ACT III. Scene I. Bangor. The Archdeacon's house.  Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Lord Mortimer, Owen Glendower.    Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure,     And our induction full of prosperous hope.   Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,     Will you sit down?     And uncle Worcester. A plague upon it!     I have forgot the map.   Glend. No, here it is.     Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur,     For by that name as oft as Lancaster     Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with     A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven.   Hot. And you in hell, as oft as he hears     Owen Glendower spoke of.   Glend. I cannot blame him. At my nativity     The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes     Of burning cressets, and at my birth     The frame and huge foundation of the earth     Shak'd like a coward.   Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your     mother's cat had but kitten'd, though yourself had never been     born.   Glend. I say the earth did shake when I was born.   Hot. And I say the earth was not of my mind,     If you suppose as fearing you it shook.   Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.   Hot. O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,     And not in fear of your nativity.     Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth     In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth     Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd     By the imprisoning of unruly wind     Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving,     Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down     Steeples and mossgrown towers. At your birth     Our grandam earth, having this distemp'rature,     In passion shook.   Glend. Cousin, of many men     I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave     To tell you once again that at my birth     The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,     The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds     Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.     These signs have mark'd me extraordinary,     And all the courses of my life do show     I am not in the roll of common men.     Where is he living, clipp'd in with the sea     That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,     Which calls me pupil or hath read to me?     And bring him out that is but woman's son     Can trace me in the tedious ways of art     And hold me pace in deep experiments.   Hot. I think there's no man speaks better Welsh. I'll to dinner.   Mort. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.   Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.   Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man;     But will they come when you do call for them?   Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.   Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil-     By telling truth. Tell truth and shame the devil.     If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,     And I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.     O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!   Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.   Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head     Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye     And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him     Bootless home and weather-beaten back.   Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too?     How scapes he agues, in the devil's name   Glend. Come, here's the map. Shall we divide our right     According to our threefold order ta'en?   Mort. The Archdeacon hath divided it     Into three limits very equally.     England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,     By south and east is to my part assign'd;     All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,     And all the fertile land within that bound,     To Owen Glendower; and, dear coz, to you     The remnant northward lying off from Trent.     And our indentures tripartite are drawn;     Which being sealed interchangeably     (A business that this night may execute),     To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I     And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth     To meet your father and the Scottish bower,     As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.     My father Glendower is not ready yet,     Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.     [To Glend.] Within that space you may have drawn together     Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.   Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords;     And in my conduct shall your ladies come,     From whom you now must steal and take no leave,     For there will be a world of water shed     Upon the parting of your wives and you.   Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,     In quantity equals not one of yours.     See how this river comes me cranking in     And cuts me from the best of all my land     A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.     I'll have the current ill this place damm'd up,     And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run     In a new channel fair and evenly.     It shall not wind with such a deep indent     To rob me of so rich a bottom here.   Glend. Not wind? It shall, it must! You see it doth.   Mort. Yea, but     Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up     With like advantage on the other side,     Gelding the opposed continent as much     As on the other side it takes from you.   Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here     And on this north side win this cape of land;     And then he runs straight and even.   Hot. I'll have it so. A little charge will do it.   Glend. I will not have it alt'red.   Hot. Will not you?   Glend. No, nor you shall not.   Hot. Who shall say me nay?   Glend. No, that will I.   Hot. Let me not understand you then; speak it in Welsh.   Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you;     For I was train'd up in the English court,     Where, being but young, I framed to the harp     Many an English ditty lovely well,     And gave the tongue a helpful ornament-     A virtue that was never seen in you.   Hot. Marry,     And I am glad of it with all my heart!     I had rather be a kitten and cry mew     Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.     I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd     Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree,     And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,     Nothing so much as mincing poetry.     'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag,   Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn'd.   Hot. I do not care. I'll give thrice so much land     To any well-deserving friend;     But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,     I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair     Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be gone?   Glend. The moon shines fair; you may away by night.     I'll haste the writer, and withal     Break with your wives of your departure hence.     I am afraid my daughter will run mad,     So much she doteth on her Mortimer.                    Exit.   Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!   Hot. I cannot choose. Sometimes he angers me     With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,     Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,     And of a dragon and a finless fish,     A clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven,     A couching lion and a ramping cat,     And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff     As puts me from my faith. I tell you what-     He held me last night at least nine hours     In reckoning up the several devils' names     That were his lackeys. I cried 'hum,' and 'Well, go to!'     But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious     As a tired horse, a railing wife;     Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live     With cheese and garlic in a windmill far     Than feed on cates and have him talk to me     In any summer house in Christendom).   Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,     Exceedingly well read, and profited     In strange concealments, valiant as a lion,     And wondrous affable, and as bountiful     As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?     