none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him ;-in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal;-none, Ned, none; no, 'faith, boys, none.

P. Hen. See now, whether pure fear, and entire cowardice, doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us? Is she of the wicked? Is thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is thy boy of the wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked?

Poins. Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

Fal. The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer's privykitchen, where he doth nothing but roast maltworms. For the boy,-there is a good angel about him, but the devil outbids him too.

P. Hen. For the women?

Fal. For one of them,—she is in hell already, and burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her money, and whether she be damned for that, I

know not.

Host. No, I warrant you.

Fal. No, I think thou art not; I think, thou Marry, there is another indict

art quit for that.

ment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl.

Host. All victuallers do so: what's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent? P. Hen. You, gentlewoman, Doll. What says your grace?

Fal. His grace says that which his flesh rebels against. [Knocking heard. Host. Who knocks so loud at door? look to the door there, Francis.

Enter PETO

P. Hen. Peto, how now! what news? Peto. The king your father is at Westminster; And there are twenty weak and wearied posts Come from the north: and, as I came along, I met and overtook a dozen captains, Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns, And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

P. Hen. By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to profane the precious time

When tempest of commotion, like the south
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt
And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.

Give me my sword and cloak.-Falstaff, good[Exeunt Prince HENRY, POINS,

night.

PETO, and BARDOLPH.

Fal. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpicked. [Knocking heard.] More knocking at the door!

Re-enter BARDOLPH

How now? what's the matter?

Bard. You must away to court, sir, presently; A dozen captains stay at door for you.

Fal. [To the Page.] Pay the musicians, sirrah.Farewell, hostess ;-farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought after : the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is called on. Farewell, good wenches: if I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I

go.

Doll. I cannot speak ;-if my heart be not ready to burst,—well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself.

Fal. Farewell, farewell.

[Exeunt FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH. Host. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come peascod-time; but an honester, and truer-hearted man,—well, fare thee well.

Bard. [Within.] Mistress Tear-sheet,

Host. What's the matter?

Bard. [Within.] Bid Mistress Tear-sheet come to my master.

Host. O run, Doll, run; run, good Doll, come; [Doll comes blubbered] yea, will you come, Doll?

[Exeunt.

ACT THIRD

SCENE I.-A Room in the Palace

Enter King HENRY in his night-gown, with a

Page

K. Hen. Go, call the Earls of Surrey and of

Warwick;

But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these

letters

And well consider of them. Make good speed.

[Exit Page.

How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep!-O sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,

And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why, rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee

And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case or a common 'larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,

And in the visitation of the winds

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them

With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds,
That with the hurly, death itself awakes
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down !
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.