Holds from all foldiers chief majority,

And military Title capital,

Through all the Kingdoms that acknowledge Chrift.
Thrice hath this Hot-fpur Mar's in fwathing-cloaths,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises,
Discomfited great Dowglas, 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 fafety of our Throne.
And what fay you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
Th' Archbishop's Grace of York, Dowglas, and Mortimer,
Capitulate against us, and are up.

But wherefore do I tell this news to thee?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my near'ft and dearest enemy?
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,
To fight againft me under Percy's pay;
To dog his heels, and curtfie at his frowns,
To fhow how much thou art degenerate.

P. Henry. Do not think fo, you shall not find it fo:
And heav'n forgive them, that fo much have fway'd
Your Majefty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head.
And in the clofing of fome glorious day,
Be bold to tell you, that I am your fon.
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,

Which, wash'd away, fhall fcowre my fhame with it.
And that shall be the day, when e'er it lights,
That this fame child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hot-fpur, this all-praised Knight,
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet,
For every honour fitting on his helm,

Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My fhames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I fhall make this northern Youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
T'engrofs up glorious deeds on my behalf;
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And

And I will call him to fo ftrict account,
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the flighteft worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reck'ning from his heart.
This in the name of heav'n I promise here:
The which, if I perform, and do furvive,
I do befeech your Majefty, may falve
The long grown wounds of my intemperature.
If not, the end of life cancels all bonds;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ere break the fmalleft parcel of this vow.

K. Henry. A hundred thousand Rebels die in this!
Thou shalt have Charge, and fovereign Truft herein.
Enter Blunt.

How now, good Blunt ? thy looks are full of speed.
Blunt. So is the business that I come to fpeak of.
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath fent word,
That Douglas and the English rebels met
Th' 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 a State.

K. Henry. The Earl of Weftmorland set forth to day, With him my fon, lord John of Lancaster;

For this advertisement is five days old.

On Wednesday next, Harry, thou fhalt fet forward:
On Thursday we our felves will march: our meeting
Is at Bridgnorth; and, Harry, you shall march

Through Glo fiershire: by which, fome twelve days

hence

Our general forces at Bridgnorth fhall meet.
Our hands are full of bufinefs: let's away,
Advantage feeds them fat, while we delay.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Boar's-head Tavern in Eaft-cheap.

Fal.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Ardolph, am not I fall'n away vilely, fince

B this laft action? Do I not bate? do I not

dwindle?

dwindle? why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loofe gown: I am wither'd, like an old apple John. Well, I'll repent, and that fuddenly, while I am in fome liking: I fhall be out of heart fhortly, and then I fhall have no ftrength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the infide of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a brewer's horfe; the infide of a church! company, villainous company hath been the spoil of me.

Bard. Sir John, you are fo fretful, you cannot live long.

Fal. Why, there is it; come, fing me a bawdy fong, al to make me merry: I was as virtuously given, as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; fwore little ; diced not above feven times a week; went to a bawdyhouse not above once in a quarter of an hour; paid mony, that I borrow'd, three or four times; liv'd well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compafs.

Bard. Why, you are fo fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compafs, out of all reasonable compafs, Sir John.

Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our Admiral, thou bearest the lanthorn in the poop, but 'tis in the nofe of thee; thou art the knight of the burning lamp.

Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal. No, I'll be fworn; I make as good ufe of it, as many a man doth of a death's head, or a mementa mori. I never fee thy face, but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that liv'd in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. -If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would fwear by thy face; my oath fhould be, by this fire; but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the fon of utter darkness. When thou rann'ft up Gads bill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think, thou had'st been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wild-fire, there's no purchase in mony. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlafting bonfire-light; thou haft faved

me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the fack, that thou haft drunk me, would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the deareft chandler's in Europe. I have maintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years, heav'n reward me for it!

Bard. 'Sblood, I would, my face were in your belly. Fal. God-a-mercy! fo fhould I be fure to be heartburn'd.

Enter Hoftefs.

How now, dame Partlet the hen, have you enquir'd yet who pick'd my pocket?

Hoft. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think, I keep thieves in my houfe? I have fearch'd, I have enquir'd, fo has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, fervant by fervant: the tithe of a hair was never loft in my houfe before.

Fal. Ye lie, hoftefs; Bardolph was fhav'd, and loft many a hair; and I'll be fworn, my pocket was pick'd; go to, you are a woman, go.

Hoft. Who I? I defie thee; I was never call'd fo in mine own house before.

Fal. Go to, I know you well enough.

Hoft. No, Sir John: you do not know me, Sir John; I know you, Sir John; you owe me mony, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. Í bought you a dozen of fhirts to your back.

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

Hoft. Now as I am a true woman, Holland of eight fhillings an ell: you owe mony here befides, Sir John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and mony lent you, four and twenty pounds.

Fal. He had his part of it, let him

pay.

Hoft. He alas! he is poor, he hath nothing.

Fal. How! poor ? look upon his face: what call you rich? let him coin his nofe, let him coin his cheeks:

I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a yonker of me? fhall I not take mine ease in mine inn, but I hall have my pocket pick'd? I have loft a feal-ring of my grand-father's, worth forty mark.

Hoft. O Jefu! I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that the ring was copper.

Fal. How the Prince is a Jack, a fneak-cup; and if he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would fay fo.

Enter Prince Henry marching, and Peto, playing on his Truncheon like a Fife: Falstaff meets them.

Fal. How now, lad, is the wind in that door? must we all march?

Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate-fashion.

Hoft. My lord, I pray you, hear me.

P. Henry. What fay't thou, Miftrefs Quickly? how does thy husband? I love him well, he is an honeft man. Hoft. Good my lord, hear me.

Fal. Pr'ythee, let her alone, and lift to me.

P. Henry. What fay'ft thou, Jack?

Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras, and had my pocket pickt: this houfe is turn'd bawdy-house, they pick pockets.

P. Henry. What didft thou lofe, Jack?

Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pounds a-piece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.

P. Henry. A trifle, fome eight-penny matter.

Hoft. So I told him, my lord; and I faid, I heard your Grace fay fo; and, my lord, he fpeaks moft vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd man as he is, and faid, he would cudgel you.

P. Henry. What! he did not?

Hoft. There's neither faith, truth, nor woman-hood in me else.

Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a few'd prune; no more truth in thee than in a drawn Fox; and for woman-hood, Maid Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.

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Hoft.