Part 50

FALSTAFF. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.—Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point: why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? A question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? A question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch. This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

PRINCE. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?

FALSTAFF. A goodly portly man, i’faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me where hast thou been this month?

PRINCE. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I’ll play my father.

FALSTAFF. Depose me? If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter’s hare.

PRINCE. Well, here I am set.

FALSTAFF. And here I stand. Judge, my masters.

PRINCE. Now, Harry, whence come you?

FALSTAFF. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

PRINCE. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

FALSTAFF. ’Sblood, my lord, they are false.—Nay, I’ll tickle ye for a young prince, i’faith.

PRINCE. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? Henceforth ne’er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace. There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man. A tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in craft? Wherein crafty, but in villany? Wherein villainous, but in all things? Wherein worthy, but in nothing?

FALSTAFF. I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your Grace?

PRINCE. That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

FALSTAFF. My lord, the man I know.

PRINCE. I know thou dost.

FALSTAFF. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it. But that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

PRINCE. I do, I will.

[_A knocking heard._]

[_Exeunt Hostess, Francis and Bardolph._]

Enter Bardolph, running.

BARDOLPH. O, my lord, my lord, the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.

FALSTAFF. Out, ye rogue! Play out the play. I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

Enter the Hostess, hastily.

HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord, my lord—

PRINCE. Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick. What’s the matter?

HOSTESS. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door. They are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?

FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially made without seeming so.

PRINCE. And thou a natural coward without instinct.

FALSTAFF. I deny your major. If you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let him enter. If I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.

PRINCE. Go hide thee behind the arras. The rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

FALSTAFF. Both which I have had, but their date is out, and therefore I’ll hide me.

PRINCE. Call in the sheriff.

[_Exeunt all but the Prince and Peto._]

Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.

Now, master sheriff, what is your will with me?

SHERIFF. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry Hath followed certain men unto this house.

PRINCE. What men?

SHERIFF. One of them is well known, my gracious lord, A gross fat man.

CARRIER. As fat as butter.

PRINCE. The man I do assure you is not here, For I myself at this time have employ’d him. And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee, That I will by tomorrow dinner-time, Send him to answer thee, or any man, For anything he shall be charged withal. And so let me entreat you leave the house.

SHERIFF. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

PRINCE. It may be so. If he have robb’d these men, He shall be answerable; and so, farewell.

SHERIFF. Good night, my noble lord.

PRINCE. I think it is good morrow, is it not?

SHERIFF. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock.

[_Exit Sheriff with the Carrier._]

PRINCE. This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s. Go, call him forth.

PETO. Falstaff!—Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.

PRINCE. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

[_He searcheth his pocket, and findeth certain papers._]

What hast thou found?

PETO. Nothing but papers, my lord.

PRINCE. Let’s see what they be. Read them.

PETO. [_reads_] Item, a capon, . . . . . . . . . . . 2s. 2d. Item, sauce, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4d. Item, sack, two gallons, . . . 5s. 8d. Item, anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d. Item, bread, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ob.

PRINCE. O monstrous! But one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close. We’ll read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day. I’ll to the court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honourable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot, and I know his death will be a march of twelve score. The money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so, good morrow, Peto.

PETO. Good morrow, good my lord.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT III

SCENE I. Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer and Glendower.

MORTIMER. These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of prosperous hope.

HOTSPUR. Lord Mortimer and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down? And uncle Worcester, A plague upon it! I have forgot the map.

GLENDOWER. No, here it is. Sit, cousin Percy, sit, good cousin Hotspur; For by that name as oft as Lancaster doth speak of you His cheek looks pale, and with a rising sigh He wisheth you in heaven.

HOTSPUR. And you in hell, As oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

GLENDOWER. I cannot blame him. At my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets, and at my birth The frame and huge foundation of the Earth Shaked like a coward.

HOTSPUR. Why, so it would have done At the same season, if your mother’s cat Had but kitten’d, though yourself had never been born.

GLENDOWER. I say the Earth did shake when I was born.

HOTSPUR. And I say the Earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

GLENDOWER. The heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble.

HOTSPUR. O, then th’ Earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity. Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming Earth Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb, which for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldam Earth, and topples down Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth Our grandam Earth, having this distemp’rature, In passion shook.

GLENDOWER. Cousin, of many men I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave To tell you once again that at my birth The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. These signs have mark’d me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men. Where is he living, clipp’d in with the sea That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, Which calls me pupil or hath read to me? And bring him out that is but woman’s son Can trace me in the tedious ways of art, And hold me pace in deep experiments.

HOTSPUR. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh. I’ll to dinner.

MORTIMER. Peace, cousin Percy, you will make him mad.

GLENDOWER. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

HOTSPUR. Why, so can I, or so can any man, But will they come when you do call for them?

GLENDOWER. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.

HOTSPUR. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil By telling truth; tell truth, and shame the devil. If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil!

MORTIMER. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

GLENDOWER. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

HOTSPUR. Home without boots, and in foul weather too! How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name!

GLENDOWER. Come, here’s the map, shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta’en?

