University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE Moor-Fields.
Enter Prince Henry and Pointz.
Prince.

Trust me, I am exceeding weary.

Poin.

I thought Weariness durst
not have attack'd one of your
high Blood.

Prin.

It does me; tho' it discolours
the Complexion of my Greatness
to acknowledge it.

Poin.

How ill it becomes you after labouring so
hard, to talk so idly? How many good young
Princes would do so, their Fathers lying so Sick as
yours is?

Pri.

Why I would tell thee (if thou wert capable
of being a Friend) I could be sad, and sad indeed
too.

Poin.

Very hardly upon such a Subject.

Prin.

Thou think'st me as far in the Devils Books,
as thou and Falstaffe; let the end try the Man, but
I tell thee my Heart bleeds inwardly, that my Father
is so Sick, and keeping such wild Company as
thou art, has in reason taken from me all Ostentation
of Sorrow.

Poin.

The reason?

Prin.

What would'st thou think of me if I should
weep now?

Poin.

I would think thee a most Princely Hypocrite.

Prin.

It would be every Man's thought, and thou
art a most Bless'd Fellow to think as every Man
thinks. No Man's Thought in the World keeps
the common Road better than thine. And what incites
your most Worshipful thought to think so?

Poin.

Why because you have been so Lewd, and
so much ingrafted to Falstaffe.

Prin.

And to thee.

Poin.

Nay, I am well spoken of. The worst they
say of me is, that I am a younger Brother, and a
tall Fellow of my Hands, and those two things I
confess I cannot help—Look, here comes Bardolfe.

Prin.

And the Boy that I gave Falstaffe; he had
him from me a Christian, and see if the Fat Villain
has not transform'd him into an Ape.

Enter Bardolfe and Boy.
Bar.

Save your Grace.

Prin.

And yours most noble Bardolfe.

Poin.

Come, you pernicious Ass? You bashful
Fool must you be Blushing? What a Maidenly
Man at Arms are you become?

Boy.

He call'd to me even now my Lord thro' a
red Lettice, and I could discern no part of his Face
from the Window, at last I spy'd his Eyes, and
methought he had made two Holes thro' the Alewives
red Petticoat, and peep'd thro'.

Prin.

Has not the Boy profited?

Bar.

Away, you whorson upright Rabbet, away.

Boy.

Away, you Rascally Althea's Dream away.

Prin.

What Dream Boy, ha?

Boy.

Marry my Lord. Althea Dream'd she was
deliver'd of a Firebrand, and therefore I call him
her Dream.

Prin.

A Crowns worth of good Interpretation,
there it is Boy.

Poin.

O that this Blossom could be kept from
Cankers! well, there's Six-pence to preserve thee.

Bar.

If you do not make him be hang'd among
you, the Gallows shall be wrong'd.

Prin.

And how does thy Master, Bardolfe?

Bar.

Well, my good Lord, he heard of your Graces
coming to Town; there's a Letter for you.

Prin.

I allow this Wen to be as Familiar with
me as my Dog. Look how he writes.

Poin.
reads.]

John Falstaffe Knight—Every Man
must know That as often as he has occasion to name
himself: like those who are Kin to the King, they
never prick their Finger, but they say there's some
of the Royal Blood spilt. How so, Says a Standerby.
Marry (says he) I am the King's poor Cozen Sir.

Prin.

Nay, they will be Kin to us, tho' they
fetch it from Japhet—but to the Letter.

Poin.
reads.]

Sir John Falstaffe Knight, to the
Son of the King nearest his Father, Henry Prince of
Wales, Greeting.—Why this is a Certificate.

Prin.

Read on.

Poin.
reads on.]

I will imitate the honourable Romans
in Brevity, I commend me to thee, I commend
thee and I leave thee. Be not so familiar with
Poinsz, for he misuses thy favour so much, that he
swears thou art to marry his Sister Nell. Repent
at idle times as thou may'st, and so—Farewel.

Thine by Yea, and nay, which is as
much as to say, as thou usest him.
Jack Falstaffe with my Familiars;
John with my Brothers and Sisters;
and Sir John with all Europe.