He holds your temper in a high respect     And curbs himself even of his natural scope     When you come 'cross his humour. Faith, he does.     I warrant you that man is not alive     Might so have tempted him as you have done     Without the taste of danger and reproof.     But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.   Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame,     And since your coming hither have done enough     To put him quite besides his patience.     You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault.     Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood-     And that's the dearest grace it renders you-     Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,     Defect of manners, want of government,     Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain;     The least of which haunting a nobleman     Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain     Upon the beauty of all parts besides,     Beguiling them of commendation.   Hot. Well, I am school'd. Good manners be your speed!     Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.              Enter Glendower with the Ladies.    Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me-     My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.   Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with you;     She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.   Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy     Shall follow in your conduct speedily.                Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers                                                 him in the same.   Glend. She is desperate here. A peevish self-will'd harlotry,     One that no persuasion can do good upon.                                        The Lady speaks in Welsh.   Mort. I understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh     Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens     I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,     In such a Barley should I answer thee.                                         The Lady again in Welsh.     I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,     And that's a feeling disputation.     But I will never be a truant, love,     Till I have learnt thy language: for thy tongue     Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,     Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bow'r,     With ravishing division, to her lute.   Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.                                  The Lady speaks again in Welsh.   Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this!   Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down     And rest your gentle head upon her lap,     And she will sing the song that pleaseth you     And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,     Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,     Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep     As is the difference betwixt day and night     The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team     Begins his golden progress in the East.   Mort. With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing.     By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.   Glend. Do so,     And those musicians that shall play to you     Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,     And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend.   Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down. Come, quick,     quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.   Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose.                                                 The music plays.   Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;     And 'tis no marvel, be is so humorous.     By'r Lady, he is a good musician.   Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are     altogether govern'd by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the     lady sing in Welsh.   Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.   Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head broken?   Hot. No.   Lady P. Then be still.   Hot. Neither! 'Tis a woman's fault.   Lady P. Now God help thee!   Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed.   Lady P. What's that?   Hot. Peace! she sings.                                Here the Lady sings a Welsh song.     Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.   Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth.   Hot. Not yours, in good sooth? Heart! you swear like a     comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth!' and 'as true as I     live!' and 'as God shall mend me!' and 'as sure as day!'     And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths     As if thou ne'er walk'st further than Finsbury.     Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,     A good mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth'     And such protest of pepper gingerbread     To velvet guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing.   Lady P. I will not sing.   Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor or be redbreast-teacher. An     the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so     come in when ye will.                                  Exit.   Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer. You are as slow     As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.     By this our book is drawn; we'll but seal,     And then to horse immediately.   Mort. With all my heart.                                                          Exeunt.     Scene II. London. The Palace.  Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others.    King. Lords, give us leave. The Prince of Wales and I     Must have some private conference; but be near at hand,     For we shall presently have need of you.                                                    Exeunt Lords.     I know not whether God will have it so,     For some displeasing service I have done,     That, in his secret doom, out of my blood     He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;     But thou dost in thy passages of life     Make me believe that thou art only mark'd     For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven     To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,     Could such inordinate and low desires,     Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,     Such barren pleasures, rude society,     As thou art match'd withal and grafted to,     Accompany the greatness of thy blood     And hold their level with thy princely heart?   Prince. So please your Majesty, I would I could     Quit all offences with as clear excuse     As well as I am doubtless I can purge     Myself of many I am charged withal.     Yet such extenuation let me beg     As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,     Which oft the ear of greatness needs must bear     By, smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,     I may, for some things true wherein my youth     Hath faulty wand'red and irregular,     And pardon on lily true submission.   King. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder, Harry,     At thy affections, which do hold a wing,     Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.     Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost,     Which by thy younger brother is supplied,     And art almost an alien to the hearts     Of all the court and princes of my blood.     The hope and expectation of thy time     Is ruin'd, and the soul of every man     Prophetically do forethink thy fall.     Had I so lavish of my presence been,     So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men,     So stale and cheap to vulgar company,     Opinion, that did help me to the crown,     Had still kept loyal to possession     And left me in reputeless banishment,     A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.     By being seldom seen, I could not stir     But, like a comet, I Was wond'red at;     That men would tell their children, 'This is he!'     Others would say, 'Where? Which is Bolingbroke?'     And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,     And dress'd myself in such humility     That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,     Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths     Even in the presence of the crowned King.     