Ch. Juft. Well, be honeft, be honeft, and Heav'n blefs your Expedition.

Fal. Will your Lordship lend me a thousand Pound, to furnish me forth?

Ch. Juft. Not a Penny, not a Penny; you are too impatient to bear Croffes. Fare you well. Commend me to my Coufin Westmorland. [Exit.

Fal. If I do, fillop me with a three-man-Beetle. A Man can no more separate Age and Covetousness, than he can part young Limbs and Letchery: But the Gout galls the one, and the Pox pinches the other, and fo both the Degrees prevent my Curfes. Boy.

Page. Sir.

Fal. What Mony is in my Purse?
Page. Seven Groats, and two Pence.

Fal. I can get no Remedy against this Confumption of the Purse. Borrowing only lingers, and lingers it out, but the D feafe is incurable. Go bear this Letter to my Lord of Lancaster, this to the Prince, this to the Earl of Westmorland, and this to old Mistress Urfula, whom I have weekly fworn to marry, fince I perceiv'd the first white Hair on my Chin. About it; you know where to find me.. A Pox of this Gout, or a Gout of this Pox; for the one or th'other plays the Rogue with my great Toe : It is no matter, if I do halt, I have the Wars for my Colour, and my Penfion fhall feem the more reasonable: A good Wit will make use of any thing; I will turn Diseases to commodity. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Enter Arch Bishop of York, Haftings, Mowbray, and Lord Bardolph.

York. Thus have you heard our Causes, and know our

And my most noble Friends, I pray you all

Speak plainly your Opinions of our Hopes,
And firft, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?

Mow. I well allow the occafion of our Arms,

But gladly would be better satisfied,

[Means:

How, in our Means, we should advance our felves,

To look with Forehead bell and big enough,
Upon the Power and Puiffance of the King?
Haft. Our prefent Mufte's grow pon the File
To five and twenty thoufand Men of choice:
And our Supplies live largely in the Hope
Of great Northumberland, whofe Bofom burns
With an incensed Fue of Injuries.

Bard. The queftion then Lord Haftings, ftandeth thus,
Whether our prefent five and twenty thousand
May hold up Head without No thumberland?
Haft. With him we may.

Bard. Ay marry there's the point:

But if without him we be thought too feeble,
My Judgment is, we fhould not ftep too far
'Till we had his Assistance by the Hand.
For in a Theam fo bloody fac'd as this,
Conjecture, Expectation, and Surmife
Of Aids uncertain, fhould not be admitted.
York. 'Tis true, Lord Bardolph, for indeed
It was young Hot fpur's Cafe at Shrewsbury.

Bard. It was, my Lord, who lin'd himself with hope, Eating the Air, on promife of Supply,

Flattering himself with Project of a Power,

Much fmaller than the fmalleft of his Thoughts,

And fo, with great Imagination,

Proper to Madmen, led his Powers to Death,
And, winking, leap'd into Destruction.

Haft. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt,
To lay down likelihoods, and forms of Hope.
Bard. Yes, if this prefent quality of War,
Indeed the inftant Action, a Čaufe on foot,
Lives fo in hope, as in an early Spring
We fee th'appearing Buds, which to prove Fruit,
Hope gives not fo much warrant, as Despair

That Frofts will bite them. When we mean to build;

We first furvey the Plot, then draw the Model,
And when we see the figure of the House,
Then must we rate the Coft of the Erection,
Which if we find out-weighs Ability,

What do we then, but draw a-new the Model

In fewer Offices? or at least, defift

To build at all? Much more, in this great Work,
Which is, almoft, to pluck a Kingdom down,
And fet another up, fhould we furvey

The Plot of Situation, and the Model,
Confent upon a fure Foundation,

Queftion Surveyors, know our own Estate,
How able fuch a Work to undergo,
To weigh against his Oppofite? or else,
We fortifie in Paper, and in Figures,
Ufing the Names of Men, inftead of Men:
Like one that draws the Model of a House
Beyond his Power to build it; who, half through,
Gives o'er, and leaves his part-created Coft
A naked fubject to the weeping Clouds,
And wafte, for churlish Winters tyranny.