—My Lord I will steep this Letter in Sack and
make him eat it.

Prin.

That's to make him eat Twenty of his
Words, but do you use me thus Ned? Must I marry
your Sister?

Poin.

May the Girl have no worse Fortune—But
I never said so.

Prin.

Well, thus we play the Fool with the time,
and the Spirits of the Wise sit in the Clouds and
mock us—Is your Master here in London?

Bar.

Yes my Lord.

Prin.

Where sups he?

Bar.

At the old place in East-cheap.

Prin.

What Company?

Boy.

Ephesians my Lord of the old Church.

Prin.

Sup any Women with him?

Boy.

None my Lord but old Mrs. Quickly, and
Mrs. Doll Tearsheet.

Prin.

What Pagan may that be?

Boy.

A proper Gentlewoman Sir, and a Kinswoman
of my Masters.

Prin.

Just such a Kin as the Parish Heifers are to
the Town Bull. Shall we steal on them Ned at
Supper?

Poin.

I am your Shadow, my Lord, I'll follow
you.

Prin.

Sirrah you Boy and Bardolfe, no Words to
your Master that I'm in Town, there's for your Silence.

Bar.

I have no Tongue.

Boy.

And I will govern mine my Lord.

Prin.
Go then.
[Exeunt Bar. and Boy.
This Doll Tearsheet must be some Common thing.

Poin.

As common as the way between St. Albans
and London.

Prin.

How might we behold Falstaffe in his true
Colours, and not be seen our selves?

Poin.

Put on two ordinary Coats and Aprons, and
wait on him like Drawers.

Prin.

From a Prince to a Prentice, a low Transformation,
but now it shall be mine, for in every
thing the purpose must weigh with the Folly. Come
Ned follow me.

Exeunt.
SCENE A Tavern.
Enter Hostess and Doll. Tables and Chairs, Wine and Glasses.
Host.

Methinks now you are in an excellent good
temporality, your Pulsage beats as extraordinary
as Heart would desire; and your Colour (I warrant
you) is as red as any Rose, but you have
drank too much Canary, and that's a marvelous
searching Wine, and it perfumes the Blood e're one
can say, What's this? How do you now?

Doll.

Better then I was—Hem.

Host.

Why that was well said, a good Heart's
worth Gold, here comes Sir John.

Enter Falstaffe.
Fal.

How now Mrs. Doll?

Host.

Sick of a Calm in good Sooth.

Fal.

So is all her Sex: if they be once in a Calm,
they are Sick.

Doll.

You muddy Rascal! is that all the Comfort
you give one?

Fal.

You make Fat Rascals Mrs. Doll.

Doll.

I make 'em! Gluttony and Diseases make
'em—I make 'em not.

Fal.

If the Cook makes the Gluttony, you help
to make the Diseases Doll; we catch of you Doll,

we catch of you, grant that my poor Virtue grant
that.

Host.

This is the old Fashion, you two never
meet, but you fall to some Discord, you are both
in good truth as Rheumatick as two dry Tostes,
you cannot one bear with anothers Confirmity,
what the good yeer one must bear, and that must be
you, you are the weaker Vessel as they say, the
emptier Vessel.

Doll.

Can a weak empty Vessel, bear such a huge
full Hogshead? There's a whole Merchants Cellar
of Burdeaux Stuff in him—Come I'll be friends
with thee Jack, thou art going to the Wars, and
whether I shall ever see thee again or no, there's no
body cares.

Enter Drawer.
Draw.

Sir Antient Pistol is below, and would
speak with you.

Doll.

Hang him a swaggering Rascal, let him
not come hither, it is the foul mouth'st Rogue in
England.

Host.

If he Swagger, let him not come here; I
must live amongst my Neighbours; I'll no Swaggerers.
I live in good Name and Fame with the
very best, Shut the Doors. There comes no Swaggerers
here. I have not liv'd all this while to have
Swaggering now, therefore shut the Doors I say.

Fal.

Dost thou hear me Hostess?

Host.