MORTIMER. The archdeacon hath divided it Into three limits very equally: England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, By south and east is to my part assign’d: All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, And all the fertile land within that bound, To Owen Glendower: and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward lying off from Trent. And our indentures tripartite are drawn, Which being sealed interchangeably, A business that this night may execute, Tomorrow, cousin Percy, you and I, And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish power, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower is not ready yet, Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days. [_To Glendower._] Within that space you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

GLENDOWER. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords, And in my conduct shall your ladies come, From whom you now must steal, and take no leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives and you.

HOTSPUR. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quantity equals not one of yours. See how this river comes me cranking in, And cuts me from the best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. I’ll have the current in this place dammed up, And here the smug and silver Trent shall run In a new channel, fair and evenly. It shall not wind with such a deep indent, To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

GLENDOWER. Not wind? It shall, it must. You see it doth.

MORTIMER. Yea, but mark how he bears his course, and runs me up With like advantage on the other side, Gelding the opposed continent as much As on the other side it takes from you.

WORCESTER. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here, And on this north side win this cape of land, And then he runs straight and even.

HOTSPUR. I’ll have it so, a little charge will do it.

GLENDOWER. I’ll not have it altered.

HOTSPUR. Will not you?

GLENDOWER. No, nor you shall not.

HOTSPUR. Who shall say me nay?

GLENDOWER. Why, that will I.

HOTSPUR. Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.

GLENDOWER. I can speak English, lord, as well as you, For I was train’d up in the English Court, Where being but young I framed to the harp Many an English ditty lovely well, And gave the tongue a helpful ornament— A virtue that was never seen in you.

HOTSPUR. Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart. I had rather be a kitten, and cry “mew” Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d, Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree, And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry. ’Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.

GLENDOWER. Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.

HOTSPUR. I do not care. I’ll give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be gone?

GLENDOWER. The moon shines fair, you may away by night. I’ll haste the writer, and withal Break with your wives of your departure hence. I am afraid my daughter will run mad, So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

[_Exit._]

MORTIMER. Fie, cousin Percy, how you cross my father!

HOTSPUR. I cannot choose. Sometimes he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what— He held me last night at least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils’ names That were his lackeys: I cried “Hum,” and “Well, go to,” But mark’d him not a word. O, he is as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife, Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer house in Christendom.

MORTIMER. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, Exceedingly well read, and profited In strange concealments, valiant as a lion, And wondrous affable, and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come cross his humour, faith, he does. I warrant you that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done Without the taste of danger and reproof: But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

WORCESTER. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame, And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite besides his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault. Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood— And that’s the dearest grace it renders you— Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain, The least of which haunting a nobleman Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation.

HOTSPUR. Well, I am school’d. Good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

Enter Glendower with Lady Mortimer and Lady Percy.

MORTIMER. This is the deadly spite that angers me, My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

GLENDOWER. My daughter weeps, she’ll not part with you, She’ll be a soldier too, she’ll to the wars.

MORTIMER. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

[_Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers him in the same._]

GLENDOWER. She is desperate here, a peevish self-willed harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon.

[_Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh._]

MORTIMER. I understand thy looks, that pretty Welsh Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens I am too perfect in, and but for shame In such a parley should I answer thee.

[_Lady Mortimer speaks to him again in Welsh._]

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation, But I will never be a truant, love, Till I have learnt thy language; for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d, Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.

GLENDOWER. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

[_Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh._]

MORTIMER. O, I am ignorance itself in this!

GLENDOWER. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down, And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night, The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the east.

MORTIMER. With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing, By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

GLENDOWER. Do so, and those musicians that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.

HOTSPUR. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down. Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

LADY PERCY. Go, ye giddy goose.

[_The music plays._]

HOTSPUR. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh, And ’tis no marvel he’s so humorous. By’r Lady, he’s a good musician.

LADY PERCY. Then should you be nothing but musical, For you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

HOTSPUR. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

LADY PERCY. Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

HOTSPUR. No.

LADY PERCY. Then be still.

HOTSPUR. Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault.

LADY PERCY. Now God help thee!

HOTSPUR. To the Welsh lady’s bed.

LADY PERCY. What’s that?

HOTSPUR. Peace, she sings.

[_Here the lady sings a Welsh song._]

Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.

LADY PERCY. Not mine, in good sooth.

HOTSPUR. Not yours, in good sooth! Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker’s wife! “Not you, in good sooth,” and “As true as I live,” and “As God shall mend me,” and “As sure as day” And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths As if thou never walk’dst further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good mouth-filling oath, and leave “In sooth,” And such protest of pepper-gingerbread, To velvet-guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing.

LADY PERCY. I will not sing.

HOTSPUR. ’Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast-teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I’ll away within these two hours; and so come in when ye will.

[_Exit._]

GLENDOWER. Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as slow As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this our book is drawn. We’ll but seal, And then to horse immediately.

MORTIMER. With all my heart.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, Prince Henry and Lords.

KING. 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?

PRINCE. 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, By smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers, Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear, I may for some things true, wherein my youth Hath faulty wander’d and irregular, Find pardon on my true submission.

KING. 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 do 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 cap’ring 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 drowsed 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 hast 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.

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