope's fecond Conjecture, of cunning Men that look sharp and aim well, I have nothing to reply seriously; but choose to drop it. The Reading, which I have substituted, I owe to the Friendship of the ingenious Nicholas Hardinge, Efq. A Moneyer, is an Officer of the Mint, which makes Coin and delivers out the King's money. Moneyers are also taken for Bankers, or thofe that make it their Trade to turn and return Money. Either of thefe Acceptations will admirably square with our Author's context.

Enter

Enter Falftaff.

Fal. Poins, Poins, and be hanged, Poins!

P. Henry. Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rafcal, what a brawling doft thou keep?

Fal. What, Poins! Hal!

P. Henry. He is walk'd up to the top of the hill, I'll go feek him.

Fal. I am accurft to rob in that thief's company : the rafcal hath remov'd my horse, and ty'd him, I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the fquare farther afoot, I fhall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I 'fcape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forfworn his company hourly any time this two and twenty year, and yet I am bewitch'd with the rogue's company. If the rafcal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hang'd; it could not be elfe; I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! a Plague upon you both. Bardolph! Peto! I'll ftarve, ere I'll rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as to drink, to turn true-man, and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chew'd with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground, is threefcore and ten miles afoot with me: and the ftony-hearted villains know it well enough. A plague upon't, when thieves cannot be true one to another. [They whiffle] Whew! a plague upon you all. Give me my horfe; you rogues, give me my horfe, and be hang'd.

P. Henry. Peace, ye fat guts, lye down, lay thine ear clofe to the ground, and lift if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

Fal. Have you any leavers to lift me up again, being down? 'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh fo far afoot again, for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye, to colt me thus ?

P. Henry. Thou lieft, thou art not colted, thou art

uncolted.

Fal. I pr'ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horfe, good King's fon.

P. Henry

P. Henry. Out, you rogue! fhall I be your oftler? Fal. Go hang thy felf in thy own heir-apparent garters; if I be ta'en, I'll peach for this; an I bave not ballads made on you all, and fung to filthy tunes, let a cup of fack be my poifon; when a jeft is fo forward, and afoot too! I hate it.

Enter Gads-hill and Bardolph.

Gads. Stand,

Fal. So I do against my will.

Poins. O, 'tis our Setter, I know his voice: Bardolph, what news?

Bard. Cafe ye, cafe ye; on with your vifors; there's money of the Kings coming down the hill, 'tis going to the King's Exchequer.

Fal. You lie, you rogue, 'tis going to the King's

tavern.

Gads. There's enough to make us all.

Fal. To be hang'd.

P. Henry. Sirs, you four fhall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower; if they 'fcape from your encounter, then they light on us. Peto. But how many be of them ?

Gads. Some eight or ten.

Fal. Zounds! will they not rob us?

P. Henry. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch? Fal. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal.

P. Henry. Well, we'll leave that to the proof.

Poins. Sirrah, Jack, thy horfe ftands behind the hedge; when thou need'ft him, there fhalt thou find him; farewel, and ftand fast.

Fal. Now cannot I ftrike him, if I fhould be hang'd.

P. Henry. Ned, where are our disguises ?

Pons. Here, hard by: ftand clofe.

Fal. Now, my mafters, happy man be bis dole, fay I; every man to his business.

Enter