Prince. And why not as the Lyon? Fal. The King himselfe is to bee feared as the Lyon: Do'st thou thinke Ile feare thee, as I feare thy Father? nay if I do, let my Girdle breake
Prin. O, if it should, how would thy guttes fall about thy knees. But sirra: There's no roome for Faith, Truth, nor Honesty, in this bosome of thine: it is all fill'd vppe with Guttes and Midriffe. Charge an honest Woman with picking thy pocket? Why thou horson impudent imbost Rascall, if there were any thing in thy Pocket but Tauerne Recknings, Memorandums of Bawdie-houses, and one poore peny-worth of Sugar-candie to make thee long-winded: if thy pocket were enrich'd with anie other iniuries but these, I am a Villaine: And yet you will stand to it, you will not Pocket vp wrong. Art thou not asham'd? Fal. Do'st thou heare Hal? Thou know'st in the state of Innocency, Adam fell: and what should poore Iacke Falstaffe do, in the dayes of Villany? Thou seest, I haue more flesh then another man, and therefore more frailty. You confesse then you pickt my Pocket? Prin. It appeares so by the Story
Fal. Hostesse, I forgiue thee: Go make ready Breakfast, loue thy Husband, Looke to thy Seruants, and cherish thy Guests: Thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason: Thou seest, I am pacified still. Nay, I prethee be gone.
Now Hal, to the newes at Court for the Robbery, Lad? How is that answered? Prin. O my sweet Beefe: I must still be good Angell to thee. The Monie is paid backe againe
Fal. O, I do not like that paying backe, 'tis a double Labour
Prin. I am good Friends with my Father, and may do anything
Fal. Rob me the Exchequer the first thing thou do'st, and do it with vnwash'd hands too
Bard. Do my Lord
Prin. I haue procured thee Iacke, A Charge of Foot
Fal. I would it had beene of Horse. Where shal I finde one that can steale well? O, for a fine theefe of two and twentie, or thereabout: I am heynously vnprouided. Wel God be thanked for these Rebels, they offend none but the Vertuous. I laud them, I praise them
Bar. My Lord
Prin. Go beare this Letter to Lord Iohn of Lancaster To my Brother Iohn. This to my Lord of Westmerland, Go Peto, to horse: for thou, and I, Haue thirtie miles to ride yet ere dinner time. Iacke, meet me tomorrow in the Temple Hall At two a clocke in the afternoone, There shalt thou know thy Charge, and there receiue Money and Order for their Furniture. The Land is burning, Percie stands on hye, And either they, or we must lower lye
Fal. Rare words! braue world. Hostesse, my breakfast, come: Oh, I could wish this Tauerne were my drumme.