men mày sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and, some say knives have èdges. It must be as it may.

Enter PISTOL and Mrs. QUICKLY.

Bard. Here comes ancient Pistol, and his wife: --good corporal, be patient.-How now, mine host Pistol?

Pist. Base tike, call'st thou mè-host?

Now, by this hand I swear, I scorn the term;
Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

Quick. [Nym draws his sword.] O well-i-day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! we shall see wilful mùrder committed. Good Lieutenant,-good corporal, offer nothing here.

Nym. Pish!

Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prickeared cur of Iceland!

Quick. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.

Nym. Will you shog off? I would have you solus. [Sheathing his sword.

Pist. Solus, egregious dog? O viper vile! The solus in thy most marvellous face; The solus in thy teeth, and in thy throat, And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! Nym. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms: and that's the humour of it.

Pist. O braggard vile, and damned furious wight! O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get? I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For th' only she; and-Pauca, there's enough.

Enter the Boy.

Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and you, hostess ;-he is very sick, and would to bed.―Good Bardolph, put thy nose between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan.

Bard. Away, you rogue.

Quick. By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of these days: the king has kill'd his heart.

[Exeunt Mrs. Quickly and Boy.

Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together; Why, the devil, should we keep knives to cut one another's throats?

Nym. You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pist. Base is the slave that pays.

Nym. That now I will have; that's the humour of it. Pist. As manhood shall compound; Push home. [They draw.

Bard. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I'll kill him; by this sword, I will.

Pist. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their

course.

A nòble shalt thou have, and present pay;

And liquor likewise will I give to thee,

For I shall sutler be unto the camp.

Give me thy hand.

Nym. And I shall have my noble?
Pist. In càsh most justly paid.
Nym. Well, that's the humour of it.

Re-enter MRS. QUICKLY.

Quick. As ever you came of women, come in quickly to Sir John: Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to behoid. Sweet men, come to him.

Nym. The king hath run bad humours on the knight, that's the even of it.

Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right; His heart is fràcted and corroborate.

[Exeunt.

Southampton. A Council Chamber. Trumpets sound. Enter King HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD, WESTMORELAND, SCROOP, CAMBRIDGE, and GREY, Lords, and Attendants.

King Henry.

OW sits the wind fair, and we will aboard
My lord of Cambridge,—and my lord of
Masham,-

And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts;

Think you not that the powers we bear with us Will cut their passage through the force of France? Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best.

K. Hen. I doubt not that: since we are well

persuaded,

We carry not a heart with us from hence,
That grows not in a fair consent with ours;
Nor leave we one behìnd, that doth not wish
Succèss and cònquest to attend on us.

Cam. Never was monarch better fear'd, and lov'd,
Than is your majesty; there's not a subject,
That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness
Under the sweet shade of your government.

Grey. True: those that were your father's enemies.

Have steep'd their galls in honey; and do serve you With hearts create of duty and of zeal.

K. Hen. We therefore have great cause of thankfulness;

And shall forget the office of our hand,
Sooner than quittance of desert and merit,
According to the weight and worthiness.
Uncle of Exeter, enlarge the man

That rail'd against our pèrson: we consider,
It was excess of wine that set him on ;
And, on our more advice, we pardon him.

Scroop. That's mercy, but too much security:
Let him be punish'd, sovereign; lest example
Breed, by his sufferance, mòre of such a kind.
K. Hen. O, let us yet be merciful.

Cam. So may your highness, and yet punish too. Grey. You show great mèrcy, if you give him life, After the taste of much correction.

K. Hen. We'll yet enlarge that man,

Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey,-in their dear care,

And tender preservation of our person,

Would have him punish'd. Now to our French

causes;

Who are the state commissioners ?

Cam. I one, my lord;

Your highness bade me ask for it to-day.

Scroop. So did you me, my liege.

Grey. And me, my royal sovereign.

K. Hen. Then, Richard, earl of Cambridge, there

There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham ;—and, sir

knight,

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours :

Read them; and know, I know your worthiness.-
My lord of Westmoreland,—and uncle Exeter,—
We will aboard to-night.-Why, how now, gentlemen?
What see you in those papers, that you lose
So much complexion ?-lòok ye, how they change!
Their cheeks are paper.-Why, what read you there,
That hath so cowarded and chased your blood
Out of appearance?

Cam.

I confess my fault;

And do submit me to your highness' mercy.
Grey. Scroop. To which we all appeal.

K. Hen. The mercy, that was quìck in us but late,
By your own counsel is suppress'd and kill'd:
You must not dare, for shàme, to talk of mèrcy;
For your own reasons turn into your bosoms,
See you, my princes, and my noble peers,
These English monsters! My lord Cambridge here,—
You know, how apt our love was, to accord
To furnish him with all appertinents
Belonging to his hònour; and this man
Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir'd,
And sworn unto the practices of France,
To kill us here in Hampton: to the which,
This knight, nò lèss for bounty bound to us
Than Cambridge is,—hath likewise sworn.-But O !
What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop; thou crùel,
Ingrateful, sàvage, and inhùman creature!
Thou, that didst bear the key of all my counsels,
That knew'st the very bottom of my soul,
That almost might'st have coin'd me into gold.
May it be possible, that foreign hìre

Could out of thee extract one spàrk of evil
That might annoy my finger? 'tis so strange,
That, though the truth of it stands off as gross