Pray you pacify your self Sir John, there
comes no Swaggerers here.

Fal.

Hear me; it is my Antient.

Host.

Filly fally Sir John, never tell me. The Ancient
Swaggerers come not in my Doors. I was
before Mr. Ptysick the Deputy, the other Day; and
as he said to me, it was no longer ago than Wednesday

last. Neighbour Quickly (says he) receive
those that are Civil, for (says he) you are in an ill
Name: now he said so I can tell whereupon, for
says he you are an Honest Woman, and well thought
on, therefore take heed what Guests you receive;
receive says he no swaggering Companions, you
would bless you to hear what he said—No I'll no
Swaggerers come here.

Fal.

He's no Swaggerer (Hostess) a Tame Cheater
he, you may stroke him as gently as a Greyhound
Puppy; he will not Swagger with a Barbary Hen,
if her Feathers turn back in any shew of Resistance.
—call him up Drawer.

[Exit Drawer.
Host.

Cheater call you him? I will bar no Honest
Man my House, nor no Cheater, but I do not
love Swaggering. I am the worse when they say
Swagger—Feel Mistress how I shake.

Doll.

So you do Hostess.

Host.

Do I? yea in troth do I, if it were an Aspen
Leaf. I cannot abide Swaggerers.

Enter Pistol, Bardolfe and Boy.
Pist.

Save you Sir John.

Fal.

Welcome Antient Pistol—Here PistolI charge
you with a cup of Sack, do you discharge upon my
Hostess.

Pist.

I will discharge upon her Sir John, with
two Bullets.

Host.

I'll drink no Bullets; I'll drink no more
than will do me good for no Man's pleasure I.

Pist.

Then to you Mrs. Dorothy, I will charge you.

Dol.

Charge me? I scorn ye you base Rascally,
poor Cheating, lack Linnen Fellow, away you
mouldy Rogue away; I am Meat for your Master
Sirrah.

Pist.

I know you Mrs. Dorothy.

Dol.

Away you filth! you Cut-purse! Away
you Bottle-Ale Rascal, ye Basket-hilt Stale Jugler
you! since when I pray you Sir, (with your two
points on your Shoulder) were you so familiar with
me.

Pist.

I will murder your Head-geer for this.

Host.

No good Captain Pistol, not here sweet Captain.

Dol.

Captain! thou abominable Cheater, art thou
not ashamed to be called Captain? if Captains were
of my mind, they would Cudgel you for taking
their Names upon you before you have earn'd 'em.
You a Captain, you Slave for what?

Bar.

Prithee go down good Antient.

Pist.

Not I. I'll tell thee what Corporal Bardolfe.
I could eat her, but I'll be reveng'd.

Bar.

Prithee go down.

Pist.

I'll see her condemn'd first to Pluto's dreadful
Lake.

Host.

Good Captain Pistol be quiet, it is very late,
I beseech you now aggravate your Choller.

Pist.

These be good humours indeed. Shall Pack
Horses, and hollow pamper'd Jades of Asia, which
cannot go but Thirty Miles a Day, compare with
Cæsar, and with Cannibals and Trojan Greeks? nay
rather damn 'em with King Cerberus, and let the
Welkin roar! shall we fall foul for Toys?

Host.

By my troth Captain, these are very bitter
Words.

Bar.

Be gone good Antient; this will grow to a
brawl anon.

Pist.

Dye Men like Dogs! give Crowns like Pins!
have we not Hieren here.

Host.

On my word Captain there's no such here,
what the good yeer, do you think I would deny
her? Pray be quiet!

Pist.

Then feed and be Fat, my fair Callipolis.
Come give me some Sack. Si Fortune me tormente,
sperato me contente. Fear we Broad-sides? no! let
the Fiend give me some Sack.

Fal.

Pistol I would be quiet.

Pist.

Sweet Knight I kiss thy Fist, what we have
seen the seven Stars.

Dol.

Thrust him down Stairs. I cannot endure
such a Fustian Rascal.

Pist.

Thrust him down Stairs! Know we not Galloway
Nags?

Fal.