Haft. Grant that our Hopes, yet likely of fair Birth,'
Should be ftill-born; and that we now poffeft
The utmost Man of Expectation:

I think we are a Body ftrong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the King.

Bard. What, is the King but five and twenty thousand? Haft. To us no more; nay not fo much, Lord Bardolph.

For his Divifions, as the Times do brawl,

Are in three Heads; one Power againft the French,
And one against Glendower; perforce a third

Muft take up us: So is the unfirm King

In three divided; and his Coffers found

With hollow Poverty, and Emptiness.

York. That he should draw his feveral Strengths together, And come againft us in full Puiffance,

Need not be dreaded.

Haft. If he fhould do so,

He leaves his Back unarm'd, the French, and Welsh
Baying him at the Heels; never fear that.

Bard. Who is it like fhould lead his Forces hither?
Haft. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmorland:
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth.
But who is fubftituted 'gainst the French,

I have no certain notice.

York.

York. Let us on:

And publish the Occafion of our Arms.

The Commonwealth is fick of their own choice,
Their over-greedy Love hath furfeited.

An Habitation giddy and unfure

Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar Heart.
O thou fond Many! with what loud Applaufe
Did't thou beat Heav'n with bleffing Bullingbroke,
Before he was, what thou would't have him be?
And being now trim'd up in thine own Defires,
Thou, beaftly Feeder, art fo full of him,
That thou provok'ft thy felf to caft him up.
So, fo, thou common Dog, didft thou difgorge
Thy glutton-bofom of the Royal Richard,
And now thou would't eat thy dead Vomit up,
And howl'ft to find it. What truft is in these Times?
They, that when Richard liv'd, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd on his Grave,
Thou that threw'ft Duft upon his goodly Head,
When through proud London he came fighing on,
After th' admired Heels of Bullingbroke,

Cry'ft now, O Earth yield us that King again,
And take thou this. O thoughts of Men accurs'd,
Paft, and to come, seems beft; things prefent, worst.

Mow. Shall we go draw our Numbers, and fet on? Haft. We are Time's Subjects, and Time bids, be gone!

A CT II. SCENE I.

Enter Hoftefs, with two Officers, Fang and Snare.

Hoft MR. Fang. It is enter'd.

R. Fang, have you entred the Action?

Hoft. Where's your Yeoman? Is it a lufty Yeoman? Will he ftand to it?

Fang. Sirrah, where's Snare?

Hoft. Ay, ay, good Mr.Snare.

Snare.

Snare. Here, here.

Fang. Snare, we must Arrest Sir John Falstaff.

Hoft. Ay, good Mr. Snare. I have enter'd him, and all. Snare. It may chance coft some of us our Lives: He will stab.

Hoft. Alas-the-day; take heed of him; he stab'd me in mine own House, and that most beaftly; he cares not what mischief he doth, if his Weapon be out. He will foin like any Devil, he will spare neither Man, Woman, nor Child.

Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for his thruft.
Hoft. No, nor I neither; I'll be at your Elbow.

Fang. If I but fift him once; if he come but within my Vice.

Hoft. I am undone with his going; I warrant he is an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Mr. Fang, hold him fure; good Mr. Snare, let him not fcape, he comes continually to Pie-corner, faving your Manhoods, to buy a Saddle, and he is invited to dinner to the Lubbar's head in Lombardstreet to Mr. Smooth's the Silkman. I pray ye fince my Action is enter'd, and my Cafe fo openly known to the World, let him be brought in to his Anf ver. A hundred Mark is a long one, for a poor lone Woman to bear; and I have born, and born, and born: And have been fub'd off, and fub'd off, from this Day to that Day, that it is a fhame to be thought on. There is no honesty in fuch dealing, unless a Woman should be made an Afs and a Beast, to bear every Knaves wrong.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Yonder he comes, and that arrant Malmfey-Nofe Bardolph with him. Do your Offices, do your Offices: Mr. Fang, and Mr. Snare, do me, do me, do me your Offices.

Fal. How now? whofe Mare's dead? what's the matter?

Fang. Sir John, I arreft you at the fuit of Mistress Quickly.

Fal. Away Varlets; draw Bardolph: Cut me off the Villain's Head: Throw the Quean in the Kennel.

Hoft.