Thus did I keep my person fresh and new,     My presence, like a robe pontifical,     Ne'er seen but wond'red at; and so my state,     Seldom but sumptuous, show'd like a feast     And won by rareness such solemnity.     The skipping King, he ambled up and down     With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,     Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state;     Mingled his royalty with cap'ring fools;     Had his great name profaned with their scorns     And gave his countenance, against his name,     To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push     Of every beardless vain comparative;     Grew a companion to the common streets,     Enfeoff'd himself to popularity;     That, being dally swallowed by men's eyes,     They surfeited with honey and began     To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little     More than a little is by much too much.     So, when he had occasion to be seen,     He was but as the cuckoo is in June,     Heard, not regarded- seen, but with such eyes     As, sick and blunted with community,     Afford no extraordinary gaze,     Such as is bent on unlike majesty     When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;     But rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down,     Slept in his face, and rend'red such aspect     As cloudy men use to their adversaries,     Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.     And in that very line, Harry, standest thou;     For thou hast lost thy princely privilege     With vile participation. Not an eye     But is aweary of thy common sight,     Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;     Which now doth that I would not have it do-     Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.   Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,     Be more myself.   King. For all the world,     As thou art to this hour, was Richard then     When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh;     And even as I was then is Percy now.     Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,     He hath more worthy interest to the state     Than thou, the shadow of succession;     For of no right, nor colour like to right,     He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,     Turns head against the lion's armed jaws,     And, Being no more in debt to years than thou,     Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on     To bloody battles and to bruising arms.     What never-dying honour hath he got     Against renowmed Douglas! whose high deeds,     Whose hot incursions and great name in arms     Holds from all soldiers chief majority     And military title capital     Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.     Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,     This infant warrior, in his enterprises     Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once,     Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,     To fill the mouth of deep defiance up     And shake the peace and safety of our throne.     And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,     The Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer     Capitulate against us and are up.     But wherefore do I tell these news to thee     Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,     Which art my nearest and dearest enemy'     Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,     Base inclination, and the start of spleen,     To fight against me under Percy's pay,     To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,     To show how much thou art degenerate.   Prince. Do not think so. You shall not find it so.     And God forgive them that so much have sway'd     Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me!     I will redeem all this on Percy's head     And, in the closing of some glorious day,     Be bold to tell you that I am your son,     When I will wear a garment all of blood,     And stain my favours in a bloody mask,     Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it.     And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,     That this same child of honour and renown,     This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,     And your unthought of Harry chance to meet.     For every honour sitting on his helm,     Would they were multitudes, and on my head     My shames redoubled! For the time will come     That I shall make this Northern youth exchange     His glorious deeds for my indignities.     Percy is but my factor, good my lord,     To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;     And I will call hall to so strict account     That he shall render every glory up,     Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,     Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.     This in the name of God I promise here;     The which if he be pleas'd I shall perform,     I do beseech your Majesty may salve     The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.     If not, the end of life cancels all bands,     And I will die a hundred thousand deaths     Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.   King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this!     Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.                          Enter Blunt.      How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.   Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of.     Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word     That Douglas and the English rebels met     The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.     A mighty and a fearful head they are,     If promises be kept oil every hand,     As ever off'red foul play in a state.   King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;     With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;     For this advertisement is five days old.     On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;     On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting     Is Bridgenorth; and, Harry, you shall march     Through Gloucestershire; by which account,     Our business valued, some twelve days hence     Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.     Our hands are full of business. Let's away.     Advantage feeds him fat while men delay.            Exeunt.     Scene III. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head Tavern.  Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.    Fal. Bardolph, am I not fall'n away vilely since this last action?     Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like     an old lady's loose gown! I am withered like an old apple John.     Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking.     I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no     strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a     church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse. The     inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath been the     spoil of me.   Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long.   Fal. Why, there is it! Come, sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I     was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous     enough: swore little, dic'd not above seven times a week, went to     a bawdy house not above once in a quarter- of an hour, paid money     that I borrowed- three or four times, lived well, and in good     compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.   Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of     all compass- out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.   Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our     admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop- but 'tis in the     nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.   Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.   Fal. No, I'll be sworn. I make as good use of it as many a man doth     of a death's-head or a memento mori. I never see thy face but I     think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple; for there he     is in his robes, burning, burning. if thou wert any way given to     virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be 'By this     fire, that's God's angel.' But thou art altogether given over,     and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter     darkness. When thou ran'st up Gadshill in the night to catch my     horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a     ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a     perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved     me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in     the night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack that thou hast     drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest     chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours     with fire any time this two-and-thirty years. God reward me for     it!   