Quoit him down Bardolfe, like a Shovelboard
Piece.

Bar.

Come get you down Stairs.

Pist.

What? shall we have Incision, shall we imbrew?
then Death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful
Days? Why then let grievous, ghastly, gaping
Wounds, intwist the Sisters three, come Atropos!

Fal.

Give me my Rapier, Boy.

Dol.

I prithee Jack, I prithee do not draw.

Fal.

Get you down Stairs.

Host.

Here's a goodly Tumult? I'll forswear keeping
House before I'll be in these Titrits, and Frights
—So—Murder I warrant now! Alas! alas! put up
your naked Weapon, put up your naked Weapon.

[Beats Pistol off.
Dol.

I prithee Jack be quiet, the Rascal's gone—
Oh you Whorson little Valiant Villain you?

Host.

Are you not hurt in the Groin; methought
he made a shrewd Thrust at your Belly.

Fal.

Have you turn'd him out of Doors?

Bar.

Yes Sir, the Rascal's Drunk; you have
hurt him Sir in the Shoulder.

Fal.

A Rascal! to brave me!

Dol.

O you sweet little Rogue! Alas! poor Ape,
how thou Sweat'st; come let me wipe thy Face.
Oh Rogue! I love thee, thou art as Valiant as Hector

of Troy, worth five Agamemnons, and ten times
better than the Nine Worthies—Ah Villain!

Fal.

A Rascally Slave! I will toss the Rogue in
a Blanket.

Enter Drawer.
Draw.

Sir, the Musick's come.

Fal.

Let 'em strike up then. Play Sirs—Sit on
my Knee Dol—A Rascally bragging Slave! The
Rogue fled from me like Quicksilver.

Dol.

And thou followd'st him like a Church. When
wilt thou leave Fighting a Days, and Foyning a
Nights, and begin to patch up thy old Body for
Heaven?

Enter Prince and Poins behind.
Fal.

Peace Dol, do not speak like a Death's-head,
do not put me in mind of my end.

Dol.

Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of?

Fal.

A good shallow young Fellow; he would
have made a very good Butler, he would have
chip'd bread well.

Dol.

They say Poins has a good Wit.

Fal.

He a good Wit? hang him Baboon! his Wit
is as thick as Tewksbury Mustard, there is no more
Conceit in him than in a Mallet.

Dol.

Why does the Prince love him so then?

Fal.

Because their Legs are both of a Bigness;
then he plays at Quoits well, jumps over Join'd-Stools,
and Swears with a good Grace; and wears
his Stockings very smooth, like the Sign of the Leg,
and other Gambols, that shew a weak Mind, and an
able body, for which the Prince admits him; for the
Prince himself is just such another; the weight of a
Hair will turn the Scales between their understandings.

Prin.
apart.

Would not this Rascal have his Ears
cut off?

Poin.
apart.

Let's beat him before his Whore.

Prin.
apart.

Look if the wither'd Elder has not
his Poll claw'd like a Parrot.

Poin.
apart.

'Tis not strange that desire should so
many Years out-live Performance.

Fal.

Kiss me Dol.

Prin.
apart.

Saturn and Venus this Year in Conjunction.

Fal.

Thou giv'st me flattering Busses.

Dol.

I kiss you as I love you.

Fal.

I am old Dol, I am old.

Dol.

I love thee better than e're a Scurvy young
Boy of 'em all.

Fal.

I shall receive Money on Thursday. What
Silk wilt thou have a Gown off? I'll send it thee
to Morrow—Come a merry Tune, and then to
Bed, [Musick Plays]
is grows late, thou wilt forget
me when I am gone.

Dol.

Thou wilt set me a Weeping if thou say'st
so. I will never dress me till thou return'st—well,
mark the end.

Fal.

Some Wine Francis.

Prin. Poin.

Anon, Anon, Sir.

Fal

Ha! a Bastard Son of the Kings, and are not
you Poins his Brother?

Prin.

Why thou Globe of sinful Continent! What
a Life dost thou Lead?

Fal.

Better than thou. I am a Gentleman, thou
a Drawer.

