Prin. Peace. I will imitate the honourable Romaines in breuitie

Poin. Sure he meanes breuity in breath: short-winded. I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leaue thee. Bee not too familiar with Pointz, for hee misuses thy Fauours so much, that he sweares thou art to marrie his Sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayst, and so farewell. Thine, by yea and no: which is as much as to say, as thou vsest him. Iacke Falstaffe with my Familiars: Iohn with my Brothers and Sister: & Sir Iohn, with all Europe. My Lord, I will steepe this Letter in Sack, and make him eate it

Prin. That's to make him eate twenty of his Words. But do you vse me thus Ned? Must I marry your Sister? Poin. May the Wench haue no worse Fortune. But I neuer said so

Prin. Well, thus we play the Fooles with the time, & the spirits of the wise, sit in the clouds, and mocke vs: Is your Master heere in London? Bard. Yes my Lord

Prin. Where suppes he? Doth the old Bore, feede in the old Franke? Bard. At the old place my Lord, in East-cheape

Prin. What Company? Page. Ephesians my Lord, of the old Church

Prin. Sup any women with him? Page. None my Lord, but old Mistris Quickly, and M[istris]. Doll Teare-sheet

Prin. What Pagan may that be? Page. A proper Gentlewoman, Sir, and a Kinswoman of my Masters

Prin. Euen such Kin, as the Parish Heyfors are to the Towne-Bull? Shall we steale vpon them (Ned) at Supper? Poin. I am your shadow, my Lord, Ile follow you

Prin. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your Master that I am yet in Towne. There's for your silence

Bar. I haue no tongue, sir

Page. And for mine Sir, I will gouerne it

Prin. Fare ye well: go. This Doll Teare-sheet should be some Rode

Poin. I warrant you, as common as the way betweene S[aint]. Albans, and London

Prin. How might we see Falstaffe bestow himselfe to night, in his true colours, and not our selues be seene? Poin. Put on two Leather Ierkins, and Aprons, and waite vpon him at his Table, like Drawers

Prin. From a God, to a Bull? A heauie declension: It was Ioues case. From a Prince, to a Prentice, a low transformation, that shall be mine: for in euery thing, the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me Ned.


Scena Tertia.

Enter Northumberland, his Ladie, and Harrie Percies Ladie.

North. I prethee louing Wife, and gentle Daughter, Giue an euen way vnto my rough Affaires: Put not you on the visage of the Times, And be like them to Percie, troublesome

Wife. I haue giuen ouer, I will speak no more, Do what you will: your Wisedome, be your guide

North. Alas (sweet Wife) my Honor is at pawne, And but my going, nothing can redeeme it

La. Oh yet, for heauens sake, go not to these Warrs; The Time was (Father) when you broke your word, When you were more endeer'd to it, then now, When your owne Percy, when my heart-deereHarry, Threw many a Northward looke, to see his Father Bring vp his Powres: but he did long in vaine. Who then perswaded you to stay at home? There were two Honors lost; Yours, and your Sonnes. For Yours, may heauenly glory brighten it: For His, it stucke vpon him, as the Sunne In the gray vault of Heauen: and by his Light Did all the Cheualrie of England moue To do braue Acts. He was (indeed) the Glasse Wherein the Noble-Youth did dresse themselues. He had no Legges, that practic'd not his Gate: And speaking thicke (which Nature made his blemish) Became the Accents of the Valiant. For those that could speake low, and tardily, Would turne their owne Perfection, to Abuse, To seeme like him. So that in Speech, in Gate, In Diet, in Affections of delight, In Militarie Rules, Humors of Blood, He was the Marke, and Glasse, Coppy, and Booke, That fashion'd others. And him, O wondrous! him, O Miracle of Men! Him did you leaue (Second to none) vn-seconded by you, To looke vpon the hideous God of Warre, In dis-aduantage, to abide a field, Where nothing but the sound of Hotspurs Name Did seeme defensible: so you left him. Neuer, O neuer doe his Ghost the wrong, To hold your Honor more precise and nice With others, then with him. Let them alone: The Marshall and the Arch-bishop are strong. Had my sweet Harry had but halfe their Numbers, To day might I (hanging on Hotspurs Necke) Haue talk'd of Monmouth's Graue

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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