Bard. 'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!   Fal. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.                            Enter Hostess.      How now, Dame Partlet the hen? Have you enquir'd yet who pick'd     my pocket?   Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? Do you think I     keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have enquired, so     has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The     tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.   Fal. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shav'd and lost many a hair, and     I'll be sworn my pocket was pick'd. Go to, you are a woman, go!   Host. Who, I? No; I defy thee! God's light, I was never call'd so     in mine own house before!   Fal. Go to, I know you well enough.   Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir     John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to     beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.   Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas! I have given them away to bakers'     wives; they have made bolters of them.   Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell.     You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and     by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.   Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay.   Host. He? Alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.   Fal. How? Poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let them     coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks. I'll not pay a denier.     What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease     in mine inn but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a     seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark.   Host. O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft,     that that ring was copper!   Fal. How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup. 'Sblood, an he were     here, I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so.        Enter the Prince [and Poins], marching; and Falstaff meets           them, playing upon his truncheon like a fife.      How now, lad? Is the wind in that door, i' faith? Must we all     march?   Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.   Host. My lord, I pray you hear me.   Prince. What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband?     I love him well; he is an honest man.   Host. Good my lord, hear me.   Fal. Prithee let her alone and list to me.   Prince. What say'st thou, Jack?   Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and had my     pocket pick'd. This house is turn'd bawdy house; they pick     pockets.   Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack?   Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? Three or four bonds of forty pound     apiece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.   Prince. A trifle, some eightpenny matter.   Host. So I told him, my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say so;     and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd     man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.   Prince. What! he did not?   Host. There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.   Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor no     more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for woman-hood, Maid     Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you     thing, go!   Host. Say, what thing? what thing?   Fal. What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on.   Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it!     I am an honest man's wife, and, setting thy knight-hood aside,     thou art a knave to call me so.   Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say     otherwise.   Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?   Fal. What beast? Why, an otter.   Prince. An otter, Sir John? Why an otter?   Fal. Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to     have her.   Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou or any man knows     where to have me, thou knave, thou!   Prince. Thou say'st true, hostess, and he slanders thee most     grossly.   Host. So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day you ought     him a thousand pound.   Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?   Fal. A thousand pound, Hal? A million! Thy love is worth a million;     thou owest me thy love.   Host. Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack and said he would cudgel     you.   Fal. Did I, Bardolph?   Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so.   Fal. Yea. if he said my ring was copper.   Prince. I say, 'tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word now?   Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare; but as     thou art Prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion's     whelp.   Prince. And why not as the lion?   Fal. The King himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou think     I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray God my     girdle break.   Prince. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees!     But, sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in     this bosom of thine. It is all fill'd up with guts and midriff.     Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou     whoreson, impudent, emboss'd rascal, if there were anything in     thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy houses,     and one poor pennyworth of sugar candy to make thee long-winded-     if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but these, I     am a villain. And yet you will stand to it; you will not pocket     up wrong. Art thou not ashamed?   Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of innocency     Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of     villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and     therefore more frailty. You confess then, you pick'd my pocket?   Prince. It appears so by the story.   Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast. Love thy     husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt     find me tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am pacified.     -Still?- Nay, prithee be gone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to the     news at court. For the robbery, lad- how is that answered?   Prince. O my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee.     The money is paid back again.   Fal. O, I do not like that paying back! 'Tis a double labour.   Prince. I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.   Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it     with unwash'd hands too.   Bard. Do, my lord.   Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.   Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can     steal well? O for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty or     thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for     these rebels. They offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I     praise them.   Prince. Bardolph!   Bard. My lord?   Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,     To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.                                                 [Exit Bardolph.]     Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I     Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.                                                    [Exit Poins.]     Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple Hall     At two o'clock in the afternoon.     There shalt thou know thy charge. and there receive     Money and order for their furniture.     The land is burning; Percy stands on high;     And either they or we must lower lie.                [Exit.]   Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come.     O, I could wish this tavern were my drum! Exit.