Prin.

Very true Sir, I come to draw you by the
Ears.

Host.

Now Heaven preserve thy good Grace—welcome
to London. Heaven bless that sweet Face of
thine.

Fal.

Thou whorson mad compound of Majesty, by
this light Flesh and corrupt Blood thou'rt welcome.

Poin.

He'll laugh you out of your Revenge, and
turn all to Merryment if you take not heed.

Prin.

You whorson Candle-mine you! how vilely
did you speak of me even now, before this honest,
vertuous, civil Gentlewoman?

Host.

Now Blessing on your good Heart, and so
she is by my troth.

Fal.

Did'st thou hear me Hal?

Prin.

Yes, and you knew me, as you did when
you ran away by Gads-hill, you knew I was at your
back, and spake it on purpose to try my Patience.

Fal.

No, no, I did not think thou wert in hearing.

Prin.

I shall drive you than to confess the wilful
Abuse, and then you know how I must handle you.

Fal.

No abuse Hal, on my Honour no abuse.

Prin.

To call me Butler, Bread-chipper, and I
know not what?

Fal.

No abuse Hal.

Poin.

No abuse?

Fal.

No abuse Ned in the World; honest Ned
none; I disprais d him before the Wicked that the
Wicked might not fall in Love with him; in doing
which I have done the part of a careful Friend, and
a true Subject; and thy Father is to give me thanks
for it. No abuse Hal, none Ned, no Boys, none.

Prin.

See now whether pure Fear and entire Cowardize
does not make thee wrong this vertuous Gentlewoman
to close with us? Is she of the Wicked?
is thine Hostess of the Wicked? Or is the Boy of the
Wicked? Or honest Bardolfe, whose Zeal burns in
his Nose, of the Wicked?

Poin.

Answer thou dead Elm Answer.

Fal.

The Fiend has prick'd down Bardolfe irrecoverable,
and his Face is Lucifers Privy-Kitchin,
where he does nothing but tost Malt-worms—For

the Boy, there is a good Angel about him, but the
Devil outbids him too.

Prin.

Now for the Women.

Fal.

For one of 'em, she is in Hell already, and
burns poor Souls; for the other I owe her Money,
and whether she be Damn'd for that I know not.

Host.

No I warrant you. Who's that knocks so
loud? [Knocking without]
Look to the Door there
Francis.

Exit Bardolfe.
Enter Peto.
Prin.

Peto? What news with you?

Peto.

My Lord, The King your Father is at Westminster,
and there are twenty faint and wearied Posts
come from the North; and as I came along I overtook
at least a dozen Captains asking at Taverns after
Sir John Falstaffe.

Prin.
By Heav'n Poins I find I am much to Blame
So idly to prophane the precious time,
When such commotion, like th'unhealthy South,
Born with black Vapours does begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmed Heads.
Give me my Coat and Sword. Falstaffe good night.

Exeunt Prin. and Poin.
Fal.

Now comes in the sweet Morsel of rhe Night,
and we must hence and leave it unpickt. [Knocking

again without.]
More knocking at the Door,
how now? What's the matter?

Enter Bardolfe.
Bar.

You must away to Court Sir presently. A
dozen Captains stay at the Door for you.

Fal.

Pay the Musicians Sirrah. Farewel Hostess,
Farewel Dol. You see how Men of Merit are sought
after. The undeserver may Sleep, while the Man of
Action is call'd upon. Farewel good Wenches, if I
be not sent away Post, I'll see you again e're I go.

Dol.

I cannot speak—if my heart en't ready to
burst—well sweet Jack have a care of thy self.

Fal.

Farewel, Farewel!

Exit Falstaffe.
Host.

Well Fare-thee-well, I have known thee
these twenty nine Years come Pescod time. But an
honester and true-hearted Man—well fare-thee-well.

Bar.

Mrs. Tearsheet.

(within.)
Host.

What's the matter?

Bar.

Bid Mrs. Tearsheet come to my Master.

Host.

Oh run Dol, run run, good Dol.

Exeunt omnes.