Exe. I arrest thee of High Treason, by the name of Richard Earle of Cambridge. I arrest thee of High Treason, by the name of Thomas Lord Scroope of Marsham. I arrest thee of High Treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, Knight of Northumberland
Scro. Our purposes, God iustly hath discouer'd, And I repent my fault more then my death, Which I beseech your Highnesse to forgiue, Although my body pay the price of it
Cam. For me, the Gold of France did not seduce, Although I did admit it as a motiue, The sooner to effect what I intended: But God be thanked for preuention, Which in sufferance heartily will reioyce, Beseeching God, and you, to pardon mee
Gray. Neuer did faithfull subiect more reioyce At the discouery of most dangerous Treason, Then I do at this houre ioy ore my selfe, Preuented from a damned enterprize; My fault, but not my body, pardon Soueraigne
King. God quit you in his mercy: Hear your sentence You haue conspir'd against Our Royall person, Ioyn'd with an enemy proclaim'd, and from his Coffers, Receyu'd the Golden Earnest of Our death: Wherein you would haue sold your King to slaughter, His Princes, and his Peeres to seruitude, His Subiects to oppression, and contempt, And his whole Kingdome into desolation: Touching our person, seeke we no reuenge, But we our Kingdomes safety must so tender, Whose ruine you sought, that to her Lawes We do deliuer you. Get you therefore hence, (Poore miserable wretches) to your death: The taste whereof, God of his mercy giue You patience to indure, and true Repentance Of all your deare offences. Beare them hence. Enter.
Now Lords for France: the enterprise whereof Shall be to you as vs, like glorious. We doubt not of a faire and luckie Warre, Since God so graciously hath brought to light This dangerous Treason, lurking in our way, To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now, But euery Rubbe is smoothed on our way. Then forth, deare Countreymen: Let vs deliuer Our Puissance into the hand of God, Putting it straight in expedition. Chearely to Sea, the signes of Warre aduance, No King of England, if not King of France.
Enter Pistoll, Nim, Bardolph, Boy, and Hostesse.
Hostesse. 'Prythee honey sweet Husband, let me bring thee to Staines
Pistoll. No: for my manly heart doth erne. Bardolph, be blythe: Nim, rowse thy vaunting Veines: Boy, brissle thy Courage vp: for Falstaffe hee is dead, and wee must erne therefore
Bard. Would I were with him, wheresomere hee is, eyther in Heauen, or in Hell
Hostesse. Nay sure, hee's not in Hell: hee's in Arthurs Bosome, if euer man went to Arthurs Bosome: a made a finer end, and went away and it had beene any Christome Childe: a parted eu'n iust betweene Twelue and One, eu'n at the turning o'th' Tyde: for after I saw him fumble with the Sheets, and play with Flowers, and smile vpon his fingers end, I knew there was but one way: for his Nose was as sharpe as a Pen, and a Table of greene fields. How now Sir Iohn (quoth I?) what man? be a good cheare: so a cryed out, God, God, God, three or foure times: now I, to comfort him, bid him a should not thinke of God; I hop'd there was no neede to trouble himselfe with any such thoughts yet: so a bad me lay more Clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the Bed, and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone: then I felt to his knees, and so vp-peer'd, and vpward, and all was as cold as any stone
Nim. They say he cryed out of Sack
Hostesse. I, that a did