Henry IV Part 1


Scene I. Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon's House.

[Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower.]


These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.


Lord Mortimer,--and cousin Glendower,--Will you sit down?--

And uncle Worcester,--A plague upon it! I have forgot the map.


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.


And you in Hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.


I cannot blame him: at my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets; ay, and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the Earth

Shaked like a coward.


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.


I say the Earth did shake when I was born.


And I say the Earth was not of my mind, if you suppose as

fearing you it shook.


The Heavens were all on fire, the Earth did tremble.


O, then th' 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 beldam Earth, and topples down

Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth,

Our grandam Earth, having this distemperature,

In passion shook.


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.


I think there is no man speaks better Welsh.--I'll to dinner.


Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.


I can call spirits from the vasty deep.


Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?


Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the Devil.


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've power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!


Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.


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.


Home without boots, and in foul weather too!

How 'scaped he agues, in the Devil's name!


Come, here's the map: shall we divide our right

According to our threefold order ta'en?


Th' 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 power,

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.


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.


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 in this place damn'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.


Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it doth.


Yea, but

Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side;

Gelding th' opposed continent as much

As on the other side it takes from you.


Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,

And on this north side win this cape of land;

And then he runneth straight and evenly.


I'll have it so: a little charge will do it.


I will not have it alter'd.


Will not you?


No, nor you shall not.


Who shall say me nay?


Why, that will I.


Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.


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.


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 forced gait of a shuffling nag.


Come, you shall have Trent turn'd.


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?


The Moon shines fair; you may away by night:

I'll in and 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.



Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!


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 the least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils' names

That were his lacqueys: I cried hum, and well,

But mark'd him not a word. O, he's 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.


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 do 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.


In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blunt;

And since your coming hither have done enough

To put him quite beside 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.


Well, I am school'd: good manners be your speed!

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

[Re-enter Glendower, with Lady Mortimer and Lady Percy.]


This is the deadly spite that angers me,

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.


My daughter weeps: she will not part with you;

She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the wars.


Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy

Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

[Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers

him in the same.]


She's desperate here; a peevish self-will'd harlotry,

One that no persuasion can do good upon.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.]


I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh

Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a parley should I answer thee.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to him 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 learn'd thy language; for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,

Sung by a fair queen in a Summer's bower,

With ravishing division, to her lute.


Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh.]


O, I am ignorance itself in this!


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 betwixt 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.


With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing:

By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.


Do so:

An 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.


Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick,

quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.


Go, ye giddy goose.

[The music plays.]


Now I perceive the Devil understands Welsh;

And 'tis no marvel he's so humorous.

By'r Lady, he's a good musician.


Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are

altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear

the lady sing in Welsh.


I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.


Wouldst thou have thy head broken?




Then be still.


Neither; 'tis a woman's fault.


Now God help thee!


Peace! she sings.

[A Welsh song by Lady Mortimer.]

Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.


Not mine, in good sooth.


Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart! you swear like a

comfit-maker's wife. Not mine, 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'dst 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.


I will not sing.


'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.



Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book's drawn; we'll but seal, and then

To horse immediately.


With all my heart.


Scene II. London. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, and Lords.]


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 base, 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?


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 devised

By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,--

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,--

I may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wander'd and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.


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 does 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 wonder'd 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 wonder'd at: and so my state,

Seldom but sumptuous, showed 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 capering 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 swallow'd 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 sun-like majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;

But rather drowsed, and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face, and render'd such aspect

As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full.

And in that very line, Harry, stand'st thou;

For thou hast lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation: not an eye

But is a-weary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more;

Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.


I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,

Be more myself.


For all the world,

As thou art to this hour, was Richard then

When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;

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 renowned 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 swathing-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,

Th' Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, and 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 near'st 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.


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 favour 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,

T' 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 I perform, and do survive,

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.


A hundred thousand rebels die in this.

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.--

[Enter Sir Walter Blunt.]

How now, good Blunt! thy looks are full of speed.


So is the business that I come to speak of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word

That Douglas and the English rebels met

Th' eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury:

A mighty and a fearful head they are,

If promises be kept on every hand,

As ever offer'd foul play in a State.


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 you, Harry, shall set forward;

On Thursday we ourselves will march:

Our meeting is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you

Shall march through Glostershire; 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.


Scene III. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar's-Head Tavern.

[Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.]


Bardolph, am I not fallen 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


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, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.


Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.


Why, there is it: come, sing me a song; make me merry. I was as

virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore

little; diced not above seven times a week; 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.


Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all

compass, --out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.


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.


Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.


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

hell-fire, 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 rann'st up Gad's-hill 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 maintain'd that salamander of yours with fire any time this

two-and-thirty years; God reward me for it!


'Sblood, I would my face were in your stomach!


God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.--

[Enter the Hostess.]

How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you enquir'd yet who

pick'd my pocket?


Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think I

keep thieves in my house? I have search'd, I have inquired,

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.


Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved, and lost many a hair; and

I'll be sworn my pocket was pick'd. Go to, you are a woman, go.


Who, I? no; I defy thee: God's light, I was never call'd so in

mine own house before.


Go to, I know you well enough.


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.


Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers' wives,

and they have made bolters of them.


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.


He had his part of it; let him pay.


He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.


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.


O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft,

that that ring was copper!


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 Prince Henry and Pointz, marching. Falstaff meets them,

playing on his truncheon like a fife.]

How now, lad? is the wind in that door, i'faith? must we all



Yea, two-and-two, Newgate-fashion.


My lord, I pray you, hear me.


What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love

him well; he is an honest man.


Good my lord, hear me.


Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me.


What say'st thou, Jack?


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.


What didst thou lose, Jack?


Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound

a-piece and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.


A trifle, some eight-penny matter.


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.


What! he did not?


There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.


There's no more faith in thee than in a stew'd 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.


Say, what thing? what thing? I am an honest man's wife: and,

setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.


Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.


Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?


What beast! why, an otter.


An otter, Sir John, why an otter?


Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have



Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou or any man knows where

to have me, thou knave, thou!


Thou say'st true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly.


So he doth you, my lord; and said this other day you ought him a

thousand pound.


Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?


A thousand pound, Hal! a million: thy love is worth a million;

thou owest me thy love.


Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.


Did I, Bardolph?


Indeed, Sir John, you said so.


Yea, if he said my ring was copper.


I say 'tis copper: darest thou be as good as thy word now?


Why, Hal, thou know'st, 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.


And why not as the lion?


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



Sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this

bosom of thine; it is all fill'd up with 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, 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!


Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know'st, in the state of innocency Adam fell;

and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy?

Thou see'st I have more flesh than another man; and therefore more

frailty. You confess, then, you pick'd my pocket?


It appears so by the story.


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 see'st I am pacified.--Still? Nay, pr'ythee,

be gone.

[Exit Hostess.]

Now, Hal, to the news at Court: for the robbery, lad, how is

that answered?


O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee: the money

is paid back again.


O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labour.


I am good friends with my father, and may do any thing.


Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with

unwash'd hands too.


Do, my lord.


I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of Foot.


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.




My lord?


Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

My brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.--

[Exit Bardolph.]

Go, Pointz, to horse, to horse; for thou and I

Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.--

[Exit Pointz.]

Meet me to-morrow, Jack, i' the Temple-hall

At two o'clock in th' 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.



Rare words! brave world!--Hostess, my breakfast; come:--

O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!